#she would go above and beyond to make sure has child has the wonderful childhood she didn't have

[alevolpe]

Haruka would be the best parent out of any senshi, unironically. (Besides Mako ofc)

[lmk-oc-competition]

LMK OC COMPETITION - ROUND 1

click to see full image

Blossom belongs to @blossomnightshade

Xingyun belongs to @leyyearts (art credit: @morelegos4youu)

Learn more about them below the cut!

Blossom:

A long time ago, Siming, the goddess of balance, allowed one drop of moonlight to fall from the celestial sky, and the scarlet moonflower sprouted from this one drop of the red moon. The red and blue petals shimmer in the blood-red moonlight, both as a temptation and a warning to those who aspired to positions of authority that were well beyond their grasp.

Stories of the unusual flower's relationship to the celestial body above and its immense power for those who were willing to eat its petals began to circulate among the creatures. However, they were unaware of the high price they would have to pay for their desired road to invincibility, — as often as you’ll find in tales of this kind, this gift came with a cursed attached…A fate so hideous and jarring only to make sure that the peace and balance remained intact for the universe and their loved ones…

Given its incredible powers and rich history, the sacred blossom has been regarded as the most potent item in numerous realms. Many also knew that the Moon Drop might either lead to the universe's devastation and disaster or it may bring justice and prosperity to the rights of all people, thus whoever decided to become its new consumer would need to exercise caution. As a result, the moon drop was securely concealed and kept out of the hands of evil and darkness.

However, the flower was harvested in the following years, which led to the emergence of numerous demons and other bad entities that were hunting for the flower's next rebirth or, possibly, for the person who had eaten the moon drop's powers.

This story begins with none other than an innocent little child who went by the name, (Kāihuā) Blossom…

In her childhood, she and her father were being chased after many bad entities as the years passed on. Their runaway was much of a hassle and trouble, but it had never broke the love of the two Huli-Jings for each other.

Until one faithful night, Xiangliu had managed to to corner them to an edge of a cliff, just beneath the East Sea. Seeing no other choice, Blossom’s Father quickly threw his daughter into the Eastern sea to spare her as he fought Xiangliu to his last breathe.

Thankfully, Ao Lie and Ao Guang saved the drowning girl and bought her to the grand palace of the East Sea for shelter. I spent over a week with Ao lie in the Great Grand Palace. Of course, Blossom was grateful to have met so many wonderful and compassionate people in the palace after that save attempt. She had a lot of fun with my new friend, and she admired him for being such a kind brother figure.

However, even great things must come to an end. As arranged by Ao lie's uncle, Ao Guang, she was transported to the celestial bars of the Celestial Realm above. As the incarnation of the Moon drop, she gotten a lot of attention for their concerns up there.

Due to the worry and fear that she may become a threat as the Moondrop’s incarnation if she were to fully reach her full potential in the future in result of her traumatic and horrible past. The celestial court and the Jade Emperor came to an agreement - Blossom's prior memories include her upbringing, encounters with innumerable evil beings, bitter runaways, and, finally, her family. Blossom's memories were wiped clean, allowing her to create new ones in the Celestial Realm. She is completely unaware of her past issues and tragedy, as well as her loved ones.

Afterwards, Miss Chang'e and Princess Iron Fan, the Celestial Realm's other residents, and the heavenly minister raised the young Huli-Jing as their protector and guide. She does go to Ao Lie, her best buddy, frequently as well. She also has a very close bond to Redson, making them like siblings together. While she’s also been Nezha’s closes friend, since they were young, to the point that she’s also grew feelings for him.

Blossom used to frequently inquire about her past and her acknowledgement of her biological parents, but she quickly stopped talking about it after receiving the same justifications—that she was just like every other Huli-Jing in the realm and that her parents had just passed away before she had met them.

Blossom learned and grew up to be a calm and selfless skilled individual ,thanks to PIF’s determine and precise training. She's also shown to be a pure-hearted and honest individual with the guidance of her motherly loving guardian Chang’e. She may turned out clumsy and oblivious most of the time but she’s always there to lend a hand to everyone. She has undoubtedly mastered a small number of extremely strong skills such as: healing powers, crystal manipulation, shapeshifting between a few forms etc. Though, she is still oblivious to the bigger potential of her incredibly power…for now.

When she met the Monkie Gang, she turns out to be the most comforting sister/daughter-like figure to team. She prefers talking things over with her enemies and as tries to find a way to befriend and understand them better. So don’t let her soft-spoken and small figure fool you because if she witnesses any her loved ones being threatened, she won’t hesitate to reach to the breaking point where she appears to become intimidating and possibly become a living nightmare to you.

Xingyun:

She's a popstar skater

[monkie-kid-oc-showdown]

Backstory: ( sorry if it’s too long, I’m bad in my English 😓)

A long time ago, Siming, the goddess of balance, allowed one drop of moonlight to fall from the celestial sky, and the scarlet moonflower sprouted from this one drop of the red moon. The red and blue petals shimmer in the blood-red moonlight, both as a temptation and a warning to those who aspired to positions of authority that were well beyond their grasp. 

Stories of the unusual flower's relationship to the celestial body above and its immense power for those who were willing to eat its petals began to circulate among the creatures. However, they were unaware of the high price they would have to pay for their desired road to invincibility, — as often as you’ll find in tales of this kind, this gift came with a cursed attached…A fate so hideous and jarring only to make sure that the peace and balance remained intact for the universe and their loved ones…

Given its incredible powers and rich history, the sacred blossom has been regarded as the most potent item in numerous realms. Many also knew that the Moon Drop might either lead to the universe's devastation and disaster or it may bring justice and prosperity to the rights of all people, thus whoever decided to become its new consumer would need to exercise caution. As a result, the moon drop was securely concealed and kept out of the hands of evil and darkness. 

However, the flower was harvested in the following years, which led to the emergence of numerous demons and other bad entities that were hunting for the flower's next rebirth or, possibly, for the person who had eaten the moon drop's powers.

This story begins with none other than an innocent little child who went by the name, (Kāihuā) Blossom…

In her childhood, she and her father were being chased after many bad entities as the years passed on. Their runaway was much of a hassle and trouble, but it had never broke the love of the two Huli-Jings for each other. 

Until one faithful night, Xiangliu had managed to to corner them to an edge of a cliff, just beneath the East Sea. Seeing no other choice, Blossom’s Father quickly threw his daughter into the Eastern sea to spare her as he fought Xiangliu to his last breathe. 

Thankfully, Ao Lie and Ao Guang saved the drowning girl and bought her to the grand palace of the East Sea for shelter. I spent over a week with Ao lie in the Great Grand Palace. Of course, Blossom was grateful to have met so many wonderful and compassionate people in the palace after that save attempt. She had a lot of fun with my new friend, and she admired him for being such a kind brother figure. However, even great things must come to an end. As arranged by Ao lie's uncle, Ao Guang, she was transported to the celestial bars of the Celestial Realm above. As the incarnation of the Moon drop, she gotten a lot of attention for their concerns up there.

Due to the worry and fear that she may become a threat as the Moondrop’s incarnation if she were to fully reach her full potential in the future in result of her traumatic and horrible past. The celestial court and the Jade Emperor came to an agreement - Blossom's prior memories include her upbringing, encounters with innumerable evil beings, bitter runaways, and, finally, her family. Blossom's memories were wiped clean, allowing her to create new ones in the Celestial Realm. She is completely unaware of her past issues and tragedy, as well as her loved ones. 

Afterwards, Miss Chang'e and Princess Iron Fan, the Celestial Realm's other residents, and the heavenly minister raised the young Huli-Jing as their protector and guide. She does go to Ao Lie, her best buddy, frequently as well. She also has a very close bond to Redson, making them like siblings together. While she’s also been Nezha’s closes friend, since they were young, to the point that she’s also grew feelings for him.

Blossom used to frequently inquire about her past and her acknowledgement of her biological parents, but she quickly stopped talking about it after receiving the same justifications—that she was just like every other Huli-Jing in the realm and that her parents had just passed away before she had met them.

Blossom learned and grew up to be a calm and selfless skilled individual ,thanks to PIF’s determine and precise training. She's also shown to be a pure-hearted and honest individual with the guidance of her motherly loving guardian Chang’e. She may turned out clumsy and oblivious most of the time but she’s always there to lend a hand to everyone. She has undoubtedly mastered a small number of extremely strong skills such as: healing powers, crystal manipulation, shapeshifting between a few forms etc. Though, she is still oblivious to the bigger potential of her incredibly power…for now.

When she met the Monkie Gang, she turns out to be the most comforting sister/daughter-like figure to team. She prefers talking things over with her enemies and as  tries to find a way to befriend and understand them better. So don’t let her soft-spoken and small figure fool you because if she witnesses any her loved ones being threatened, she won’t hesitate to reach to the breaking point where she appears to become intimidating and possibly become a living nightmare to you.

AW HER BACKSTORY IS SO TRAGIC :( I LOVE IT SO MUCH THO!!! The design is rly cute too!!!

11/32 spots filled

Edit: This is the picture used for the polls!

[dujour13]

OC Kiss Week - day 5

A bittersweet epilogue, with Siavash as companion to my friend @spyridonya's Knight-Commander Kadira 💜

(PWOTR spoilers under the cut)

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Siavash nods. Of course Kadira has him figured out. She spreads her wings for balance as she places her hooves cautiously on the sloping tiles and settles on the edge next to him, perched above the riot of celebration in the streets of Drezen, looking out over the rooftops and the hazy moonlit landscape beyond. “You won’t even stay for the Queen’s victory ball?”

“Not that I have anything against balls.” He says it deadpan but the light in his eye makes her laugh. “But I’ve lingered in Sarkoris long enough already.”

Sarkoris. The Worldwound’s been closed for three days and he’s already calling it that: the scarred wasteland that was once a verdant home for her people, and will be again when her work is done. Kadira appreciates that he shares her vision, but then since the day they first met he always seemed to believe in her, for no good reason she could see except his Desnan trust in the luck of the stars. There were times during the Crusade it seemed folly, and others when it gave her the one more reason to hold on she needed. She folds her hands in her lap and squeezes them tight to wring out the sadness. “You’ll be back to visit.”

“Sure. I have to come see what you do with the place.”

“I’ll miss you.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “It’ll be fine. You have people now.”

She does. Daeran and Lann of course, and all the others with whom her friendship was forged in the fires of the Abyss, but she still presses her tearful eyes into his shoulder at the realization that he’s always understood what ached most deeply in her heart.

Her life was stolen from her; her family driven from a land laid to waste to scrape out a living as refugees, and then she was separated from them too and locked away while they aged and died and moved on. Isolated except for demons and the cold, analytical gaze of the witch who had taken everything from her and gave her a gift she didn’t want in exchange. Her wings whisper restlessly. “And you? You always seem to have people, but do you really?”

He takes a sharp breath. She understands a number of things herself.

“Don’t worry about me. Hey, listen to this.”

He releases her and pulls his guitar into his lap and begins to play a simple melody. It’s very pretty, but she's fairly sure he’s deflecting. It is some time before the realization dawns that she knows this song.

No wonder she didn’t recognize it at first. He sings in Hallit but his Andoren accent is making a nasal wreck of the pronunciation, and she hasn’t heard this song since…

…her soft, dimpled child’s hand pressing a cookie cutter into buttery dough to make little stars, dusted with sugar like frost, that she and her cousins would arrange into Pulura’s constellations on the tray they set out for travelers.

A childhood so distant it doesn’t feel like it belongs to her anymore. They sang this rhyme as they worked, but only now does Kadira realize the song had always been about Areelu Vorlesh—the witch who drove a knife into the heart of Sarkoris, just as she did to Kadira. But now both are healing, though not without a reminder. The Sarkoris Scar.

She sings along and he tries to imitate her Hallit and they laugh, until they hear scuffling and glance over their shoulders to see Lann hop up onto the roof. He stoops to help haul up a vigorously swearing Daeran, who cradles a wine bottle in his free arm.

“We’re crashing your going away party,” Lann announces, helping stabilize Daeran so his fancy shoes don’t slip down the tiles and land him in the street below.

“How did you know?” Kadira only spotted Siavash because she was up on the Citadel tower.

A shadow peeks out from behind Lann. It’s Woljif, a pack slung over his shoulder. “Hey chief.”

“You’re going too?”

“Got some investin’ to do down south in Andoran.”

When he plops down next to her it’s her turn to press a kiss onto the other tiefling’s forehead. Kadira hugs him, hugs Siavash, and the wine bottle is passed around as she teaches them the words to a new refrain.

[boldlyvoid]

Million Dollar Man | chapter two

18+

summary: Spencer's therapist recommended he branch out and meet new people who don't want to talk about his work... she didn't expect him to sign up for a Sugar Daddy website.

Content warnings: sugar daddy!spencer, age gaps (14 years), daddy kink, blow jobs, kissing, drinking mention, lowkey perv!Spencer, cum play, praise, oral (female receiving), grinding, love confessions, arrangements, Spencers anxiety, (more to add)

word count: 3.4K

a/n: updates on Wednesdays and saturdays at 2 pm est

Chapter Two | Masterlist

She sat on the subway with an anxious pit in her stomach and her purse held close to her chest. Her laptop in her bag, she didn’t want to lose it on her way to the most important meeting of her whole life.

Her story was becoming a book, she was almost done the final draft, they were making touch-ups to the cover and picking the type of paper today.

Her dreams were coming true within the next month, soon she’d have a physical copy of her book, her pre-sales were showing that she’d be on the bestseller list, and her name was finally going to be on the cover of this one.

She sighed and reached for her necklace, holding it between her fingers as she took a few deep breaths. She was doing so much better today than she was last year and it was all because of Spencer, he was the best thing to happen to her. To think she complimented his sweater vest and now he’s the only person in her life she can count on.

All she can think about is him for the rest of her journey, through 4 more stops she keeps her eyes closed as she thinks of all his little facts and his cute laugh. She smiles to herself and the anxiety slips away, she loves him and she knows that for sure, but she just doesn’t know how she loves him.

She’s never had a sibling, her best friends are all women, her previous boyfriends were all shit and her other sugar daddies were never this wonderful, and her parents are lesbians… she doesn’t know what her feelings really are for Spencer, mainly because she’s never known any other men to compare him to.

But she does know the exact moment she realized she fell for him.

He booked a hotel room in DC after a local case, asking her to meet him in there at 10 pm. She was waiting in the bathtub when he arrived, bubbles galore, her hair up and arms open, “welcome home, honey.”

He laughs, “you want me to get in there with you?”

She just nods, “let me take care of you, daddy?”

He takes off his blazer, pulls his tie off and starts to unbutton his shirt. She watches patiently as he gets undressed, and it’s not sexual to her. He’s her person, her best friend, the only human being she would ever share a moment like this with and that’s when it hits her.

She doesn’t accept it just yet.

It’s not until he’s lying on her chest, between her legs, cheek resting on her boobs as she runs a sponge over his back while he gives her a little run down on his terrible week. His co-worker almost died, his mom is stressing him out, the only good thing he has left is her and she knows that.

“And then I get to my moms facility and she’s had a really good day, she knows me and she knows all of my childhood again and she’s all right there in front of me and yet she’s so far away. I’m never going to get all the time I want with her and it’s really hard to accept.”

He shares things with her that he doesn’t even tell his therapist. Because his therapist doesn’t hold him like a child against her chest and tell him he’s okay when he get’s upset.

Y/N loves him, so she kisses his forehead, “I’m so sorry, I have 2 moms if you’d like to have one?”

“It’s okay, I would love to meet them sometime though,” he wraps his arms around her waist a little tighter under the water. “Thank you for tonight.”

“Did I mention my leg is 44 inches from hip to toe?” She asks in the middle of the silence, quoting pretty woman, knowing he hasn’t seen that far into the movie yet. “So basically we’re talking about 88 inches of therapy for the bargain price of $800 dollars a week.”

Her legs wrap around him and their naked bodies are closer than they’ve ever been and yet it’s completely platonic, “I’d spend a million dollars on you if it always meant feeling this good after.”

She runs her cheek along his wet hair as he snuggles into her neck, “mmm, I like the sound of that,” she teased. “My million dollar man.”

Her stop rolls around and she pulls herself out of her day dreams to get off the train and head to her meeting. She smiles as she walks through the station, up the stairs and onto the busy downtown streets when she gets a text with Spencers special chime. She opens it when she gets to where she’s going, safely inside and in the waiting room.

It makes her laugh in the waiting room. People look at her but she doesn’t care, he’s so special to her she feels butterflies in her stomach even when he’s not around.

“Y/N!” She hears her name being called by her editor, he’s over ecstatic as he comes running out to get her. “Come, come we have so many choices to make!” He jumps up and down as he holds her arm, like a child in a candy store.

“Andy, chill man,” she laughs at him and plays it cool, “It’s just the cover being finalized.”

“It’s our baby!” He teases back, pushing his glasses up and tugging her behind the glass doors of the office.

She’s surrounded by people and paper and huge versions of her book cover. She has a sharpie as she fixed mistakes and jots down final ideas. “And I wan’t Phil to look more human and less like data from Star Trek?”

“But Dorothy looks okay?” The artist asks, nervously and Y/N can tell.

“She looks beautiful! You really brought her justice,” she smiles, “really she looks the same in my head! It’s just Phil and I’m sure it’s tough getting a drawing to look like a robotic human, let alone human.”

“I have some ideas?” She opens up more, taking her iPad out and sliding it across the table, “I wanted to give him more of a Sophia feel? His face is silicone but his joints and everything are more like an Elon Musk crash dummy.”

“That’s perfect!” She’s shocked, “why didn’t that go in the first draft?”

“I was worried it was too much,” she’s a little older than Y/N, and yet her anxiety is that of a teenage girl. “I’m going to get working on the final, do you want some emailed versions tonight?”

“Yes please,” she smiles.

“So we’re done?” Andy asks, “we’ve made all our final calls?”

“I believe we have,” Y/N closes her laptop and takes her phone out, taking a photo of the final rough sketch of her book cover on the table to send to Spencer before he comes to pick her up. She can’t wait to see him now.

—

They’re sitting side by side in matching spa robes, he’s getting a pedicure while she gets her nails done. Leaning back in her chair with a face mask and cucumbers on her eyes, she’s never felt more relaxed in her life. And just in time too, her back was killing her from writing, her knuckles hurt and she just needed a break.

Spencer did too, he was genuinely not having a good time at work anymore, every case made him spiral and he always looked to Y/N on days like that. They met more than once a week now, she got $800 every Friday and she didn’t even really need it anymore. He was coving for so much of her bills and lively hood that her savings account was growing and growing because of him.

For the first time in her life she thought she would be okay if a man left her. As terrible as it was, as much as her moms tried to raise her differently, she fell down the daddy issues rabbit hole and she’s never going to find her way out— however, luckily for her, Spencer is down here too, and he brought a flashlight.

He understands her, more than anyone else on earth. He knows all her secrets, every crush and bad grade and snide remark she’s ever kept to herself. He didn’t judge her, he could actually listen to her issues and tell her why she had them. He gave better advice than a therapist and he was able to get information for her if he didn’t know the answer to what she was going through.

He’s absolutely everything to her and yet he’s 14 years older than her, he’s still traumatized beyond belief, he’s sad and ashamed and recovering… but he’s the best man in the whole world and she wishes he could see that. If he just looked at himself from her eyes, if he felt how she did in her soul when they were together, he’d love himself.

They’re too relaxed to drive home, and Spencer knew that would happen beforehand, bringing her a change of clothes (lingerie) and that robe me mentioned. He books a hotel above the spa and takes her to it. Arms linked as they enter the suite, she’s amazed to find more than one gift bag on the bed.

“How many gifts is this now?”

“We’re at 5 out of 24.”

She laughs as she wraps her arms around him in a thank you hug, “this is what you consider 4 gifts? Spencer there are like 8 things on the bed, let alone the massage and manicure?”

“If you think this is too much I guess you’re going to get really mad next week,” he teases as she looks up at him with a surprised look on her face.

“Spencer, I am so busy next week, I cannot be galavanting around with my sugar daddy,” she tries to act like she doesn’t want to go on an adventure with him again.

The last trip they took was the best week of her life. They went to all the historical sites in the UK that she and Spencer had talked about. Mainly old churches and castles, strange poets graves, random art and most importantly; stone henge. It was a trip of a lifetime and he took it with her.

“I watched the rest of Pretty Woman the other day,” he smiles, “and I thought I’d pull an Edward Lewis and really surprise you because you deserve it.”

“You know how the movie ends, right?” Her heart beats really fast in her chest and she wants him to love her so bad but it’s also terrifying now that she’s this close.

“He lets her choose,” he whispers.

“He rescues her,” she corrects him.

“And she rescues him right back,” he really did watch the end of the movie.

It makes her heart skip a beat as she swallows sharply, “what does this mean for us?”

“I have a whole plan, a whole sequence of events I want to stick to. I wanted to make you fall in love with me this week and ask you on your birthday, can we still do that?” He pleads with her, he’s so serious. He’s clearly put a lot of effort into this.

“Absolutely,” she smiles, “but if you’re going to make me wait that long for you to ask, you still can’t kiss me till then. No matter how much I already love you.”

“Really?” He’s so soft with her, she knows he’s not reacting to the teasing. He’s never had someone tell him they love him and then stay after.

“I would never lie to you about that, spence. I know what love means to you, I know how scared you are and I’m scared too. But I know there is no one else in the whole world I’d rather be scared with than you,” she holds him tighter and rubs her nose against his, “so what’s in the bags, daddy? Finish your surprise.”

She plays along perfectly, stepping back and hauling him towards the bed. “I got you some outfits and things for the next 2 weeks, we have a few things planned. We’re going on a flight soon, I have new luggage being delivered to your apartment this week and we’re going to see your moms for 3 days.”

“No,” she shakes her head, “there’s no way, Spencer, I haven’t seen them in 5 years, I’m going to cry.”

“I know,” he cups her jaw with his hand. “They’re really excited to see you.”

She hugs him tight, kissing his neck as she holds him. “Thank you, daddy, do you want me to put something on for you now?”

“I’m just going to take it off you, plus, what your wearing is sexy enough, he whispers back. “You’re always so beautiful, baby.”

“I thought you were saving the best for last?” She asks as she pulls back, overly eager and he can tell.

“I want to repay the favour from the other night.”

She doesn’t mean to gasp and yet she does, “please?”

He pulls on the tie of her robe, opening it enough to snake a hand behind her back and draw her in with a hand on her bare back. “Please what?”

“Please, daddy?” She looks up with her best begging eyes, perfect pout and all. “I want you to touch me, I promise I’ll be a good girl.”

He steps away from her to swipe all the bags off the bed before picking her up and laying her back against the pillows. He kisses down her body, hand on her lover back as she arches, he drags his bottom lip from her belly button to her cleavage. Nipping and sucking at the exposed skin on her chest, pulling her breasts out of the bra to suck on her nipples, she moans and it’s louder than she expected.

As she plays with his hair, he marks her, bruising small little love bites all the way down as he makes his way between her legs, “take me, please?”

He’s been dreaming of this for so long, he can’t even give you an accurate number of times his mind has drifted to the thought of how wonderful she would taste, how beautiful she’d sound…

“Tell me how badly you want me?” He asks as he spreads her legs and kisses her left thigh.

“I haven’t had sex in 10 months while waiting for you. Daddy, please you’ve owned me for so long, just take what’s yours already for gods sa- OH!”

With a broad lick, his tongue flattens against her core and it shuts her up. She gets what she wants, holding into his hair as she tosses her head back, taking it all in and enjoying it. He’s been on her mind for months, every time her vibrator was where he is now, she thought of him. he’s been the man of her dreams longer than she’s known him, and he was proving it.

“Right there, daddy,” she speaks through shallow breaths, “do you know how much I’ve thought of this?”

“You know I don’t,” the vibrations of his voice against her skin are glorious, he looks up at her through his lashes as his tongue flicks over her clit and she shakes a bit.

“Fuck,” she gasps, gripping his hair tighter, “better than I thought you’d be, fuck, too bad you— Jesus, don’t have the stash anymore…”

He stops and looks up at her, the smirk on his face glistening with her juices, “the stash?”

She nods, “I’ve thought about calling it the pussy tickler,” she teases, running her hand down his cheek and swiping her thumb across his bottom lip before bringing it up to her mouth to taste, “I want more of you.”

He kisses back up her body and she reaches for his robe the second he’s close enough. “Just grind against me? I know you’re waiting but we can still feel good together?”

He kisses the side of her mouth and she takes that as a yes, wrapping her legs around him so his hard cock is pressed right against her core as they move their hips in synchronicity with each other. His breathing is heavy as he kisses her cheek and jaw, her nails scratch down his back, he feels absolutely amazing against her.

She feels so empty, she wants him so bad she’s clenching around nothing as she squirms against his cock and wishes she was full.

“I wish I could move time,” she whispers. “Fuck, why can’t it be my birthday?”

He laughs against her, grazing his teeth over her neck and drawing another moan from her but then he stops moving his hips, “why are you so impatient?”

“Remember I said I stopped enjoying everything? Well, taking a 10 month break from sex and thinking about you every time I got off has made me desperate,” her hand cups his cheek, “I’d wait forever for you, but a girl needs to be fucked hard every once in a while.”

Only she could find a way to make something both profoundly beautiful and whorish at the same time, he loved her for it and she knew that now. He smiles and leaned in to rub his nose against hers and it takes everything in her not to kiss him. The same way it was taking everything in him not to slip into her as he began to grind against her once more.

She’s so close, the accidental edging has added a whole new level of desperation she’s never felt before. She wants to cum for him so bad, but more importantly she wants him to cum for her.

“Take my bra off,” she whispers, Spencer’s hands travel behind her back to unclasp it and he helps her out of it before tossing it to the floor.

“Cum for me daddy,” she whispers in his head with a hand in his hair, gripping him tightly as he bites at her neck, “cover me with your cum like you’re marking your territory.”

“Shit,” his hips sputter against hers.

“Say it, I know you want to,” she teases, so close to the edge but it’s too good of an opportunity. She loves seeing him fall apart like this and she can’t wait to see it again. “Who’s am I?”

“Daddy’s girl.”

He grinds down on her harder and faster and she’s so close, the bubble in her gut is reaching a fever pitch and with a gasp, she’s cumming and then she feels it. His load covers her stomach as he pants against her neck and grips her hips tighter as he comes down.

She wraps her arms around him and holds him as close as humanly possible, her breathing still heavy as he rises and falls on her chest. He’s heavy but she doesn’t care, she just kisses the top of his head and thanks him.

He brushes his nose against her neck, nuzzling her like a cat, “do you really mean it?”

“What, honey?” He remembers so much, this could be a question about something she said 2 months or 2 minutes ago and she has no clue.

“You’re not just playing along with my kinks right, you genuinely want to be mine?”

For being her million dollar man, his heart sure was broke. This is why he wasn’t ready, he still didn’t understand why she would want to stay without anything in return, he’s gotten so used to paying her for her time now that his anxiety has managed to convince him that she’ll leave when he stops being worth it to her.

“What does my necklace say?” She asks, knowing how close he was to it. “Read it to me, I forget.”

“Daddy’s girl,” he smiles again.

She soothes her hands over his back, “I would do anything with you because I love and trust you, but also because everything you do is sexy… you could read me the dictionary and I’d still want you to pump me full of cum after.”

“It sounds so crude after,” he laughs, “speaking of, we really need to have a shower.”

“I’ll wash your back if you wash mine?” She teases as he gets up.

“Only if you let me wash the front too?”

She smacks his bare ass and races him into the bathroom, turning on the water and getting in with him while still laughing and carrying on. He’s her best friend in the whole world, there’s no one else she would rather do this with… there was no one she has done this with. No one has made her feel this good, before during and after sex.

Spencer Reid was an anomaly, but he was hers.

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[poptod]

hey there ☺ do you think you can write a soulmate au with ahk where you hear each other's thoughts? and ahk thought he didn't have one all these years only to hear you while he's at the museum and then you try to find each other?

notes: wonderful idea. also i noticed my method of doing requests is do it almost immediately after i get it or wait four months before i get it done so sorry about that, but i hope you enjoy this!

WC: 1.5k +

There are many versions of yourself, all talking over one another in an attempt to control your mind for once. Sometimes it's hard to decipher if your actions are the result of someone in your head tugging you in a different direction. There is the person you believe yourself to be––what you imagine you come off to people as. There is also the person you truly are, and what people actually perceive you to be. So despite there being several voices, they are all reiterations of yourself in some way.

Except for one.

One of them speaks in a voice that is not your own, in a voice you've never heard anywhere but echoing in your skull. Since you despised asking questions as a child, it took you until you were twelve to realize that no, you weren't insane. It was someone who would love you, who had the potential to grow close to you simply by the strings of fate. Your soulmate. 

Someone who gave you nightmares for years.

'Get me out of here!' He would scream, sending your heart pounding while you tried to sleep as a child. 'Please, please, I need to see the stars,' he sobbed, 'I did nothing to deserve this!'

Once you grew old enough to deal with the screaming beyond what you thought was a schizophrenia disorder, nighttime brought a deep sadness to you. For some reason, your soulmate would never think during the day––which was incredibly odd––and during the night, the only time he was awake, he would scream and beg and cry until you could feel the hoarseness in your own throat. For your entire childhood, you stared up at your ceiling at night, eyes burning as you tried to calm the screaming.

It was all you could think about, as though the screams had muted your connection to him and strengthened his connection to you. Every now and then you would try to think, try to calm him down, but he never quite heard.

Then, one evening in winter, it stopped.

You were lying in bed, rolled onto your side as you once again listened to the man's yelling thoughts. But then he stopped, and both your hearts skipped a beat, followed by an incredibly clear thought: Thank the Gods, blessed Ra and Khonsu.

That evening you darted out of bed, jumping to your desk where you typed in with slamming, lightning-fast fingers, "khonsu." Ra you already knew––everyone knew Ra, and by connection Khonsu would probably also be a God. The only question you were left with was why you were hearing the thoughts of someone who worshipped Egyptian gods two thousand years after that civilization died.

As you continued your research, his thoughts continued.

They took my tablet?

Who are these people?

This man has no idea what he's doing, does he?

Why is he screaming at the Hun?

He's got my tablet.

About halfway into the night you gave up on your research, instead listening intently to the thoughts. With you entirely absorbed in your soulmates thoughts, you had little room to send your own words to him, which unbeknownst to you, would've reached him if you tried.

You weren't quite sure what to think of him for the following couple weeks. At first your assumption was that he was the insane one projecting his insane thoughts to you, but his quieter thoughts led you to believe there was something different in him. It is true what they say––geniuses are often tortured minds, and though you wouldn't classify your soulmate as a genius, he was clearly a knowledgeable philosopher of sorts.

He thought often of the human condition––the rise and fall of civilizations, the cruelty and the mercy of men that began the stories of bloodstained battlefields. Most of the time you just listened. Now that he wasn't screaming, his voice was soft and more of a comfort than you ever thought it would be.

Sometimes he got very sad. After a while you learned to not question the logic of his thoughts. Instead, you simply tried to understand what he meant, accepting him for where he was in his life.

I miss my brother.

I wonder what happened to my best friend.

I didn't think I would ever be this far from the Nile and the sun.

I abandoned my people, didn't I?

If only I could find where my sister was buried. Would that even make me feel better, though? What closure will I gain from seeing her tomb?

... if she even had one.

There's a melody going on in his head, right now. Something that could put you to sleep if you weren't currently working. It's nothing you've heard before, that you're certain of, and judging by the tone of it and your soulmate's previous thoughts, it sounds Egyptian.

Despite the museum being closed, most of the lights are still on. One of the night guards had a very strange insistence about it, but wouldn't tell you why. Oh well––questioning people is above your paygrade, since you aren't getting paid for this. It is volunteer work. Not that you mind; ever since realizing the voice in your head was Egyptian, you've gotten a palate for history. Currently, however, you're dealing less with history and more with files. The curator at this museum asked you to sort through the records of all the different exhibits that are here, or were once here at some point, which made a very large collection. Massive, actually––you're only sorting through A, and it's going to take you a couple weeks.

He's humming softly to himself. The tune carries into your work, and you allow yourself to enjoy his voice as you sort, going over every record to look for exhibits no longer displayed. For this you have a chart in your other hand––a log of all the exhibits currently public in the museum.

Although you're supposed to be concentrated on your sorting, you find yourself more entranced with the melody in your head, and the clearest thought that rings in your mind is, 'that is beautiful.'

The humming stops. Dead in its' tracks, about to reach its' peak, and it stops.

'My mother sang it to me,' he says, 'before I slept as a child.'

"Holy shit, are you talking to me?" You say out loud with bulging eyes before you can stop yourself. The moment you realize what you said, a bright blush coats your cheeks and you slap your hand over your mouth. But he doesn't seem to mind––actually, he laughs, and it's sweeter than summer sugar.

'You must be my heart,' he says in an astounded tone, and you can practically see his dream-filled eyes. You sit puzzled for a second before replying.

"Do you mean your soulmate?"

'Well... I suppose yes, that could be one of the names,' he says, and it only adds more onto the lists of questions you have for him.

"What is your name?" You ask first, hardly realizing you're still talking aloud to yourself.

'My name is Ahkmenrah," he tells you, and it takes less than a millisecond before the dots connect in your head. Instantly your eyes dart to the sheet in your hand, and near the top of the list, there it sits––Ahkmenrah.

'I know this must be confusing for you,' he continues, 'but I am from another time. While I lived then, I dreaded that I didn't have a heart, as I heard no voice. That fear has carried on into my next life, but now that you're here –'

"Oh I'm here alright," you say, unbelieving of both your circumstances and your unblinking acceptance at them. "I'm, like, two floors below you."

"WHAT?!"

A voice from above catches you, but as the same word rings in your mind, you realize with great glee that he instinctively yelled 'what' without thinking. You laugh, and the thought of your laughter reaches him.

Less than a minute later you can hear footsteps pounding down the stairs, landing at the closed door before the handle wrenches open. You quickly move to your feet, facing the man whose voice you know so well, who haunted your childhood and enchanted your adulthood. You can barely hide the grin that spreads across your face––whatever magic has brought you to this moment, you thank everything you can for it, your attention ensnared by the soft features of a 4,000 year old Pharaoh.

He pauses once he enters the archive, eyes finding yours immediately. His mouth hangs open slightly as he scans you, absorbs every feature on your body and face, and barely moves even to breathe for a good minute or two.

"I – I'm sorry, I j – I just realized I didn't ask your name," he says quietly, a small, ginger smile growing on his lips.

"(Y/N)," you say, but you don't quite know how your brain worked to make the word. You certainly didn't consciously choose to speak.

"I have waited thousands of years for you," he says, impossibly softer as he steps forward. He's really quite harmless, you realize––for all the fear you had of him as a child, he's nothing but a sweet-faced boy.

"Was it worth it?" You ask, and your voice cracks ever so slightly.

"My heart," he breathes out, affection lacing his name for you, "it was worth every second."

[symphonyofthewrite]

If These Walls Could Talk 

Freaking GORGEOUS cover art by Junki Sakuraba on Instagram and Deviantart!! Definitely go check him out!! His art is incredible, and from what I can tell he’s really nice dude. He absolutely went above and beyond with this prompt. 10/10 would commission again. (And probably will once I save up enough money XD)

The wonderful art later in the chaper is by niuan_ on instagram!!

It wasn’t made/commissioned for this fic--(though I’ve since commissioned her to make cover art for me, so stay tuned for those!)--but when I saw it I couldn’t believe it!! That’s one of my favorite images in this chapter, and I couldn’t believe another artist made a piece for the same idea independently!!

I'll put the links to their profiles either in the replies or a reblog (since tumblr is dumb about links)!!

Also, FYI, I'll be using this post as my "reblog post" meaning I'll reblog this post with the later chapters of this fic, so they're all in one place. So if you want to read more of this fic, check the reblogs on this post, chances are more chapters will be there!!

Comments and reblogs are MORE than appreciated!! If you have a spare minute you will really make my week, and motivate me to keep writing!!

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary:

“My mother’s name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor.”

Chapter 1: "Lisa”

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—they provided no snug space to curl up on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard: stories. But not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses, the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes.

But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at the foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time. The gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They often walk outside the castle walls, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations. They want their child to be able to do the same, to watch the stars, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

[a-tired-narwhal]

Tell me more about your feelings about the details of Caleb's backstory!

Okay listen anon. LISTEN. This is going to be LONG. Did I immediately rewatch/go back through the entire wrap up to take notes? YES I DID. Anon I'm sorry this is so late, I didn't see your ask until after the stream. I hope this finds you (*＾3＾)/～♡

----

Caleb fucking Widogast. Liam O'Brien always creates/portrays characters that CAPTURE ME. And it is purely the undertow of SUFFERING that I crave.

As a survivor of an abusive childhood, specifically with manipulation, neglect, and physical trauma, and having a controlling abuser in a position of power over you - I was surprised and delighted by Liam's playing of Caleb, and I'm sure that I'm probably not the only one, but Caleb's backstory just had me nodding along. Was not surprised at all by what was revealed about the blumentrio's relationship being trauma-bonding and probably why I'll never be an avid shipper of them. Nothing about Caleb's backstory left me gasping - because it's a relatively common abuse survivor story, except it's in the world of dungeons and dragons with high fantasy and magic and more common place murdering than today in places where most Critters presumably live.

Let's break it down.

Caleb was born as Bren to a less than well off family, who wanted their child to have a better life than them. Bren is a gifted child, and this will immediately put a bullseye's target on a child's back, make no mistake, for abusive persons. Now, I don't know if it's a pretty obvious that parents would trust in a teaching figure to take their child for that child's betterment, because I don't have parents who wish for my betterment ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, but I like to think that Bren's parents handed him off hoping for his brightest future.

Trent is basically the textbook example of a Cult Leader. Beyond the experimentation he did on his students; everything he put the Blumentrio through is how you beat down and brainwash people, especially children/adolescents. Textbook. TEXTBOOK. It was the dnd equivalent of the Hilter Youth. Now my personal experience featured the tool of isolation, so I didn't have two childhood friends to pour myself into and have threesome's with, but that's actually smart of Ickythong, because when you're left alone with your whirling brain for too long, and there's no one to hold over your head - we start thinking those rebellious thoughts, and at some point we decide we have nothing to lose, and we will do ANYTHING to shake that control. No, he left them in that abandoned tower together so they would be forced to bond with each other, as well as allowing them not to die of exposure alone.

Trauma-bonding CAN be a manipulation and used against you. Now. We have three adolescents trying not to freeze to death by being as close as physically possible. For those that don't know; sharing body heat works best skin to skin - ya get naked and THEN you wrap up together to stay insulated. Awkward groping is going to happen, and it's more than likely accidental. But when you add raging hormones to the mix, yo it's not going to stay accidental for very long (that in no way indicates non consent, it can be either way), and the feelings can catch hard when you're young and physical and EVERY HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP YOU HAD HAS BEEN TAKEN FROM YOU, IF YOU EVEN EVER HAD ONE. (I do not know Eadwulf or Astrid's home lives so your guess is as good as mine. We should probably ask Liam)

So you've got horny teenagers, with above average intelligence, being systematically abused... Bam. Trauma-bonded Blumentrio.

BUT HERE'S THE THING. Trauma-bonding can only get you so far. And they are children, actively being raised to NOT HAVE THEIR OWN THOUGHTS AND IDENTITIES. The relationship they built, the romantic and sexual, are based off of a shared hostile environment and survival needs. And when those circumstances are no longer there, the relationship tends to fall apart.

I love that Matt talked about Astrid for a bit, sad we didn't get more on Eadwulf - but Matt didn't really spend a lot of time roleplaying Wulf compared to Astrid, so he'd have more insight into her. I also find it interesting that the Blumentrio took 3 very different, but again SO COMMON, paths in dealing with their abuse. But that's a different rant.

Focus with me now on what Matt said about Astrid. She was actively seeking power throughout the campaign, looking always to climb that ladder to the top, for her own purposes which were not stated, and was willing to do anything, sacrifice anyone, to get that power. Was it a burden to her? Yeah I think so. Did it weigh on her? Again I personally think it did. But she was goal-oriented and she wasn't going to let anything stop her, not even herself, and she hated Trent. Matt implies that all three of the Blumentrio did/do. Astrid, Wulf, and Caleb were wildly different people - I don't think they would have stayed together even if Bren had stayed Bren instead of becoming Caleb.

I know A LOT of people were miffed over how Liam and Matt showed Caleb's and Essek's love for each other; and I am SO glad that Liam touched on this; Essek reminded Caleb too much of Astrid and Eadwulf. Now I know we love to joke that that Redhead Dirt Wizard has a Type (smart, ambitious, vaguely amoral), and believe me I LOVE THE JOKE, but Caleb pumping to brakes on Hot Boi makes THE MOST LOGICAL SENSE AND I WAS SO DELIGHTED WHEN LIAM PLAYED IT THAT WAY. Caleb was still trying to heal himself; WHY THE HELL WOULD HE JUMP INTO A MESS CALLED ESSEK? That's some mf UNHEALTHY, TOXIC romance trope ya got there. People fix themselves, not each other. THAT'S WHY CANON SHADOWGAST IS SO GOOD. THEY ARE WORKING TO IMPROVE THEMSELVES FIRST. THAT'S SO HOT.

Ahem.

So the Blumentrio hangout in Astrid's room to sex and study, in threes and twos (I have weird polyam questions, Liam). Now, I'm foggy on the exact timeframe that was together at Academy > kill your parents > Bren is chucked into the Sanitarium; but it's clear that after the murdering of parents, Bren is tagged as the "weakest link" - maybe he broke because he actually loved his family/had a loving family, maybe the manipulation spell from Ickythong didn't sit on him as well as Astrid and Wulf, maybe boi wasn't made for killing (a lie, the boi is a total killer, you have to be in most dnd campaigns), who knows. But he broke, and Astrid and Wulf handed him over - it would be dangerous for them if they tried too hard to protect him.

Because in that environment, in those circumstances, in that set up; you do what you have to, to survive. You hurt people you love, you hurt people you don't know, you even hurt yourself if it means improving your own odds. It's instinct. It's not your fault. You are doing the best you can with what you have available.

I don't hate Astrid and Eadwulf; I just have more emotional attachment and investment in Caleb, and prefer the color purple on him.

Which is actually a great segue into THE WOMAN AT THE SANITARIUM WHO FREED HIS MIND; Matt Mercer you beautiful man, thank you for giving us a Moonweaver connection, my lil widomauk heart was sent aflutter! So, here's the thing. Places like that, sanitariums, psych wards, etc - if you are not certifiably insane before you go in, you will be eventually. One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest is not a fucking joke. But the thought of some forgotten Moonweaver Cleric recognizing Bren's torment and just, poof, dissolving that spell? *Chef's kiss* glorious, wonderful, everything I needed.

Anon, I don't know if this is what you wanted or expected - but here it is, my sincerest apologies 🐳

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 19

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Don’t worry, I haven’t stopped writing this fic ;)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE CEMETERY

Venturing down the neatly carved path, Eivor wandered through a tunnel of trees as he made his way to the cemetery, crushing little twigs underneath his boots. The snow in front of him lay disturbed thanks to a recent chain of footsteps belonging to the jarl, and up ahead, he could see the man himself.

Arngeir was currently sitting amongst all the tombstones, wallowing in the silence of his clan’s resting place. A touch of sunlight broke through the naked branches dangling above him, and kissed the top of his head as if it were a beacon sent from the divines.

Despite the serene nature of the graves lying around him though, the jarl seemed equally as lifeless as the souls he accompanied. Within a single day, he had lost two of the most important people he ever knew, and the grief was starting to take a toll on him.

He looked absolutely exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot due to a lack of sleep, his expression hung low from having mourned for so long, and his somber gaze seemed to lose itself in the nothingness before him.

It broke Eivor’s heart to see his father this way. He had gotten so used to the fortitudinous shell that Arngeir always wore, that now, it felt as if he were looking at a completely different man.

It was understandable, of course. Considering their clan’s recent losses. There were few things in the world that surpassed the pain of a child’s death, and Eivor couldn’t help but wonder how this would affect Arngeir in the battles to come.

Would the jarl even be able to fight in this state? Would he be capable of surviving? His mind had already been left in tatters ever since Thora’s passing, and the young man feared he’d be too weak for the ordeal ahead.

He just hoped that Gorm’s information would be enough to spark some hope in Arngeir before they faced Kjotve again. Thora may have been gone, but their clan had not yet been defeated. There was still a chance to recover from the damage that had been done, and Eivor prayed he’d be able to make his father realize that.

“Father?” He called out, approaching the forlorn man.

The jarl barely turned his head in response, showing a complete lack of interest in chatter.

“...Eivor.” Arngeir greeted bluntly. “What brings you to this place?”

His son stepped next to the bench he was sitting on, gazing at the grave before them. “I’ve come to tell you that Sigurd and I managed to get Gorm to speak. He told us where Kjotve is.”

The other man hardly seemed fazed. “Is that so.”

“Yes. We interrogated him just now.”

Arngeir was totally silent in response, leading Eivor to carry on the conversation.

“...He said that Kjotve intends to sail west. To England. Apparently, he has allies there, and plans to rally them in the war against us. He hasn’t departed yet, though. He’s gathering supplies on an island not too far from here before embarking on the journey. We still have time to catch him.”

Still, the jarl said nothing in return.

“Kjotve has powerful allies, father,” Eivor reiterated, trying to get the man’s attention. “According to Gorm, these men are more than simple raiders. They’re part of something bigger than we ever imagined. We can’t let him roam into English seas. Otherwise, we’ll all be finished--”

“--Hush, my son.” Arngeir said softly, raising his hand. “We will discuss everything later, I promise. But for now... allow me to grieve for our loved ones in peace. I grow weary of all this turmoil.”

Eivor nodded in sympathy, putting the subject to rest for the moment. “...O-Of course, father. I understand.”

Arngeir took a deep breath, refreshing his mind with the icy winter air. “Thank you, my boy. I realize our situation is urgent, but we must always make time to remember those we have lost, for we would not be here without them.” He glanced at the younger man, beckoning him to join. “Come. Sit. You would do well with a rest.”

The Wolf-Kissed complied and took a seat next to his father, basking in the tranquility of the graveyard. It was oddly peaceful, despite the tragic tales behind each of the shrines. The rustling of the trees harmonized beautifully with the wind that glided throughout the cemetery, and carried the scent of saltwater within its grasp.

Meanwhile, a profound presence watched valiantly over the lost souls who now roamed in the unseen oblivion, guiding them from a realm that existed beyond rational understanding.

It almost felt as if Thora and Ulfar were still there, despite not having a physical entity anymore. The mark they left on the clan’s heart had yet to wither, and even now, Eivor could hear their last words whispering in his head. 

He just wished he could’ve responded to them. There were so many things he wanted to say, and so many questions he wanted to ask. He would’ve given anything to have one more conversation with his deceased friends, but now, all he had were regrets. 

“Father...?” Eivor said. “Can I ask you something?”

Arngeir’s interest was piqued. “Of course.”

“What did Ulfar do before he found us? Who was he when they still called him Wulfgar?”

The jarl paused. “...You know about that?”

“I overheard Ingrida saying a prayer for him at the funeral,” Eivor explained. “Instead of calling him Ulfar, she used his Saxon-given name. Apparently, he always requested her to do so. I tried asking her about his past, but she was reluctant to speak. She said I should talk to you instead, since you were closer with him.”

Arngeir’s eyes lit up with remembrance. “...Indeed. That man was like family to me. A brother from a different land.” 

He turned to face his son, shifting in his seat. “Well, if you’re really curious, Ulfar always wanted to go by his birth name, but feared that his Saxon roots would instill suspicion in our people’s hearts. The only ones he trusted with his identity were me, Ingrida, and of course, Linnea.”

“But why all the secrecy? Our clan knew him well. They knew he was a man of honor. Surely, having Saxon roots wouldn’t be enough to change that.”

“Well, it wasn’t just about his roots. If people ever learned that Ulfar was originally from England, naturally they’d become curious. And with curiosity would come questions. He’d have to explain how he ended up living with a Norse clan, and the reason why he was no longer with them.”

Eivor urged him to continue. “And what reason is that?”

Arngeir sighed out of hesitance. “...Ulfar did not forgive so easily when he was younger. Even though the Norseman who raided his village provided him with a new home, he still wanted justice for what happened to his family. He wanted revenge.”

“...So what he did he do?”

“Nothing, at first. He was just a boy, after all. There wasn’t much he could do to begin with. Ulfar spent the rest of his childhood and adolescence living with the clan in peace, adapting to their culture. He learned their language, held faith in their gods, trained with their techniques. He became a Norseman in everything but blood.”

Eivor could already see where this was going. “But that didn’t last forever, did it.”

The jarl shook his head. “No. When Ulfar finally became an adult, he betrayed his clan and killed the four raiders responsible for his family’s deaths. Three of them were slaughtered within a single night. The fourth one -- a man named Geirmund -- escaped.”

That name sounded familiar to Eivor. 

“Geirmund...?” He repeated. “I think Ulfar told me about him once. He met Linnea while he was searching for him. I never knew the history between them, though. What happened to Ulfar after he killed the other three?”

“Originally, his clan planned to have him executed. They wanted to put his head on a pike for his treachery, but his father convinced them to simply exile him instead. So, as a young man, Ulfar was banished from his home, and spent the next handful of years wandering Norway as a jomsviking, offering his services to anyone who could afford them.”

“What about his father?” Eivor wondered. “Did Ulfar ever see him again?”

Arngeir frowned in pity. “...No. The day he left his clan was the last time he spoke with him. Ulfar never forgave himself because of it.”

“He regretted his betrayal?”

“Very much so,” the jarl confirmed. “Ulfar often told me that he wished he could return home. Not for the sake of a reunion, or for making amends... but to simply apologize. He never had the chance to watch his father grow old, nor bid him farewell when he wandered into death’s embrace, and I know the guilt haunted him for years.”

Eivor’s gaze sank to the ground. “That explains much.”

Arngeir quirked a brow. “Does it?”

“Indeed. Back when you first adopted me, I often expressed my desire to go after Kjotve. To kill him for what he had done. I wanted to avenge my parents and reclaim their honor, but Ulfar was always there to soothe my pain. He told me to never lose sight of what matters.”

“And he was right. Not too long from now, Eivor, you and many others will be leading the final charge against Kjotve and his clan. It will be a battle that determines the future of this kingdom, and you must not lose yourself in your grief. Fight Kjotve with honor, and perhaps, the gods will grant you the opportunity to reclaim Varin’s.”

The young man nodded assuredly. “I understand.”

The jarl seemed pleased. “I know you do. You’ve always carried Odin’s wisdom, even when you were just a boy. I trust that you will do what’s best in the storm to come. My only hope is that the Allfather can protect you where so many others have fallen. I couldn’t bear it if you and Randvi perished too.” 

Arngeir quickly changed the subject, unwilling to let his spirit dim again. “But enough about that. Go on, my son. Wait for me in the longhouse. I will meet you there shortly. For now though, I'd like to spend some more time alone.”

“Are you sure, father?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about me, Eivor. My heart sits heavy in my chest with sorrow, but I am not ready to lay down my axe just yet. I will be alright.”

Eivor rose from the bench and straightened his tunic, preparing to leave. “Okay, then. If you’re certain, I’ll meet you in the war room later.”

“Good. We have much to discuss, and I imagine Sigurd will be eager to devise a plan. Until then, take care of yourself, my boy. These next few days will be the most harrowing yet. Do not allow yourself to fall prey to the grief, or this will have all been for naught.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A LITTLE LATER

OUTSIDE THE LONGHOUSE

Peering at the view before him, Sigurd sat quietly on the very same hill where he and Eivor shared their first conversation, waiting patiently for the man as he lost himself in the distant horizon. At the moment, the sun’s light was being obscured by a gathering of wispy clouds that circled around the mountains’ peaks, causing its beams to spread across the land in a golden haze. It glimmered on the ocean’s surface like a handful of scattered coins, and warmed the sheets of ice that clutched onto the shore’s edge.

It was as beautiful as ever, despite the mayhem that thrived in it. An illusion of peace concealed the pandemonium raging amidst their kingdom, and sheltered the death that littered the ground below. It made Sigurd feel as if he had stepped backwards in time, and he found himself wishing desperately that he could rewind the clock.

Only a few weeks may have passed since the prince first arrived at Bjornheimr, but to him, it seemed like an eternity. So much had changed in less than a month, and he could scarcely recognize his own face anymore, nor the faces of others.

Ulfar was dead. Kjotve was losing this war. The son of the jarl had taken his wife’s position, and now, the man he once called brother lay forgotten in a traitor’s tomb. It was as if the Nornir were toying with his fate -- plucking at whatever threads they could find -- just to see how much of a mess they could make.

It felt cruel to Sigurd, to curse him with such an arduous path. In a strange way though, part of him was grateful for having braved this trek. If it weren’t for the gods guiding him to Bjornheimr, he never would’ve met Eivor, or discovered the true nature of those he trusted. He would’ve lived the rest of his life believing in a false brotherhood, and possibly have fallen to one of their blades sooner or later.

This war had caused him a tremendous amount of pain, that was true, but it had also taught him lessons that no mentor ever could. It would be a chapter in his saga that he would never forget, yet at the same time, never wish to remember.

“Sigurd?”

Tearing his eyes away from the view, Sigurd looked to his side and spotted Eivor approaching him from the longhouse, prompting him to rise from his seat.

“Ah, Eivor,” he said with a smile. “There you are. Have you spoken with your father?”

“Yes. I just finished talking to him in the cemetery. He’ll meet us in the war room later to discuss our next move, but for the moment, he wishes to spend some time by himself.”

Sigurd’s brow furrowed in concern. “...How is your father?”

Eivor sighed, his breath turning into a trail of mist. “He’s... faring surprisingly well, in spite of our recent losses. He seems to be doing alright, but part of me suspects it’s only an act.”

“You don’t think it’s genuine?”

The younger man lowered his voice. “He just lost a child, Sigurd. And an old friend. No one passes through an ordeal like that unscathed, especially during a war. I can tell my father is hurting on the inside, but I also know he’s far too proud to show it. He would never risk hurting his clan’s morale like that. Or mine.”

Sigurd nodded in understanding. “A man who cares more about his people than himself. Admirable, but I hope he doesn’t neglect his own needs.”

“As do I. We’ve already lost so much in this past week. I can’t lose him either. Not when we’re so close to victory.” Eivor trailed off into a brief silence, softly clearing his throat. “...Anyway. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about the war later. You said you had something to show me?”

The prince reached down and picked something up from the ground, patting it clean before presenting it to his lover.

“Indeed,” he said, flicking some snow away, “I brought a gift for you.”

Eivor’s expression beamed at that. “A gift? What is it?”

Sigurd held his arms out, laying the object flat in his palms. “See for yourself.”

Looking in the man’s grip, the Wolf-Kissed found a beautifully-crafted shield resting proudly in his hands, waiting for the touch of its new owner. It had been fashioned out of a wood darker than ebony itself, and bore the intricate design of a raven on its surface. A vibrant mixture of blue and white pigment had been used to paint the majestic bird, and the edges of the shield were outlined with a ring of engraved iron.

Overall, it was an impressive piece of craftsmanship. Its small yet sturdy build made it an effective piece of armor, and the colors stood out from the wood like an aurora in the night sky.

“You got me a shield?” Eivor said, staring at the gift in awe. “It’s gorgeous, Sigurd.”

The prince grinned. “Ah, but it’s not just any shield, my love. This shield was passed down to me from my mother when I was only a boy. She gave it to me at a young age so that I could start my training, despite my father’s protests.” 

A wave of reminiscence washed over Sigurd’s face. “...I used to carry it with me everywhere I went. Even after my mother’s death, I would wear it proudly on my back and use it as a... good luck charm of sorts, I suppose. An accessory to ward off the shadow lurking in my step. I don’t use it much nowadays since I don’t want to risk breaking it, but I’ve always kept it close nonetheless. It serves as a good reminder.”

Eivor tilted his head. “A reminder of what?”

Sigurd’s tone faltered with melancholy. “...Of what really matters.” He paused for a second and glanced down at the shield, unlocking the memories that lived inside it.

“With all the losses that we’ve suffered recently, I’ve found myself thinking about the past more than usual. My mind is often preoccupied with the burdens of regret, and my dreams are tainted by the men I’ve killed. In times like these, it can be difficult to remember why we’re even fighting in the first place. Hatred can become a familiar face if you indulge it for long enough, and eventually, you’ll find yourself burying an axe in someone’s chest without really knowing why.”

“It’s frightening to lose control of your life in such a way,” he continued. “It feels like... all the love you once cradled is slipping out of your grasp, and that there’s nothing you can do about it.” He slid a hand down the shield’s surface. “But when I look at this, I think about all the memories I hold dear. I think about my mother, about Dag, about a life without constant terror. I think about the hope I once carried, and how alive it made me feel.”

Sigurd flicked his eyes up to Eivor, unable to hide the glint of hope shimmering in his gaze.

“It’s the same feeling I get when I look at you.”

Eivor was flattered by the comment. “It is?”

The prince displayed a faint smile. “Yes. You remind me of the life I wish I could give to our people. But more importantly, you give me the strength to fight for it. Had it not been for your company throughout this past month, I’m not sure I’d be the same man I am today. And that’s why I want you to have this.”

The younger man carefully brought the shield into his grasp, mindful not to scratch it.

“Are you sure about this, Sigurd?” Eivor checked. “I mean, this shield used to belong to your mother. If you want to keep it, I’ll understand.”

The prince shook his head, holding up a hand of refusal. “No, no. It’s yours now. Even if you don’t use it in battle, I still want you to have it. I trust you to keep it safe, and I know my mother would’ve been honored to pass it onto someone such as you.”

The Wolf-Kissed slipped his arm through the strap, testing its weight with a few gentle swings.

“I... I don’t know what to say, Sigurd. It’s a magnificent piece of armor. I promise I’ll treat with the utmost care.” He closed the distance between them and leaned forward, pecking a small kiss on his companion’s cheek. “Thank you.”

The older man’s face radiated with a warm delight. “You’re welcome, Eivor.”

Coming to an abrupt halt, Sigurd’s attention was suddenly diverted to the longhouse when he noticed Arngeir striding through its doors, eager to get started on devising a strategy. It looked like Styrbjorn had also decided to join his small entourage and was currently accompanying him to the war room, looking more determined than usual.

“I think your father’s ready to meet us at the war table,” Sigurd observed. “We should join him as quickly as possible.”

Eivor chuckled softly, letting out a short breath. “This war never waits, does it?”

The prince returned the laugh. “It would seem not.” He placed a hand on Eivor’s shoulder and guided him away from the hill, bringing his lover along for a quick stroll before heading into the longhouse.

“Come.” Sigurd beckoned. “We have a battle to plan.”

[smallblip]

oh oh! i was wondering where Levi would be so good at braiding Hange's so normally they ask the same question and Levi goes silent because he remembers the times he used to style Isabel's hair and Hange realises and omg im sad af now :((((

Oh god this made me sad... Here you go lovely:

three strands for good luck

Since the first time Hanji had introduced themselves, they make it a habit to talk his ear off whenever they see him, much to Levi's dismay. Sometimes it's about something menial like the weather, sometimes it's about their observations on the Abnormal Titans. Sometimes it's little anecdotes about the others- about Erwin and his habit of talking in his sleep, about Mike retching the first time he had met them and him apologising profusely after. And Levi wonders why, because he has never given them any indication that he’s a willing participant in any of this? He gives them nothing beyond non-committal grunts and occasional nods. And yet, Hanji is unbothered when he sighs, or clicks his tongue, or asks them if they ever shut up. They respond, in kind, with more ridiculous laughter.

But they’re quiet the day Isabel and Farlan die. Levi barely makes it back to his room. He's still clutching their bloodied patches. His hands are shaking, and he can't remember the last time he's felt this much pain. Or this much guilt. They had been his responsibility. They would have followed him to the ends of the earth. And they did. He doesn't even hear the knock on his door. It creaks open and he's looking up now. Hanji is toeing into his room, only really setting their feet on the ground when they realise that Levi's boots had already left stains on the wood.

"Hey..." they say, so soft it barely travels. "I'm sorry for what happened to Isabel and Farlan..." Hanji is kneeling now. Levi's eyes scan theirs and something in him shifts. Whatever that had been coursing in his veins on overdrive during the fight, during the moments when he had found Isabel's mangled body, recedes. He sees how tired Hanji is, spent from battle, their legs barely holding them upright. He sees the bandage on Hanji’s arm that’s seeping blood, and he sees the goggles that are perched on their head, with the lenses smashed through. They look so, so tired.

“If you want to talk to someone... You know... About them... I'm on the second floor... The room right at the end... I knew them too... Not as well as you did of course... But-"

"Thank you," Levi replies. And he had meant it. Hanji nods and turns to look at him one last time before m closing the door.

Hanji doesn't say anything to him for the next few days. But they check on him to make sure his head is above water. Because Hanji knows their occupation is unforgiving. There's little to no time to grieve before there's someone else to mourn, someone else to bury, someone else to miss. Someone else to talk about in a way that falls somewhere between purpose and martyrdom.

But no one really speaks of Isabel and Farlan. Hanji notices. And already, so much is expected of Levi. He comes to them a week later, during a lull. Time for broken bones to heal and scars to form. He comes to them at night and they hear the short rasps on their door.

"Hey!” Hanji says, eyes widening in surprise, they can’t contain the smile that spreads across their face, "come in!" They clear the pile of unfolded laundry off their chair, tossing them into the cupboard, frantically making space for their guest. Hanji gestures for him to sit, and they take a seat on the edge of their bed.

“How’s your arm?” He asks, and Hanji rolls up their sleeve to show him the scab, raw at the sides from picking. “Healing well!” Hanji runs a finger over it to prove a point. Levi pulls a face, “would’ve healed better if you didn’t pick at it...” Hanji chuckles. It can’t be helped.

Levi gives them a once over. Granted it’s late, and it’s almost time for bed, but Hanji is disheveled as always. Their hair tie clinging onto their head for dear life, ratty shirt slipping off their shoulder. Levi thinks about what his mother had said. Even though they had nothing, she had always stressed the importance of looking presentable. And now looking at Hanji, on the verge of a promotion to squad leader, Levi wonders how they have come this far with a pair of boots (worn and unpolished), and gear caked in mud and grime.

Levi sighs, “come here...” he says, and he guides Hanji to sit in front of him, cross-legged. They feel like a child again, when they’re forced by their mother to sit in front of the mirror while she brushes the knots out of their hair. “You’re a mess Hanji,” their mother had said. She says the same thing again when Hanji goes back to visit, shirt unironed and tucked carelessly into their trousers. Hanji stills when they feel Levi part their hair into three strands, starting from the top of their head.

“You’re braiding my hair?” Hanji asks, smile spreading across their face, amused.

“Just stay still.” Came the answer, and Levi works with deft fingers, tugging firmly to keep the braid in place.

“Where did you learn?”

“My mother... Used to watch her do it.”

“She must have been really beautiful...” Hanji muses, pulling their knees to their chest.

It’s quiet, but it’s the most comfortable silence Hanji has had with Levi. So they close their eyes to the feeling of his fingers threading through their hair.

• • •

Hanji does nothing to their braid the next morning, or the morning after, and the ones after that.

And predictably, there are strands of hair sticking out where they shouldn't. Levi pulls them aside when they are sneaking sugar cubes to their horse, or when they are securing the harness flush against their frame, or in the corridor on the way to the mess. He fixes their hair wordlessly.

• • •

The cadets notice that there's duality in the way squad leader Hanji appears. There's Hanji, completely on-brand, characteristic mess of brown hair held together with a hair tie, slipping down to frame their face, shirt wrinkled, gear battle-worn, and boots unpolished. And there's the other Hanji- shirt crisp and starched, gear well-maintained, boots polished to mirror-shine-

Hair held up in a braid.

"It's not possible that squad leader Hanji did that by themselves..." Jean had mused.

But beyond pure observation, the cadets fail to establish a pattern. They try to predict the weather or the intensity of their training on any particular day by the way Hanji looks. But the other veterans know there's an easier answer than one linked to an oracle.

• • •

Hanji hums a tune when Levi works on their hair, bits and pieces of old melodies they remember from their childhood, or tunes they hear Mike whistling. They had knocked on Levi's door that night, thinking maybe there's a pattern to be found, a routine to be established after the first time.

And sure as the seasons and the ones that come after, Levi pulls Hanji to sit. He parts Hanji’s hair into three strands. Three strands for good luck, he hears it in his mother's voice, gentle like the wind.

“I did this for Isabel too...” He says, matter-of-fact, but Hanji recognises the hurt in his voice. The guilt has faded to a dull throb- a testimony to time passed, to wounds healed and scars formed.

“So that’s why she always looked so adorable...” Hanji replies, gentle like the wind, and Levi smiles, patting the top of Hanji’s head, “done.”

Hanji takes a look in the mirror at their choppy hair held neatly in a French braid. Hanji beams, grin spreading across their face.

“Tell you what... Let’s go for a walk, Levi, I’ve got something to show you.” They walk a disused path that leads from the bunks to nowhere. Hanji explains that the toilets used to be out here, long before their time as a cadet.

They stop along the path when Hanji points up at a tree. “It’s Spring now so they’re in bloom...” Levi looks at the flowers on the trees, pink folds opening up to the sky. It’s dark and it’s difficult to see, but Hanji places a flower in his hand.

“They’re Magnolias...” Hanji smiles, “like Isabel...”

Levi traces a finger along the petals. Time stills in this moment.

“It’s strange though, this tree has always had white blooms, and now they’re pink!”

“It’s Isabel’s favourite colour.”

“Ah... That’s why...”

They sit under the magnolia tree, where the grass is gathering dew, but it doesn’t really matter. The air is crisp and it smells like life itself. Levi places the flower on Hanji’s lap. Hanji picks it up and tucks it behind Levi’s ear. He glowers at them but it didn’t have the intended effect, because Hanji is laughing.

Well. Maybe it did.

They watch as a Magnolia drifts from the trees, a blush of pink against the night. It lands on Hanji’s lap. “Oh! Aren’t you beautiful...” Hanji says.

Levi reaches over and tucks the flower in their braid.

[hotchley]

that’s okay

Oh my god it’s out before midnight!! Are you proud of me?? Once again, it has not been proofread, but that’s fine, this is for fun! Also, the same line where Aaron says he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore is also where I lost the plot so erm... yeah

Once again: little plot. Not much point. Low-key hate the ending. May have fucked up Hotch’s character. But I had fun writing it so we’re just... yeah we’re going with.

Title comes from That’s Okay by The Hush Sound (would 10/10 recommend), and I have to thank Caitlin ( @themetaphorgirl ) for that one because I was sat there like: I have everything but a title and then I remembered That’s Okay and was like AHA

Trigger Warnings: trauma, trauma responses, child abuse, religion, religious trauma

read on ao3!

When he finishes his speech, he meets Erin's eyes, determined and angry. At her, for pushing him and doubting his abilities in the one place he felt like he could maintain control in. At Jason, for once again putting him in a situation where he has to take the fall and piece things back together. Because he has to play this stupid game of politics. At the team, because it is easy. 

But most of all, he is angry at himself because he shouldn't be angry at them. He shouldn't be angry at Jason or Erin. He shouldn't be angry, because anger means he's creeping closer and closer to the line that separates himself from his father and if he goes too far, he will lose everything and he won't be able to come back. Ever.

"Aaron," she says, and his glare loses its power. She says his name, his first name, like it means something. With a gentleness that he had never felt before Haley softly repeated it to herself, as though she was trying to test out each syllable before she got too close.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "That comment about your son was unfair. I know you love them all equally."

She shakes her head. "Don't apologise. You know I don't enjoy doing this. Undermining you like this. Asking these questions, saying these things. But if we are both going to keep our jobs, then I have to."

At that moment, she is not Strauss. She is Erin, just another victim of bureau politics, trying to keep her head above water. It's what causes Aaron to reply, instead of just walking out.

"I know," he says. "I know."

"Why don't you ever let Jason take the fall for his mistakes? I'm not an idiot, I know these things aren't your doing. He's a grown man. He can accept the consequences that come with acting the way he does. You don't need to take them."

She doesn't understand. He does. He needs to take them because taking punishment is the only way he can atone for the multitude of sins he commits every single day. He needs to take the blame because he is the only one that can come back from it. The only one that can be replaced with ease. 

He needs to take the blame because it reminds him that this, just like everything he has been stripped of in his life- his childhood, his ability to love, his warmth, his innocence, his faith in both something else and humanity- this can and will be taken from him the moment he puts a foot wrong.

The Bureau, much like the small town in Virginia that he will never refer to as home because he never once felt safe, not even when Haley held him with gentle and unblemished hands, does not show anyone mercy. Least of all those that dare to speak out against injustice.

"I do. Jason Gideon is nothing without the BAU. I can't take that from him," he says. 

He hates to be vulnerable with her, but she is the only one left that he truly trusts. That remembers the boy he was when he first joined. That knows the lock on his drawer is not because there is alcohol, but because he keeps the file with his incomplete profile of George Foyet in there.

"And you?" she asks.

"And I?" 

"What are you without the BAU?"

And isn't that the question he wishes he knew the answer to? He is not a father, he knows that much. A real father wouldn't have hesitated to transfer after Jason returned. A real father would kiss their son goodnight without feeling guilty and hug them without fear. And he is not a husband. On a technicality, he is, but even he can see that Haley isn't happy. The day where she leaves will be sooner rather than later, and he will be powerless to stop her.

A part of him doesn't want to fight. It will be easier on both of them if she leaves before the inevitable happens. Before the pieces of himself he gives up to do this job become irretrievable. Before he is more than just his father's mirror, he is his father's son. 

Before the job he is nothing without ruins her life beyond repair.

"I don't know," he confesses. In some strange way, he feels like a child again. Being asked by the priest what he thinks his punishment for lying about what really happens in the Hotchner family home should be, even though he wasn't lying. He was never lying. They were all just too afraid to confront the truth.

The same way he was.

"Get some rest. I'll speak to the Director and other higher-ups. You'll have a job to come back to. I promise."

It is an impossible promise, one she may not be able to keep, but her tone is gentle and her words soothe him the way a parents' declarations of love never had, so he simply nods and exits her office. 

He doesn't look at any of the team when he gets back to his office. He doesn't bother to knock on Jason's door to make sure he isn't looking through the Book of the Damned. When Derek calls his name, he speeds up, knowing that out of all of them, he owes him the most answers, but finds himself completely unable to give them.

Haley doesn't know that he is returning. He doesn't have the energy to tell her. As he turns onto their road, he is almost tempted to keep going. Past their house. Past her sister's apartment. Past her parents' house and his father's grave. Past everything that keeps him grounded.

The idea of giving into temptation was something drilled out of him long ago. So he turns into their driveway, wondering what the neighbours will say when one of them inevitably moves out. Will they find it sad, that the young couple they had all hoped would last, had fallen apart? Will they wonder what the final straw was?

Haley is still in her work clothes when he enters the living room. She had already picked Jack up from his daycare on her way back, and her son- as far as he's concerned, he's nothing more than the sperm donor- babbles away happily as he plays with the toys his mother and aunt had picked out for him on their last day out together.

"You're back early," she says, without any malice. 

"Strauss told me to get some rest," he replies. "How are the students?"

She smiles at the mention of her class. "Glad to have me back. Excited for your next Southern treat, because no matter how many times I tell them I also lived in that town, they only want it if you made it."

"Well you moved there for your junior year, so I can understand why," he jokes, but instead of wiping away the bad memories of the case, it leaves him more exhausted than before.

"Aaron, what happened today?" she asks him, so attuned to his moods and feelings that he often wonders why she doesn't become a profiler.

"It's nothing," he tells her. No matter how many times she begs for him to tell her why he wakes up in the middle of the night, to share why he can't touch her without showering for a longer amount of time than can be healthy, he won't.

"You don't need to say specifics. But please don't lie to me."

"I'm sorry. I- can we eat first?"

Her mouth parts with shock. Of course they can eat first. She would do whatever was needed if it meant he would finally, after so many years of being married, tell her the truth about his job. She understood his need to keep it a secret. But when he came home, looking more defeated than he had at sixteen, she worried.

He puts Jack to sleep before climbing into bed beside her. She puts her book down- she hadn't really been reading it, just holding it to give her something to do- and turns so she's laying on her side. Absent-mindedly, she starts drawing circles on his stomach. His hand trembles as he removes it, placing it on the bed sheet.

"I profiled the team today," he begins.

Haley sits up properly. "I thought you had a rule against that."

"We do. But Erin… pushed. And before I knew what was happening I was sharing information about all of them. Things that- I don't know if they know that I know. And Erin is too good to use it to blackmail any of us but she isn't a profiler. They'll realise she knows."

"What did you tell her?" is all she says. She knows her husband. Knows how he takes everything personally, and how he will hold himself to unreachable standards because he was never allowed to be anything but perfect, and anything less than that is failure.

He tells her, in almost perfect verbatim, the same words he told Erin. Towards the end, his voice starts to get choked up. She knows he stutters when he feels under pressure or anxious and she knows he hates it. So instead of speaking, she takes his left hand, clasps it with both of hers and rubs circles over the knuckles.

For a moment, he stops speaking, staring at their interlocked hands instead with a look of slight wonder. Like even after all this time, he still couldn't believe he got to touch her. That she wanted to touch him, in spite of his devils and darkness.

It gives him the strength to finish.

"And you?" she asks, after it becomes clear he won't offer any more information as to why it hurt him so much.

Her question is an echo of Erin's, and he closes his eyes, giving himself a few moments to get lost in his head, where it is not necessarily safe, but is where he can be alone and not pretend to be good. 

"And I?"

"What did you say about yourself?"

"I said that if she could find someone better, then I wished her luck," he says, voice completely flat and monotone.

Haley tries to not be offended that he is speaking to her like she is an officer of the law, or a suspect, instead of her husband. "Why didn't you say more?"

"More?"

She nods. "You're feeling guilty because you profiled the team, but you didn't. You shared the pieces of them that make them human. That make them good agents and even better people. You didn't say anything like that about yourself. Why not?"

"Because I'm not like them. My trauma- I'm just not like the rest of the team, okay?"

"I know enough about trauma to know it affects every person differently, so I won't dispute that one. But if you're saying that you're not like the rest of your family, not team, then what are you like? Because from where I'm sitting, you are."

"I'm not," he repeats, growing slightly agitated.

She needs him to understand he is. "Aren't you?"

"No." this time, there is venom in his words. But it doesn't frighten her. It never has. The only time his words have such hatred injected into them is when he's afraid of himself. She's never been afraid of him. She never will be. Because to her, he is good. He is trying.

"How?" she pushes one last time.

And the dam explodes.

“I’m not soft! I’m not beautiful or kind or good or any of the things those stupid, stupid motivational quotes say! I’m not- I’m not like the others and all I want to know is why. Everyone else is good. They’re light and sweet and good. We’ve all been- we all have trauma. Why can’t I- why am I different? Why did mine make me violent and scared and- why can’t I move on?”

It was not what she was expecting. It was not what she thought he was going to say, and now she doesn't know what she is meant to do. She doesn't know how to piece him back together. Not this time. Not when his words are a confession he has been clinging to since the day he met Spencer.

"Aaron," she begins, for lack of other words to say.

"Don't," he cuts her off. "Please. Just don't. I can- I'll sleep in the guest room. You shouldn't have to deal with me when I'm like this."

"You're having a bad day. It's what I signed up to deal with," she says.

He shakes his head. "Not like this. Not like- Haley, what kind of father avoids his son the way I do because they're afraid? What kind of man doesn't know the difference between safety and happiness? How broken am I if my twenty-five year old subordinate can move on better than I can?"

"You're scared. You're a victim of child abuse. It's not- it's normal that you feel like this. I think. Aaron, I don't know. I don't know what kind of person this all makes you. But when I look at you, I see the man I married, the one so terrified of everything, thriving. I see someone that suffered atrocities that nobody should ever be put through fighting with everything they are, to break that cycle. I don't know how to make you feel better, but I vowed to be honest with you. And this is me doing that."

"You're the first person to tell me it wasn't my fault," he whispers. "Everyone else always said that I must've done something to deserve it."

"You were a child Aaron. You all were."

It was the wrong thing to say. 

"We were all children, but they're all better. They haven't closed themselves off. They- I see them, with their unfailing faith in humanity and it hurts. It physically hurts. What am I doing to them? What happens when the evil they see outweighs the goodness?"

"It's okay, Aaron," she laughs, because if she doesn't, she will cry and she will not do that. Not in this moment. "It's- the trauma and the hurt and the heartbreak doesn't always give you faith. It doesn't always make you a better person. Yes, they are still positive and happy and beautiful and good, but so are you. It's just buried somewhere. Because sometimes the trauma just hurts."

He stares at her eyes, and she sees the tears that had been threatening to fall since he got into the bed start to spill over. With one cautious hand, she wipes it away. She counts it as a win when he leans into the touch without flinching.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," he whispers.

"That's the beautiful thing about love. We are all entitled to it. It's just about whether or not we'll take it."

"I don't know how to stop being so broken," he adds.

"You're not- people are not broken. Not ever. They are damaged by life and the terrible things that other people do, but they're never broken. Not beyond repair. Do you hear me? You are not broken. You never were. You were just hurt. But there are so many people that love you. That want to help you. All you have to do is ask."

"I know. I just- I wish he didn't have such a tight hold on me. I wish I could be more like Penelope. Or Derek. They're so beautiful, with their faith in love and goodness. Derek didn't have anyone. Not in the way I had you."

She didn't have to ask to know who he was talking about. "He was your father. Even despite everything, he took time off work when you had chicken pox and played with you when you were old enough to remember the snow."

"I know. I don't know what I'm saying anymore. Do you think I'll always be like this? Cold and unapproachable and full of darkness?"

"The only people you are ever cold and unapproachable with is unsubs. Suspects. And there's nothing wrong with darkness. There's no light without it." she can't say anything more than that. Not without lying.

"You always know what to say," he says to her, hesitantly pulling her closer towards him.

She smiles. "It's because I love you."

His own smile fades, and he doesn't reply, instead brushing her hair off her face. She tries to not let it sting. The words had never been something said freely in his house. Never used to actually express love, only as a plea for mercy. There are a few minutes of silence, and she think he's finally fallen asleep. 

Then he speaks.

"Haley, what if I can't save them? I've already failed once. What if this, part of me, means the next time they need me, I can't be there? I can't save them?"

She thinks her answer over for a few minutes.

"Sometimes the way to save other people is to save ourselves. You need to save yourself first. But listen to me." 

She can tell he's fighting sleep now, so she speaks quickly.

"There is nothing wrong with you. Yes, you are flawed and you make mistakes, but that is because you are human. We all make mistakes. We are never perfect. You are not the only one to screw up. But this part of you-" she places a hand over his heart "-this part of you is not broken. It is not wrong or anything that you were led to believe it was. You are exactly what and where you need to be. And I love you for that."

"Do you promise?"

She swallows. "Of course I do." 

She's not entirely sure whether she's lying, but he drifts off with a smile, so she decides she doesn't care. There are certain lies she is willing to tell, if only so her husband has one night of peace.

Thinking of him as her husband is painful, because she knows it is only a matter of time before one of them snaps. Before this balance he has fought so hard to achieve topples like Jack's building blocks. She knows which way it will topple. She isn't angry.

But the balance hasn't toppled yet. It won't for a few weeks. So maybe it is wrong, but instead of pulling away, she lets herself hold her husband, the steady beating of his heart sending her to sleep.

She is right though. Even when she's no longer there, he knows she is right. That sometimes the pain is not poetic or character-building. Sometimes, it is just pain, and the only way forward is directly through it. It is not easy, but it is possible.

Everything is possible, so long as he lets himself feel without guilt.

[xxm1m1kyuxx]

korekiiyo shiingujii ana1ysiis

spoii1ers for ndrv3!

iit’s quiite hard to wriite 1iike thiis wiith autocorrect on, so from the 1iine break be1ow ii wii11 not be usiing my typiing quiirk Σ(･口･)

word count (exc1udiing author’s notes): 1,611 words

tota1: 1,717 words

for siimp1iiciity's sake, ii've done thiis on computer so that there's not a wa11 of text

~*~

"You wonder, "Who is this?" Yes... I shall make that clear first. My name is Korekiyo Shinguji... I am called the Ultimate Anthropologist."

~*~

Hello everyone, my name is Milo, and today I’ll be doing my best to cover one of my favorite characters in the Danganronpa universe, Korekiyo Shinguji. He is originally from the 3rd mainline game, New Danganronpa v3: Killing Harmony. Since I don’t physically own the game, I’m basing most of this essay entirely on the Danganronpa Wiki page for Shinguji. Please read that if you desire a more lengthy look at his actions from an unbiased perspective since this one leans more towards empathy than hatred. Whoops!

We first properly meet him after talking to everyone else inside of Hope’s Peak. He’s in the main hall and standing away from the doors leading out to the courtyard. When he introduces himself, Shinguji goes on to talk about anthropology and the beauty of humanity. This proceeds to creep Akamatsu out.

Alongside that, in Chapter 3, we are unfortunately forced to see his relationship with his sister. It’s weird and only gets weirder if you spend two of your Free Time events talking to him when you first play as Akamatsu. He’s evaluated that all girls present at the academy would be great “friends” for his sister, barring Iruma and Harukawa. This is because Shinguji believes that Harukawa doesn’t believe in the power of love, and Iruma is just… well, she’s Iruma. Hardly the girl you would want to send home to your parents.

This weird incest plotline is unfortunately present in most Danganronpa games, such as Leon and his cousin (though one-sided on his cousin’s behalf; he didn’t like her), Tsumugi in the Love Hotel (if you consider that canon), and Monotaro & Monophanie (which is then implemented into Gokuharu’s execution, killing them both).

His sister’s name is never disclosed in-game or in any other Danganronpa media, so the fandom dubbed her “Miyadera/Miyatera,” which is an alternate way of reading Shinguji’s last name. The miya character - represented as 宮 - and tera character - 寺 - are both present in Shinguji, 真宮寺. For the rest of this essay/paper, I’ll be referring to his sister as Miyadera, and himself as Shinguji.

I’ll be getting deeper into his mischaracterization later on, but I want to talk about his appearance for now. Mainly, his hair, his mask, and the lipstick he wears. From what we see of Miyadera in Shinguji’s execution, if that is Miyadera at all, we can see that she had long hair, and when Shinguji was turned into a ghost, it was the exact shade of Shinguji’s hair. From here, we can assume that Miyadera looks exactly, if not similar, to Shinguji.

His lipstick and mask are results of representations of his tulpa, Miyadera. Tulpa is defined as “a concept in mysticism and the paranormal of a being or object which is created through spiritual or mental powers.” In much simpler terms, it is an object or living thing that was created/imagined through spiritual/mental abilities. Shinguji gained a tulpa by being beaten half to death by villagers shortly after arriving there. When he was in a state between life and death, he saw his sister, who joined his subconscious and took control of his body whenever his mask was off. It’s why we only see him take off his make once Saihara dubs him the culprit of Chapter 3, and why his voice suddenly took a more feminine tone. A quote from Miyadera, which can be found in the game, is, "Sweet Korekiyo, calm yourself... Their words are all hollow. There is no meaning to any of them... You must teach these ignorant children a lesson."

That statement can be interpreted two ways, one; that she’s trying to calm him down and two; she’s repeating whatever she said to him during childhood. It’s implied that Miyadera passed away from disease sometime before Killing Harmony takes place, which is both a good and bad thing. It’s great because then we have some time frame of how she was and how she acted when Shinguji knew her best.

Whenever I read the quote above, or any of her quotes, to be honest, I am filled with a sense of dread, or even, despair. The following quote especially makes me feel terrible; "Calm yourself, Korekiyo. You mustn't raise your voice. You mustn't stutter. You mustn't lose composure. You mustn't become flustered. You mustn't waver. Look at their horrid faces. This sorry lot is not worth agonizing over."

Have you noticed how she’s setting guidelines on how to defend himself? She’s turning Shinguji’s attention away from Saihara and the trial and to her because she knows that Shinguji trusts her even after all these years.

You might be wondering, “Milo, what the hell does that all have to do with Shinguji?” And I’ll tell you plain and simple: he was abused by Miyadera. Shocking, I know. Having Shinguji rave and rant about being in love with her, only to be a victim? Sadly, it’s very true indeed. Shinguji was most likely groomed and gaslighted into thinking that Miyadera loved him when that was not the case.

Gaslighting is defined as, “[to] manipulate (someone) by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.” From the two quotes I provided, it doesn’t seem to make sense. Miyadera only sounds like a kind, worrisome older sister. Incorrect, I say. She’s emotionally gaslighting him, trying to make him believe that the trial makes no sense and he shouldn’t worry about any of them. I can also bet she used this tactic to control him as a younger person as well.

It’s a well-known fact that children are both impressionable and gullible. If an older sister figure came up to you as a child and told you to do unmentionable things, unfortunately, you might follow her directions. Shinguji states that his sister was a sickly girl who often stayed in the hospital. When she would come home, he’d be at his easiest to manipulate. Why would his dear, sweet, sickly, older sister ever lie to him?

Next, I’m going to be covering his relationships with other students, namely Shuichi Saihara and Rantaro Amami. These will delve further into spoiler territory, so if you didn’t already read the warnings I put in place, here is your extra warning for spoilers for Chapter 3 of Killing Harmony.

To start with, I’ll be exploring his poorer relationships first. Most of the girls fit into this category, namely Iruma, Harukawa, Chabashira, and Yonaga - that means he has a terrible standing with four of the eight girls present at the beginning of Killing Harmony, five if you count Yumeno’s way of dealing with Chabashira’s murder. Shinguji even taunts her once they solve that mystery, stating, “Let me guess, you’ll never forgive me. Himiko, you must hate me so very much right now. Maybe you’d feel better if I was executed by Monokuma…”

Shinguji has a poor relationship with Iruma and Harukawa due to seeing them as “unfit” to be “friends” with Miyadera. He has a poor relationship with Chabashira because he’s a degenerate male, but he still thinks she made a good friend for his sister. His poor relationship with Yonaga is shown in Chapter 3 when Yonaga forms the student council. Once again, I’m making amends to some parts of the characters. I’ll be referring to Yonaga’s god as God, simply because Atua is an actual Polynesian god in real life. Shinguji doesn’t worship any god, and so wants to study Yonaga’s God purely for anthropologic purposes. This displeases Yonaga, who then states that God's business hours are closed for the day. In Chapter 3 when Yumeno brings up Yonaga’s God, he simply asks whether or not they’re done talking about it, cementing his distrust in faith.

Next, I’ll cover his better relationships. Akamatsu isn’t too terribly creeped out by him and instead sees Shinguji as a kind guy who cares about his sister. Akamatsu even apologizes for saying that Shinguji would be into inc*st, this event either taking place in his first or second Free Time event. I’m saving his and Saihara’s relationship for last since I’ll have the most to write about then. Instead, please enjoy the news that in the events of Ultimate Talent Development Plan (UTDP for typing purposes), Shinguji and Amami are actually great friends. In Amami’s first free time event, he tells Akamatsu that Korekiyo has a strong personality, but she’ll be able to understand him plenty if she takes time to. It’s also stated that Amami emphasizes that Shinguji is also the calm and clever type.

Lastly, I’ll be exploring his relationship with Saihara. It’s slightly rocky, if only because Shinguji hasn’t let go of his sister yet, but it’s miles better than his relationship with Chabashira. Slight side note before we begin, I’ll be discounting the Love Hotel scene mostly because I’m a minor and I don’t feel completely comfortable having to watch that simply because I’m writing an analysis. As the game progresses to Chapter 3, Shinguji and Saihara have built trust between themselves. While Saihara still found Shinguji creepy, he [Saihara] never discounted him simply for existing. There was even a point where Shinguji offered to help Saihara communicate with Akamatsu from beyond the grave, though he was turned down.

Korekiyo Shinguji is a misunderstood and somewhat tragic character who usually gets disregarded and uncredited all because people do not like him. However he’s not an “uwu soft twamatized bean <3” either. He’s a strong character who has questionable morals at best and a terrible representation of an abused character at worst.

~*~

thank you for readiing!! p1ease make sure to get a hea1thy amount of s1eep and that you do have a cup of water and some food, you deserve iit!!

sources:

- https://danganronpa.fandom.com/wiki/Korekiyo_Shinguji

- https://www.quotev.com/story/7873923/Danganronpa-Class-Trials/73 (siide note: how fucked up iis iit that ii was on1y ab1e to fiind a transcriiptiion of the triia1 on quotev)

[ddarker-dreams]

Puppet. Yan Charles Grey x Reader [COMM]

The phrase “your life” feels more like an oxymoron than an accurate description. 

Every task that you carry out -- from the moment the sun rises from the east, and sets in the west -- is not of your own autonomy. A marionettist pulls the strings from above, you but a mere puppet that concedes accordingly to its wishes.

You play the role of the perfect daughter, hours of tutoring and diligent planning from your parents ensuring your success. In your heart, there is little abhorrence for the distant yet prickly relationship you have with them. They mean no harm, you often have to remind yourself, when your thoughts gain a negative edge. It’s all for the greater good of the family. 

Pressing the cold glass you plucked from the buffet table against your lips, your eyes take in the sight before you. Inhabitants from high social standing cluster together, speaking of benign matters or hoping to further their position in some way. It’s a familiar scene, despite the significance of the event. 

The Queen, in all her normal benevolence, is hosting this ball in hopes of raising funds for a new orphanage in London. To turn down an invite to such an occurrence would be a kiss of death to your social standing. Your own family invested a hefty sum into the charity, a small hope of getting noticed you surmise. It’s a gamble, but nothing is gained without taking a few risks.

Your parents have an apparent agenda of their own tonight, centered around you. They’ve been introducing you to a variety of possible suitors, since you are now of the age to wed. Throughout the flood of faces you’ve met, none of them have seemed inclined to lead the conversation to taking your hand. The barrage of social interaction has sapped away at your strength, weariness settling in as the night progresses at a snail’s pace.

Being left to your own devices for what feels like the first time in hours, you lament the thought of when it’ll come to an end. Perhaps tonight simply isn’t your night? Your mother gave you a stern look when you spoke those words, critiquing every little nuance of your prior interactions. It isn’t your fault the men simply haven’t been interested in marriage, you did what was expected of you. That leaves no room for fault of your own. 

One common string of actions you picked up on, was their hesitation in initially speaking to you. It could only have been your imagination, however, they spoke to you with rigidity. Polite, yes, but they seemed eager to leave your side. Almost as if they were hesitant to even speak with you in the first place, though any reason for this is beyond you.

How peculiar. 

Your parents have left your side for a few minutes now, undoubtedly searching for another possible suitor to introduce you to. The string of bad luck isn’t enough to stop them from advancing their goals. Standing here for too long on your lonesome isn’t an option, the public eye judgmental and lips prone to entertain gossip. This night couldn’t come to a close any faster.

Adjusting your position, you consider the best course of action here. It’d be ideal to find a suitable person to speak to, but most of the people here are already in conversation with one another. Stopping a sigh that threatens to leave, you decide to get some fresh air. Distant laughter, chatter, and orchestral accompaniments go ignored as you walk to the doors of the balcony. 

Guards open the door for you, allowing you to step outside. The moon is shining brightly above, illuminating the various plants interwoven with the wood railing. Corset constricting you harshly, the ability to breathe without trouble feels like a distant luxury. Being introduced to a possible husband one after the other doesn’t help, the interactions a whirlwind of stress. 

“Not into events like this, huh? Not that I could blame you.” A male voice, light and whimsical, startles you from behind. 

Placing a gloved hand to your chest in surprise, you look back to see a young man around your age. With long, snow white hair, playful blue eyes, and wearing a white tailcoat with a black buttoned up shirt underneath. He flashes you a lazy grin, before taking his place by your side.

Your breath hitches at the unexpected advance. Whoever this is either ignorant to social rules, or cares little of them. As he takes a place by your side, you consider making an excuse to go back in. A light breeze caresses your warming skin, a few strands of hair tickling your face. 

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that,” you respond in earnest, unable to get a solid read on his aloof attitude. “Looking at the stars is a pleasant change of pace.” 

In saying so, the pair of you look up towards the sky. It’s a rarity tonight, the usual smog not as apparent. His attention returns to you soon enough, mouth set in a straight line. He considers your input, crossing his arms. 

“Hm… really? I’ve always found these events to be a drag.” he replies with a raised eyebrow, a hand pressed against his hip. You take note of the sheathed rapier, but think little else of it. The understanding the fashion choice of men has never been your strong suit. 

“At first glance, perhaps. Legends behind the constellations are what I take the most interest in. Take those five stars there, for example,” you point a finger for extra emphasis. “That one is named Cassiopeia. In Greek mythology, Cassiopeia was punished by the gods for her vanity; forced to forever be imprinted in the sky.” 

Biting your lip for a moment, you manage to collect yourself. When it came to topics you found compelling, rambling came naturally. If your mother were here she’d scold you, stern eyes saying more than words ever could.

“Seems over the top, if you ask me.” he concludes pointedly, pushing his lips to the side in thought. It almost comes as a relief that he isn’t irate with your passionate speaking, the window to criticize you for it now gone. 

A light laugh leaves your lips, skin around your eyes tightening in amusement at his blunt assessment. “Yes, well, Greek gods were not known for their compassion.” 

Mimicking your earlier action, he points to a cluster of stars in the sky with childlike enthusiasm. “And? What about this one?” 

“Ah… I don’t believe that is a constellation. It has a similar appearance, however.” you speculate with a frown, silently hoping the answer isn’t too disappointing. His shoulders droop at your lackluster response, leading you to attempt and patch it over.

“You could always make a constellation of your own. I recall doing that as a child, it’s a fun game to play with yourself.” Memories come flooding back to you of your childhood, the nights you spent creating impossible yet fun scenarios to go along with the night sky. 

Turning on his heels, he bends his face down ever so slightly to get a better look at you. Tilting his head to the side, an unidentifiable emotion flashes through his light sky blue eyes, before he returns to his former position. You feel your pulse quicken, concern over saying the wrong thing rearing its ugly head once again. 

Instead of admonishing your thoughts, he encourages them. “Humor me. What story would you give this then?” 

That isn’t what you were expecting. It’s an entertaining request, different from the dreary talk you’ve slugged through earlier. A topic that you’re well endowed in. Childlike wonder returns to you, flashes of memories from your youth returning. 

“I can’t think of anything.” you confess with a sheepish frown. “I fear my interpretations would leave much to be desired, anyhow. The original stories are too timeless to compete with.” 

Before he can offer a rebuttal, the sound of doors opening hurriedly behind you gains your attention. Your mother, eyes darting around before landing on your form, strides over to you with practiced ease. She freezes her movements when she looks over at your eccentric conversation partner, gulping at the sight. 

“Earl Grey, I take it you have met my daughter?” she guardedly inquires, showcasing a tight lipped smile. 

His title and name registers instantly, and you instantly feel an ocean of regret collapsing over you. Not only did you lose yourself in conversation with someone, it happened to be such an important individual? He could have you socially ostracized if he felt inclined to do so, being a guard of the Queen herself. 

In a desire to save face, you mirror your mother’s stoic visage; praying she didn’t catch anything you said earlier. You gulp as he holds off on a response, her eyes narrowing briefly at you in the silence.

His own relaxed demeanor doesn’t change in the slightest at the new company, finally breaking the tense silence. “Indeed I have. We were having an exciting conversation.” 

She shoots you a look that makes your blood go cold, fingers twitching by your side. The carriage ride home will be a harrowing event. You can already picture the chastising comments she’ll make at your expense, critiquing you from head to toe. 

“Ah, I’m pleased to hear she was good company for you then. Please forgive her for any slips of the tongue, she’s always been an imaginative child.” she offers a timed laugh, one that you know well. Another sign of how you’ve surely upset her with your antics.

Your mother doesn’t need to say anything else, you more than capable of reading in between the lines of her strained gaze. She’s smoothed over any possible grievances to the best of her abilities, and wants you to dismiss yourself. 

Earl Grey has kept his attention on you, paying little mind to her. You silently inhale, praying that your face doesn’t waver at your next words. Face burning in defiance of your wishes, you excuse yourself. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Earl Grey. I thank you kindly for your time.” 

---

When your father called you to his study this afternoon, you knew it would be grim news. 

The past month has been a tense one, misfortunes piling up one after the other. It all started when one of his companies main investors pulled for no understandable reason, not even offering an explanation. 

Matters only grew worse as rumors of scandal plagued him from an anonymous source, further discrediting the company's name. The staff of your house whispers that perhaps he’s been cursed by a malevolent spirit. While you initially scoffed at such an unfounded notion, you can’t help but begin to wonder if it holds some truth.

Weariness was apparent in his gaze, skin tight to the bone and dark circles underneath his eyes. Money is running out, he told you with a shameful sigh. There will be lifestyle changes in the near future, such as cutting a significant amount of staff at the estate; and even having to lay off employees under his company. 

He wanted so desperately to shield you from this frightful information, but the times are growing dire. It’s frustrating -- how all of this could happen from out of seemingly nowhere -- leaving you at the mercy of the law. There must be something you can do, but what? 

It’s the question that has led you to the gardens outside. Birds chirp contentedly, leaves rustling about in the wind. Nature always brings with it a taste of sweet solace, but today, even it fails to mitigate your anxiety. Negotiations for any possible engagements have also led nowhere, to make matters worse.

‘I could offer to sell some of my wardrobe… would that even do anything, though? It’s surely couldn’t hurt.’

Delicately wrapping your fingers around the teacup handle, you take a sip. Could it be you were not a desirable enough wife? With all the problems your family has had of late, suitors must be too cautious to approach you. As unfair as it may be, it frustrates you further. 

“I was told I’d find you out here.” 

Whipping your head around, you’re met with a sight that brings back pleasant memories. Earl Grey walks from behind a hedge, inviting himself into your presence without any hesitation. There’s a light spring to his step, like something had put him in a good mood.

This melts away instantly when he sees your downcast gaze, frowning deeply at the pitiful sight. 

“Earl Grey,” you greet with a strained smile. “If you’re looking for my father, I can show you his study.” 

Grey waves off your offer with disinterest, plopping himself down next to you. “There’s no need, I just finished speaking with him.”

You cross your legs at the information, muscles taut and frown deepening further. The investigation into possible racketeering brings a sense of shame, knowing in the depths of your heart your father would never do that. He’s been a lawful man his entire life, instilling in you good morals and reverence of the law.  

It would be impolite to ask for the state of the investigation from Grey, who was assigned to look into the rumors by the Queen. It is still a tempting prospect, but you bite your tongue nonetheless. 

‘How embarrassing… The Earl has only ever seen me in compromising situations such as this.’  

“I wanted to speak to you before I left,” Grey explains, leaning closer to your person. “Not as an interrogation or anything relating to the recent allegations. I’ve been curious about you.” 

Even at his insistence that this is off the record, it does little to help you. In the short time you’ve spoken to him, you’ve found his laid back personality to be off putting. Grey speaks whatever comes to his mind without caring how others might interpret it. This foreign confidence must come as a right to those in high power. 

“About... me?” you repeat back for further clarification, blinking rapidly and tilting your head. 

“We didn’t get to talk as much as I wanted to,” he explains, finding amusement in your wide eyes. Maintaining eye contact never felt so difficult. “And I just so happened to be here. It’s worth taking advantage of.” 

Shifting in your seat, you respond. “I’m all yours then.” 

He picks up on your poorly hidden discomfort with a frown, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Don’t feel the need to be so tense around me,” he chastises, thin eyebrows furrowing together with displeasure. “I liked how you were before more. So open and honest! It’s a breath of fresh air, really. Everyone can be so stiff and boring... it drives me mad.” 

“You must be worried about the ongoing investigation. It’ll be fine, really. There’s been no hard evidence found -- only rumors -- which is a different kind of damaging. But in the eyes of the law, it’s ultimately useless.

He winks, causing your face to flush. “Just a little secret between us.” 

You feel yourself eased by his spontaneously serious words, the affirmation much needed. Offering him a natural smile, you express your heartfelt appreciation.

“Hearing you say that makes all the difference,” you fumble over your words, incapable of hiding the well of emotion within any longer. Putting a gloved hand to your mouth, you continue. “You’ve offered me such kindness.” 

Grey perks up at your gratitude, leaning in closer. “I’m only being honest. I’ve seen the worst humanity has had to offer, but your father is nothing of the sort. And neither are you.” 

Guilt over your previous assessment of the Earl sprouts like a weed within your mind. You thought little of him at first, believing him nothing more than a soul too lighthearted for their own good. But here he is, offering you comfort in one of the darkest seasons in your life despite having nothing to gain from it. If anything, it could be a risk to his own character to associate with you.

Yet he’s here nonetheless. 

“There actually is another reason I wanted to speak to you,” he interrupts your thoughts with an excited hum. “Seeing as your father is almost entirely cleared of suspicion, we had discussed arrangements relating to you. I asked for your hand, and he enthusiastically accepted. Wonderful, right?” 

“W-wait, what?” you sputter in utter disbelief, uncertain of whether or not you’re dreaming. Is Grey being honest with you, or is this a practical joke in the works? Men from lesser standing than him looked over you as a possible wife, what does he stand to gain from this arrangement? 

He seems happy enough to repeat himself. “We’re engaged. There are some little details that still need to be ironed out, but, other than that...” 

You never were expecting to receive news of an engagement like this, your thoughts incoherent. It’ll do little for your image to so clearly reflect your inner feelings, prompting you to gain any semblance of control of your outward reactions.

This is a good thing, after all, perplexing as it is. With his connections and influence, no one would dare question your father’s integrity again. Doing so would be questioning the Queen’s own bodyguards, an extension of herself in many ways. 

Grey looks at you expectantly, unusually silent while giving you a moment to process. From his upbeat, almost sing song tone, you get the feeling he wants this engagement himself. 

“So don’t worry about those things anymore. I’ll be taking care of you from now on, after all,” he hums, looking down at you. Lithe fingers grab hold of a strand of your hair, playing with it. He’s close -- closer than a man has ever been to you -- warm breath hitting your face. “My only request is that you be yourself around me. That’s what drew me to you, and all I care for.” 

Giving you a moment of respite, he tucks your hair back into place. Grey takes in the sight of you. Afternoon sun shining upon your face, highlighting your flushed cheeks, and soft lips. Smiling with contentment, he leans back into his chair, closing his eyes. 

“Do that for me, and we’ll have no problems. A win-win situation.” 

[faimrpg]

Hello, and welcome once again to member appreciation time! Every week, we post a snippet from everyone’s blogs that we felt was jaw-droppingly fantastic, as both a thanks to you for being here and putting your character on the dashboard, and so other members can appreciate your artistry as well. Thank you so much for letting us get to enjoy your work!

AGRIPPINE: This fleeting respite from the world lulls and soothes them. So much so that Agrippine does not tense at a stranger’s nearness, dark eyes transparent like glass, open like the sky above them. She’s approached Agrippine in the eye of their storm, where memories do not matter and only the simple routine of tending to horses does.

BEAU: Seeing them for the first time, Beau’s own heart betrayed itself. It started again after eventually adjusting to the heavy weight of it. After so many nights unable to sleep without seeing their face, without hearing the echo of their family crying at the loss of another child; grief had become synonymous with her name, no matter how hard Beau tried to stay distant.

CECILE: Yet Cecile knows her limits well - watching drink take it’s hold on her late father had been more than enough to instill her with a sense of caution around the stuff - and even when she was searching for him everywhere, never did a stranger’s face nag at her so perniciously. Cecile would have half a mind to find the host and politely say her premature goodbyes - Odeline knows she has no shortage of invitations this week - if she wasn’t utterly certain that the feeling would only remain, like a scab begging to be picked, if it she left it unaddressed.

CYRIL: At that moment, the offer she makes is solely what she wishes she had already done — if she had already enchanted the Chevalier’s jacket, then maybe she wouldn’t not be so painfully unaware of what she is wearing over her white gown. She’s still trying to distance herself from the fact that the jacket she wears, so kindly offered to her, had splatters of someone’s blood. Or maybe more than one someone’s blood.

DEGARE: He’s grown rather attached to his curious turns of phrase, his strange idioms, furnished with antecedents he fails to place. He’s heard them so many times over by now, he sometimes even knows what the fellow is talking about. But then—ah, sometimes not. Savatier sticks out to him, all conspicuous, like an anachronism which betrays itself. Beneath every skin, there is another skin. He’s an eye for such things.

ETIENNE: Whether or not that was her intention in that moment mattered little, for Etienne had committed the route to crawling under Rosalind's skin to memory. "It's giving pouting puppy dog at best. Although, you know I'm always here for pointers on your overall intimidation factor.”

GISELE: To Gisele, that was the crux of everything wrong with this city: The flagrant dismissal of nobility’s purpose. They were meant to be born and raised with nothing but rulership in mind, molded into perfect arbiters for their respective lands. As soon as one began to cast aside their responsibilities, or, worse, assign them to the unready, the undeserving, there would be no point to anything.

HELENE: Her intuition has served her well, rising through the court and fiercely defending her position from the vultures who had sought to take it, and her suspicion has foiled plots far and wide, diverting their intended sacrifice that sat atop the crown. Sacrifice was in the cards for her, for all of those who had sought to serve crown and country, and she had offered too much to be taken from her for all of this to be for naught.

ISEULT: The chevalier with his guard down, and a denizen of the quarter taking to his shadow with ill intent. Iseult, the ever observant, knowing pursuit when he saw it— seeing that one for its lethal intent. The assassin saving the chevalier’s life by taking another— forging a connection in the crook of an elbow, in the fatal wrench of a neck. The observant freelancer calls it saving a life; the astute one calls it an investment.

LIANE: There are times when Liane believes she is more wolf than woman, all bloodied jowls and gnashing teeth, but she has done her best to devour it, to stitch her fingers into the green of the earth and bury it beneath the richness of the soil, but there are some things that are impossible to rid yourself of.

MATTHIEU:  Inevitable like folding wings, the bastard snapped an insolent remark. Fops, mimicry, snake shedding and sloughing the skins of their betters; they’ve waded through it already. He didn’t particularly care to raise his cuffs again. He remembers rolling his eyes, rolling the matter under. But the alternative, violent and familiar, gathered on the promontory; the waters were rising, deep and sluggish in the chambers of his mind.

PATRICE: He’d almost given himself away in that moment, shock and appall taking over his being. Surely this could not be the same girl he watched grow, the same who wove flower stems and sang cheerful folk songs in the gardens behind his childhood home. But he’d asked around in the day he’d been in Val Faim, and there was no hiding the truth of the wretchedness that had squandered the child he once knew.

ROSALIND: Her hand curves around his wrist and yanks it back toward her. The demand: don’t walk away from me, look at me, answer for your betrayal and do not think you can escape me this time. The defiant boast to Odeline or whatever gods Rosalind isn’t sure exist at all: I won’t be forgotten again.

SAINTE: Although, in a way, really, so many places feel sacred to Sainte. Not the way the tomb is, but it isn’t the only place she prays. She prays in her little room above the Lion’s Mane, in the Empressian Gardens where she meets Michel. In the palace ballroom, silently, for a man lies dead on the floor. Everywhere is sacred, really, if prayer is what makes it that way.

SAVATIER: It’s not that he doesn’t think her unworthy of worship; more that blind adulation is the least she deserves. She should be known beyond her sacrifice, beyond her tragedy, her posthumous triumph. How very like Jaster, to deify and discard the rest.

SIDONIE: You win, Liane says, and the admission feels more like a trap. Sidonie’s breath catches again, helplessly, as it the spymaster’s words seem to curl around her throat with the intent to squeeze. “What?” she says, having finally found her voice in spite of the way her lower jaw just barely trembles under Liane’s touch. Sidonie detests the ways in which her body so easily betrays itself, but she continues, “I stopped begging for you long ago.”

VIOLAINE: “I've been to plenty of commoner households, for you information. And you aren't exactly what I would delineate a textbook commoner, monsieur chevalier,” Violaine coos, drawing out his title melodramatically. “Gauging the reach of someone’s power is easy— just see how quickly information spreads about them throughout the nobility. Real or not real.”

YVON: If there was a way to describe this difference, Yvon did not know it because Yvon simply did not think of it. The exactitude of muscle memory is a strange and wonderful thing. Often it exceeds even what a mind can hold. 

ZHENYA: Seven days had trailed by in a chain of ruinous, revelrous events, and as could be expected of any occasion marking a grand ruler’s legacy, blood had at one point threaded itself into the links -- like rot as it made its inevitable slither through ancient roots. A cancerous spread that could only ever halt at the severing of its foundation. As such, Zhenya anticipated that the brutish bloodletting would go on to pave the way for the remainder of Queen Calandre’s celebration, quelled by nothing other than the decisive end of its path. Indeed, nothing glorious was ever unsullied.

[pastelsandpining]

I’ll Be Home (Coming Home After Being Away)

The seventh prompt in 12 Days of Christmas by @zelink-prompts​ | Prequel

Prompt List

Words: 4596

Summary: So, this is actually a sequel to tomorrow’s prompt but can be read separately?? I guess?? The rundown is that Link left years ago to search for his fairy and never returned. Zelda tried not to lose hope. He made her a promise, after all.

Ocarina of Time, child timeline?? Idk how the timelines work y’all please

Zelink-mas 2020  l  Masterlist 

“Your gown is ready, your highness.”

“Thank you,” Zelda answered, nodding in the direction of her lady-in-waiting. “I’ll be there shortly.”

When the door shut behind her, the princess turned her gaze back to the long dried flower. She set it carefully onto the page with the others and slowly closed the book, ensuring no petals or leaves crumbled in the process. The book was placed back on the shelf, right next to the Ocarina of Time and a dust-covered medal imprinted with the crest of Hyrule. She had no time to gaze at the reminders of her childhood this afternoon, because there was beckoning from all directions that insisted on getting her ready in time.

Zelda stepped through the doors of the washroom, where she was pleasantly surprised to see the water was still warm. A wash of her hair and a soap of lavender scent would treat her well and be pleasant to anyone in close proximity. She could not deny her maidens the credit--they always went above and beyond to make sure she was presentable in every fashion. A grand event called for twice the effort, so the princess sat without complaint in her robe as they brushed gentle powders over her face. 

“Are you excited, Princess?” asked a maiden as she painted a color onto Zelda’s closed eyelids. “I hear there are princes from outside of Hyrule coming to get a glimpse of you.”

“Oh, is that so? I hope one takes a liking to you, Elizabeth,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap. “You would fare well with royalty.”

“You’re too kind,” Elizabeth said, and Zelda could hear the blush on her cheeks. “No man would notice me.”

“Hold yourself high,” Zelda encouraged as she pried her eyes open. “Everyone is deserving of love and happiness.”

“Do you hope to find love tonight?” asked the maiden behind her, who was busy twisting her hair into an elegant knot. 

“I believe that whatever is fated will happen in time. If that time is tonight, then so be it.” It was a far better answer than telling them she had found love long ago and had no intentions of finding it again. 

Zelda could hardly blame the maidens for their excited chatter and shared whispers. She pretended not to notice them, because their one form of entertainment was to gossip. Anyone who gossiped with ill intention was not worth troubling herself with, and while they were far from it, she didn’t pay any mind to them. It was not her business what anyone said about her, or about the anticipated guests, or about themselves. She had other matters to concern herself with.

An hour had passed by, and she was finally permitted to stand from the chair and move to the next room. A silken slip hugged her form and protected her skin from the rough edges of the corset. There weren’t many layers, but she was still grateful for the design of the dress. 

It was a soft pink, a color to match the rose on her cheeks and paint on her lips. The skirt consisted of multiple layers that ruffled out into a pattern at the bottom. There were lace and glittering jewels sewed onto the bodice that caught the light. The neck cut low, but not low enough to be anything but modest. The top of her sleeves were rather poufy and the rest poured off in pink streams, but they were transparent and light. It fit her well.

The crown on her head, golden and sparkling with precious rubies made her look like a blossoming queen. She would turn heads tonight, more so than usual, and it was all thanks to her dressmaker and maidens. But she was already exhausted, and the ball hadn’t even begun. 

Yet she was being escorted through the halls of the castle and steered towards the ballroom, which was already filling up with people. She could see that the maidens were right--there were people from everywhere, even outside of Hyrule. She wondered just how many suitors her father had contacted.

She supposed she would find out shortly, because her father had gathered the attention of the crowd and was now introducing her. With no more room to run, Zelda stepped out from the archway and down the stairs. The king took her hands and pulled her in for a kiss, and she had to fight back a smile.

“I’m not married yet, father,” she said, reaching up a hand to brush away a tear from his cheek.

“No,” he agreed and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You really do look like your mother.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied with a laugh. “It’s not too late to call them off. I could refuse to marry, stay with you.”

It was the king’s turn to laugh as he leaned his forehead to hers.

“Go,” he urged. 

She pulled her hands free and pressed a kiss to his cheek before gathering her skirts and descending into the crowd. Various diplomats were on her immediately, greeting her and complimenting her and talking her into a frenzy about their own nations and accomplishments, no doubt trying to impress her. All she could do was smile and nod and pretend she was interested until another person came along to sweep her away.

“My father owns quite the bit of land,” a lord whose name she’d forgotten boasted as he twirled her across the floor. “It could be an advantage for both kingdoms.”

“Yes,” Zelda agreed, but she didn’t voice her knowledge of where this was going. The kingdoms were far enough apart that they’d try to force her to move and give up the rule of Hyrule--which was not an option as far as she was concerned. So when the next person cut in for a dance, she was more than willing to switch partners.

“I hear Hyrule has been at the edge of not one, but two civil wars within the past century. I have no room to suggest anything, but I can offer some tactics that would help convince the provinces to obey,” said a prince from a nation she’d never heard of. 

“Hyrule has managed quite well on our own,” Zelda replied, fighting to keep the bite out of her voice. “But thank you. Should we need assistance again, we will be sure to reach out.”

“My father believes in discipline. That’s the only way to make a child listen,” continued the prince, as if he hadn’t heard a word she said.

“I’ve found that competent parents can make do without the use of force,” she stated simply and used a passing server with a tray of wine to make her escape. She was not technically of age to be drinking, but no one knew that as far as she was aware, and if the night was going to continue like this, then a glass or two wouldn’t hurt.

She was happy to find the wine dry but sweet, and she recognized the danger of something so tasty. While a duke rambled away to her, she reluctantly reduced her number of glasses to one for the night. The last thing she needed was for these men to think she was under any sort of influence.

When she was granted a moment to herself again, Zelda ducked further into the crowd until she found someone familiar to her. Nabooru, the not-so-new Gerudo chief, was in attendance, dressed in glittering Gerudo jewels.

“Princess,” greeted Nabooru with her arms open for a hug. “You look as lovely as a rose.”

“It’s lovely to see you again. How is Gerudo Valley fairing?” Zelda asked, taking caution not to spill her drink during the hug.

“Very well, thanks to you. The funds your father lent us were enough to not only build a proper town, but to conduct repairs to the Desert Colossus. With Impa’s consistent transport of food and resources, we’ve managed to turn ourselves around.”

“It does no good to dwell on the past. We can only own up to our mistakes and move forwards from here. Had it not been for our mistreatment of the Gerudo in the first place, Ganondorf would never have felt the need to avenge the pride lost in the civil war.”

“Lighten up, kid,” Nabooru said with a grin. “Things are looking up. Have you found a suitor to your liking yet?”

“Hardly,” Zelda replied, leaning closer as she lowered her voice. “The men I’ve spoken to so far are so full of arrogance and a lust for power.”

“That’s men for you,” Nabooru answered as she took a seat at a table. Zelda smiled and slid into the seat across from her, setting her glass down on the white tablecloth. “Don’t let any of them fool you. Ganondorf had a winning smile and the charm of a king, but look what he truly turned out to be.”

“For all of your skill and beauty, I cannot believe you settled for him.”

“Hey, Gerudo men are in very limited supply. When you’re a naïve girl, a powerful man giving you attention is enough to cloud your mind. I’m happy you’re able to see through that.”

“I would offer to marry you if you were younger,” Zelda joked as she picked up her wine to take another sip. “If any of your warriors are available and interested, I’d be more than happy to comply.”

Nabooru laughed.

“It’s going that badly, huh?” 

“I’ve danced with at least eight men so far tonight, and I think three of them were named ‘Edward’,” Zelda whispered with a laugh of her own. 

“I don’t think you’re one to talk, Princess. Which ‘Zelda’ are you again? The thirtieth? The forty-seventh?”

Zelda rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t reply because it would seem her time was up. There was a prince who spoke from besides her with an “I’m sorry to interrupt” (oh, he’d better be) and a request to dance.

“Find your prince charming,” Nabooru said, waving Zelda away with her hand. The princess gave her friend a playful glare as she took the prince’s hand and was pulled back towards the center of the ballroom.

“Might I ask who requested my hand in dance?” she asked with a polite smile. Now that she was closer, this prince seemed younger than her. Not by much, but by enough for her to be a little taller than him.

“My name is Prince Henry of the Liles Empire, just off the north coast of Hyrule,” he replied. “It’s a pleasure to see your beauty up close.”

“Likewise,” she said, though she hardly meant it. He was not bad on the eyes, but those who approached her with comments on her appearance struck her as vain and, well, in it for just that. She could be reading them wrong of course, but she’d learned how to navigate her instincts and properly react after Ganondorf’s plan had been thwarted. 

“If I’m being honest, I do not know how to hold a proper conversation with a lady such as yourself,” stated Henry as he led them in a circle. 

“I could not tell,” she replied with a patient and gentle smile. 

“My mother convinced me to ask you to dance. She believes an alliance would benefit our kingdoms.”

“A smart lady. Many of the others here tonight have said the same thing.”

“I don’t want to marry, though. You’re beautiful and kind, but I..” 

Zelda gave the poor boy’s hand a squeeze. She knew his position quite well, if she was reading him correctly. All people had their secrets and anxieties. She would likely never see him again, so she felt she could be his peace, even if only for a moment.

“It’s an unpleasant position to be in,” she supplied, twirling him in the direction of a smaller crowd.

“It is. I couldn’t force myself to love anyone else.”

“Oh? Do you have someone in mind?” 

A blush crossed the young boy’s face, but he looked eager to tell someone. He was the first of the night not interested in her or her land, so she was more than happy to indulge him.

“A kitchen girl back in my kingdom. She came to deliver breakfast one day when my servant fell ill and spilled tea on me.”

“Ah, a fairytale meeting,” Zelda replied with a small laugh.

“She’s beautiful. But my parents would never hear of it.”

“Stay true to your heart. I was always told that those fated to be together will find each other in time. To those who won’t agree, I say if you aren’t happy, how could you ever be expected to make a kingdom happy?

“They told me you were wise, but you speak as if you know the pain yourself.”

Zelda offered a sad smile. Perhaps one glass had been too many, because she was about to bare her soul to this young prince she’d met only minutes ago.

“I love a boy from my childhood,” she told him, cracking open old scars. “A little boy from the forest who helped me catch a tyrant. He disappeared years ago and no one has seen him since.”

“I’m sorry, Princess.”

“If I may offer advice, Prince Henry, tell your kitchen girl properly that you love her. But take care of your heart. It’s the only one you have.”

She tried to spend as much time around Prince Henry as possible. She found him pleasant company and he could be quite silly, but after an hour, the young prince could no longer keep the other suitors at bay. She was whisked away again, and she was growing very tired. 

Her feet were sore in her heels, and her corset felt tighter with every tick closer to midnight. Yet she wasn’t dismissed yet, and she was determined to make it through this. No one could say she hadn’t tried.

Zelda searched the crowd for Nabooru again, longing for another conversation with a competent person, but she’d hardly taken two steps before another voice interrupted her.

“Princess Zelda, might I request a dance?”

She held back a sigh and plastered yet another polite smile on her lips as she turned, but she was not a good enough actor to keep it from slipping away. Her eyes widened and she took a step back, because she was convinced for a moment that she was dreaming.

His eyes were a striking blue, a color she’d accustomed herself with long ago. His smile was charming instead of crooked, but his dimples were just the same. He was taller now and he lacked the forest color he once ran around in, but something about him told her he hadn’t changed that much at all.

“Link..?” she whispered out, then clamped her hands over her mouth like she was afraid of someone hearing her. A breeze slipped past them when a couple whizzed by, but that wasn’t why she was trembling.

“I realize I’m six years late, and I apologize,” he replied, his cheeks reddening with shame. “But I made a promise to you, and I couldn’t bear to break it.”

“You..” For all of her wise words throughout the night, she found it very hard to speak. She took a hesitant step forward, then lifted her hand. Her fingertips brushed over his cheek and once she knew he was solid, she pressed her palm against his skin. He was warm beneath her touch. Warm enough to feel alive. “Is it really you..?”

“Yes,” he answered, his voice soft and filled with more emotion than she’d ever heard it before. He placed his hand over her own, making her skin burn under his touch, but she couldn’t pull away.

For a moment, all she could do was look at him. She looked at his eyes, took in his face and his features, and tried to blink the stinging away. 

Perhaps the whole ballroom was watching, but Zelda dropped her hand and instead wrapped her arms wordlessly around his shoulders. She buried her face in his neck and squeezed her eyes shut as the first of the sobs escaped her. His arms circled around her waist and held her close, but it did nothing to stop the trembling. He was not the child she hugged all those years ago, but he still felt so familiar.

“Can.. can we go-“ She couldn’t finish her question.

She was aware of the scene she was making, and she didn’t want to embarrass her father any further, so she bit back another sob and kept her head down as Link led her out of the ballroom and onto a nearby balcony. The fresh air was icy on her skin and wet cheeks, but he took her face so gently into his hands that she felt like she would melt.

“I missed you,” he spoke. It was no louder than a whisper, but it reached volumes that deafened her to everything else. All she could do was hug him tight and cry harder.

“Goddesses, Link, I— where did you go?” she asked when she caught her breath again.

“Termina,” he replied. “I didn’t mean to be gone for so long, but they needed help.”

She’d never heard of it before, but she didn’t care because he was here. 

“I thought.. I didn’t know if you were even alive.” But her love for adventure hadn’t changed and she sat him on a bench as she demanded, “Tell me everything.”

And so he did. He told her of the troublesome Skullkid and the malevolent mask. He told her of the overhanging moon that threatened to fall, and of the trials he had to overcome. He told her of the masks he collected and of the god he had to fight. And Zelda’s heart ached for her hero who could not catch a break. Trauma followed him everywhere he went, and he hadn’t even found Navi. 

“Link.. I’m so sorry,” she said, gripping his hands tighter. “You’ve gone through so much..”

“It’s over,” he assured her. “Or at least, I hope.”

“I couldn’t imagine. I’m so happy you’re safe. Oh, you’ve grown so much..”

“And you look every bit the princess you were always meant to be.”

Zelda laughed, bubbly and weak, and buried her face in her hands.

“Goddesses, I missed you,” she murmured and wiped at her eyes. How he could still call her beautiful when she looked a mess, she didn’t know. 

“I made a pinky promise. Besides, I recall you telling me you’d be very mad at me if I didn’t come back and I don’t think I could live with that.” 

She lifted her head and sniffled.

“Well, you certainly took your time,” she joked and brushed some hair from his eyes.

“I hope this can make up for it.” Link pulled a box from his pocket and carefully pried it open. A sparkling blue jewel in the shape of a teardrop hung from a silver chain. It was almost glowing against the black velvet cushion.

“It’s lovely,” she breathed, running her fingers gently over the stone.

“It’s a Moon’s Tear,” he explained as he lifted it from the box. 

“From the falling moon?” she asked. Link gestured for her to turn around, so she shifted on the bench and set her back to him. 

“Clever girl,” he replied. She could practically hear the smile on his face.

The jewel was cold against her skin, but Link’s fingertips brushing the back of her neck as he clamped the necklace is what made her shiver. 

“You’re quite ridiculous, I hope you know that,” she said as she turned to face him again.

“It’s no ring,” he answered and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “But I hope it’ll do.”

Zelda blinked in confusion, fiddling with the Moon’s Tear as she watched him gather his thoughts.

“A ring?” she asked quietly.

“I.. promised to marry you when I got back. You’re perfectly allowed to decline, of course. I wouldn’t— I mean-.. is this weird?”

Her cheeks burned as she burst into a fit of giggles, pressing a hand over her mouth to muffle them. Link looked at her, flushed with embarrassment, and soon he was laughing too. The innocent promise of two children had lasted over years of distance, even if it was more of humor than anything else now that they were older. She leaned into him, holding her stomach as her muscles grew tighter. Goddesses, she missed his laugh so much. Six long years were not enough to change him at all. 

When their laughter quieted, Zelda lifted her head and took his face into her hands. He smiled at her, sending her head spinning.

“I wasn’t sure you’d ever return,” she whispered as she ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, relishing in his warmth and presence. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps she was being too forward—she just got him back and would rather not lose him again. So she reluctantly pulled her hands back to herself and fiddled with the necklace again.

“There were times I didn’t think I would,” he admitted. With the stories he recounted, she believed him. And she was beginning to understand the Princess’s decision to send him back in time in the first place. But it didn’t seem like he was fated to have an easy existence. 

“I’m sorry your search was in vain.” And even that wasn’t enough, but what could she offer him? What words could she say to him that could quell the sadness running deep in his veins, betrayed by his eyes despite how happy he looked to be back. For all the wisdom she held in her blood, she knew no answer. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Link softly, turning his gaze on her. The more she looked at him, the harder it was to maintain the poise she’d so very recently returned her hold on. So she looked away with a small smile and tilted her head to gaze up at the stars. 

“What would you say?” she asked, tracing the constellations painting the sky with her eyes. A thousand stories came with those stars, stories about their past and their future, stories about fate and things beyond their understanding. She always felt that the stars knew and could see everything, and hiding was a naïve comfort they were never really granted. Even when they were children, throwing themselves under a blanket and giggling, the stars could see everything--even the secrets they didn’t truly have. They had known all along what would become of her and of the Hero of Time. She didn’t know if she pitied the stars or envied them.

“I would say anything that leads me back to you is more than worth it.”

Zelda turned her eyes to him, where she found nothing but sincerity and a tired smile. She could remember a childish curiosity whenever he looked at her, but she couldn’t quite name the gaze his eyes held now. Heat blossomed over her cheeks again and with a laugh, she ducked her head.

“Welcome home, Hero,” she said as she shook her head. “I hope you’re able to find the life of peace you deserve.”

“To be honest, Princess, I think a life of peace would drive me to the brink of sanity. I didn’t return with the hopes of finding it. I don’t… I don’t think I’d even want it.”

There was no hiding the mix of confusion and surprise and concern that took over her features upon hearing his words. A life of peace did not interest him? She wondered for a moment whether he was already past the threshold of sanity, or if he’d simply left his mind in Termina.

“Then,” she began, treading lightly over what could possibly be dangerous waters, “what is it that you want?”

“I want a life by your side.” His cheeks were as pink as hers under the moonlight, but it could very well have been just an effect of the bitter cold. “I know we’re not kids anymore and.. and a lot has changed. But if I could be even just in your service, I would be satisfied.”

“You owe nothing more to Hyrule,” Zelda spoke quickly, taking back all sense of personal space as she held his cheek again. “You’ve done more for us than we could ever begin to thank you for. You reap scars and trauma we can’t even begin to imagine. We are happy to have you back, of course, but you needn’t swear your life to any more trouble, Link.”

“Serving you would be of no trouble at all, Princess.” His hands wrapped gently around hers, pulling it from his skin, and he brought her knuckles to his lips instead. His warm breath fanned over her skin and for the first time of the evening, she did not regret the gloveless design of her outfit.

She could hear her own words, hypocritical and laughable, pouring from her lips when she told little Prince Henry to follow his heart and to hell with those who disagreed. It was much harder to take her own advice--like it was a bitter medicine that brought her heart into her throat and made her tremble. But all she could see was the little forest boy giving her one last wave, so much alike with the man who sat before her now. Her heart lurched.

“I love you,” she said, hardly louder than the gentle breeze that circled them. “And I know that I’m not your Zelda--the Zelda you first defended Hyrule for-”

“You are every bit the same Zelda. The only difference is this time, we don’t have to say goodbye. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t,” she begged, gripping his hands tighter.

“Then let me stay with you.” 

He freed a hand and cradled her face. She leaned into his touch, into the warmth that batted away the cold, into the feeling that he really was here. And then he was leaning forwards, his breath fanning over her lips, and she closed the space between them with an eagerness that Impa would refer to as “unladylike”. His lips were soft and their kiss was slow and gentle, fanning a spark so that it blazed into a flame. In the years she had spent imagining how this reunion might go, she never quite got the magic of it right. It felt strong and peaceful, like something old and practiced but new and exciting all at once. And when they parted, Zelda was quick to recall that silly little promise.

“You meant to ask for knighthood,” she stated, a giddy feeling flooding her at the idea. “But how would you feel about prince consort?”

It was Link’s turn to laugh, and she laughed too as she closed a hand around the Moon’s Tear necklace glowing against her skin. Of course, they had a while to catch up on before any official announcement could be made. They were not granted the opportunity to grow into their relationship, and now was a better time than any to get started. 

Her Hero had returned, and Zelda quite liked the idea of never having to face any of the men who tried to win her hand ever again. Apparently, it was made evident enough by their return to the ballroom floor. 

Link had asked for a dance, after all. Who was she to deny him after so long?

[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER SIX: PICKUP TRUCK THOUGHTS

SUMMARY: Lynn takes a moment of solitude to put things into perspective, all thanks to a friend’s truck and some clouds. WORD COUNT: 2.8k NOTE: Not me falling of the face of the internet for a couple months. Whoops! WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

"YOU REALIZE IT'S A SERIOUS problem at this point, right?"

"At least it's not crack."

The two familiar voices catch both mine and Gabe's attention. With the doors open, legs sprawled out wherever they're comfy, and some early 2000s alternative music jamming from the speakers, we genuinely look like high school delinquents. All we're missing is a cigarette hanging from our lips.

My back aches as I pry my upper half to sit up straight, a chorus of popping following my movement. I brightly grin at River and Ellie and my feet reach the black pavement. It appears Ellie just rolled her eyes at River's sassy remark. I begin to ask what they were talking about before I notice something being shoved back in the boy's backpack: his new Obi-Wan Kenobi lightsaber. Part of me isn't surprised, but the other half is wondering what reason he has to carry it around at school. Regardless of the reason, we all have our quirks: it took me until the eighth grade to leave my replica of Harry Potter's wand at home.

Geeky things, I guess?

I can only guess what River was telling Ellie when it comes to his devotion to Star Wars. There isn't an existing number to count how often River and I find ourselves on the topic of space battles and the Skywalkers.

"What's up, friendos?" I ask as they draw closer. A sudden chilly breeze lifts my hair and bumps along my skin. It's almost a frustrating sensation, it being the middle of August. It looks like I'm the only one who feels it, as my teeth are the only ones that chatter. Since my arms are tightly holding each other, I barely have time to react to Ellie's next reaction.

Ellie drags her feet dramatically until she goes limp in my arms. "I wanna go home and sleep."

I stumble back at the weight added, wriggling my arms to hold her steady. The last thing I need on the first day of school is a concussion. "Christ— well maybe if you get off, we can take you home."

River piles his backpack into the back of Gabe's truck, the loud thump startling Ellie, and looks at us with a confused stare. "Weren't– Weren't we supposed to hang out today?"

The girl in my arms rises to her feet, groaning. "Shit, I forgot. My mom said she wants me back home after school as soon as possible. You know, groundings and all."

"Next time, don't get into an accident." Gabe sends her a smirk.

Ellie narrows her eyes and mocks his response, crossing her arms and leaning on one leg. A small chortle parts my lips as I lean up against the truck next to River. After her bickering, Ellie continues. "Go get ice cream or something in my memory. I just have to get back before I'm killed, which should be any day now."

"I call your funeral playlist," I reply. Looking up while my fingers stroke my chin comically, I add, "A ton of 80s pop with a dash of Gaga?"

Booping my nose, Ellie smiles. "You know me too well."

We all file into Gabe's small truck— well, almost all of us. Since the truck is a three-seater and police like to patrol this area, there is always a sacrifice who gets to claim the back of the car. This time, it happens to be me. Once I was lying flat on my back, a blue tarp was pulled over my body, coming right above my nose. Oh, the perks of old, short pick-up trucks roaming a town with endless police...

Sliding open the window, Gabe's voice calls out. "You good back there?"

"Yeah, I'm fucking peachy," I reply.

There's the sound of laughter before the engine kicks on. At that moment, my paranoia starts to kick in, starting with my heart beating fast in my chest and palms getting sweaty. Not once have any of us gotten caught, but I can't help but think the day we are, it's my ass going to jail. I've never bothered to look at the laws relating to seat belts in other states, but here, the law is highly enforced. Not only would I get fined and definitely put into a cell, but I have no doubt Gabe would endure the same fate.

Nice way to put yourself in one of these states, I chastise myself.

I almost groan, but I can't be sure if I'll cause one of the friends up front to worry. So, I exhale and inhale rhythmically like I was taught. Looking straight ahead, all I can see are blue skies and puffy white clouds. Occasionally, a tree or two will enter the scenery. I'm barely blinking as I try to put shapes to the clouds, some more impossible than others. Despite having an imaginative mind, the figures aren't creating a picture for me to follow.

I like to remember how easy it was as a child to create something out of nothing. An empty napkin roll wasn't just cardboard; it was a telescope that needed color. Our dolls weren't acting on our behalf; they were doing it themselves and showing us their lives. Every cloud wasn't just a random array of water droplets but rather, a visual story to be told. I want to know what causes all of us to lose that form of innocence. Ways of thinking like pessimism or optimism, that's easy: once too many shitty things start to happen more than the good, one is likely to form a biased view or vice versa. But, why do we stop playing with imaginary friends? Or act out intense battles on the playground? Even the smallest blip of innocence, like cloud-watching, becomes warped.

Sometimes, it's easy to pick out that moment in our own lives where we find ourselves becoming grown-ups and leaving childhood behind, but the shitty part is that it isn't just me or Ellie, River, or Gabe who go through trials. It's not just the kid who loses a parent or the girl who was taken advantage of. Everyone has their wars. And in the end, we lose, becoming a part of the system that inflicts these damages.

These damages I speak of tear us apart. They mold us into shapes beyond recognition. No longer a funny shape or a distorted animal in the sky, but dark, heavy, and so close to bursting. And when we finally let go, after all the waiting and rolling, we seem to explode, leaking and oozing our pain, our torment, us. And when it's over? What's left? I guess there are two options: remain on the ground to seep into further nothingness, or rise once more, only to break again, again, and again. But life is such torment and full of trials, is it not?

Funny how staring at a cloud can put life into perspective.

My brain is overrun by these thoughts that I don't even realize Gabe's truck is rolling to a stop. I finally take notice when car doors swing open then shut.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," River says leaning over the side of the truck to get a look at me.

Rolling my eyes with a grin, I swat at his shoulder, which misses as he recoils. "Shut up, loser." I sit up, tossing the tarp to the side as I move to stand. River smirks and offers his hands to help me down. Without hesitation I take them, swinging one leg over the side and the other following before I made a short leap to the ground. Because neither of us apparently can avoid embarrassment, we're both holding each other's hands after I land. A rosy blush spreads across his entire face— no doubt mine as well— before I take the initiative to lean backwards, focusing on Ellie who crawls from the side door.

"Speaking of losers," Gabe sighs. I can't help but feel the reddening in my cheeks, assuming this asshole is talking about River and me, but I notice he's looking at Ellie, now swinging her backpack around one shoulder in her driveway.

She notices that all of us are looking, causing her to freeze. "Why does everyone hate me today?"

I smile bringing her into a goofy hug. "We just miss you. Don't get into any more accidents, please?"

"Yeah, yeah," she snorts, hugging me back to the best of her ability, considering I have her arms pinned down at an odd angle. "Alright, leave my driveway before I actually get you guys killed."

Gabe, River, and I say our goodbyes before filing into the white truck, heading God-knows-where as a worn-down engine sparks to life. Looking over at River, who sits to my right in the passenger seat, I send him a glare that he doesn't see since his eyes are focused on what lies beyond the window— or lack thereof.

While his hair barely covers his neck, mine flows down to my mid-back, meaning having windows rolled all the way down and speeding down a highway won't lead to the best outcomes for my hair. But I can't complain too much: River's hair going crazy in the wind is both cute and a bit funny. A small smile graces my features before a thin lock of hair enters my lips.

Glancing over at the driver, I notice how only locks of hair toward the ends move slowly despite the windows rolled all the way down, as if the strands are wearing a shield against the wind. I wonder how Gabriel keeps his hair so still before making the dumbfounding realization that he wears that beanie 24/7 and who knows how long he goes without washing his perfect hair. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen the boy without the hat. I guarantee no one would recognize him without it.

"So, where are we heading?" Gabriel asks when we reach the stoplight before entering the populated part of town.

I exhale, leaning my head on the headrest of the seat. "Well, I for one could go for something frozen. Maybe a burger, too."

"Didn't you just eat lunch?" River asks, humorously smiling in my direction.

"And had coffee literally less than an hour ago," Gabe adds.

Sending a blank look to River (whose smile widens) then over to Gabe, his eyes never leaving the stretch of road ahead of him (at least one person in the group can do that), I huff, my eyes shutting closed and I bring my shoulders up into a shrug. "I don't know what you both have against me and my food and drink consumption, but you better knock it off."

There's a small hum of laughter to my right, sending a slight shiver down my neck. "If we left you alone for a week, there's no telling how much you'd put in your system," River tells me as if I don't know that already.

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, Bob and Jillian, I don't need you to berate me."

══════════════════

Twenty minutes later, the three of us find ourselves outside a burger joint. In one hand, I have a burger waiting to be devoured and in the other is a frozen strawberry lemonade. Nothing says summer like this combination. We're sitting the parking lot eating our meals, more specifically in the back of the truck. From my phone, I have a playlist plainly called "Chill" playing from the nearly-blown speakers.

"I never thought food could taste so good," I moan as the burger slides down my throat.

"You're acting like you haven't eaten in a week."

Sending Gabe an eye-roll, I reply, "It might as well have been."

There's a moment of silence before River brings up a topic not discussed in a couple weeks. "Do you guys wanna come over and jam for a bit sometime this week? We haven't done anything in a while."

One summer a few years back, the trio of us learned we can play different instruments. I have been playing the guitar and drums since I was younger, thanks to a musically gifted grandfather. Gabe and River both had a knack for guitar too, though Gabe had more experience with the bass guitar and River had some training with piano. While our jam sessions are nothing too serious, as none of us want to be in a band or write our own songs, it's become a fun and stress-reducing way to hang out when silence would otherwise fill the atmosphere. The last time, we figured out how to play the theme songs of our favorite movies using a ukulele and bongos. It was something I didn't need to hear, but I'm glad I did.

I nod my head. "Yeah, we can this weekend if we aren't being drowned in homework by that point."

Gabe also agrees with a nod, his mouth full of fries. "It's a maybe from me: Mom might need to borrow the truck since hers is wearing down."

River turns his dark brown eyes over to me, capturing an embarrassing scene as lettuce pokes between my stuffed lips. Great. "Well, I guess I can hang out with you if someone can't show."

While I playfully punch his arm, I send a look over to Gabe who hides a smirk in his straw. He catches me looking as River goes on about one of his classes. Sending me a wink, I narrow my eyes knowingly: his mom just got a brand new truck. Mr. Matchmaker goes back to this food, making a statement on how hot River's finance teacher is, causing the boy to make a very uncomfortable face.

Despite the long talks we shared in the back of Gabe's truck, I find myself zoning out hardcore once again. I can't figure out why exactly my mind had wondered, but I do know where. My thoughts go back to Trinity's face, remembering how she would sit next to me against the side of the truck the very few times she decided to make time for my friends. There's a ghost of warmth in my palm like fingers squeezing when the short snippet of a memory expels from deep inside my mind. I don't know why I thought of it. It just appeared, causing a droplet of woe to fill my gut.

Like my friends have told me before, I need to let this go. There's no use in holding on to something, or rather someone who isn't coming back, especially someone who was never good for me in the first place. Glancing up, I spy on River munching and talking with Gabe. A blush covers my cheeks when I remember how utterly embarrassing it was when I broke down in front of him over a stupid girl. He told me there are worse things to worry about.

"Like climate change?" I asked, sniffling into a pillow. I hope he washed it after that encounter. Hell, he needed to lysol everything down after my mopey ass walked through the place.

River smiled warmly at me, pulling me into a giant bear hug. Sometimes, I want to ask for one of those hugs again. "I was going to say people who like pineapple on pizza, but climate change is also a concern."

I remember crying not a second later, but that was due to the thought of polar bears facing extinction.

Contrary to knowing how wonderful my three best friends are, I'm also aware that there are certain things I can't share. I don't want to overbear them with my problems that should have been solved months ago. The fact that I'm still getting small flashbacks and thoughts of her is pathetic, and I'm aware of that fact. On the other hand, it isn't like my group of friends will give up and leave if I spill my guts, right? I shouldn't be scared of expression my thoughts, feelings, and emotions to my closest friends. And yet, here I sit, undecided on what to do.

Christ, do I need to get my priorities straight.

When my eyes break away from their trance, all I see is Gabe and River entering a heated discussion, about what I'm not sure. With my thoughts still in a bit of limbo, I'm shocked back to reality when they both leap from either side of the vehicle, rushing to pull items from their bags.

Under any other normal circumstance, it would be concerning to see two dudes arguing one moment then reaching into their bags the next. I'm willing to bet the next logical calculation for a stranger would have been to get away, fearing the queue for guns or knives. But I know these losers. Even if they are fighting or wanting to kill each other, there is only one way they can settle their differences.

"Soon, you will see the way of the Jedi," River exclaims while thrashing his blue lightsaber through the air.

"Shut the fuck up, you nerd!" Gabe flicks out a red lightsaber, taunting the other.

"Oh, my God," I say with no emotion in my tone, watching as red and blue shamelessly slash at each other in battery-produced light in a burger joint parking lot.

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