#the White City for the next half century

[edennill]

The Eagle's song in the Return of the King is so crazy when you look at it from the perspective of the people of Minas Tirith because -- that's an Eagle of Manwë right there, and this is decidedly not a common happening, and they're Gondorians, the know what it is. Like.

If Minas Tirith was my city and I wasn't there at the time I would be so very mad.

[ghouldump]

Just read your Armand fic and it was SO good, I was wondering if we could get a prequel or separate piece on vamp reader in the theatre?

Masquerade | Lestat x Reader

ෆ even with your horrific background, he fell deeply for your heart.

thank you, i enjoyed this very much. the fact that this is a month old is embarrassing. someone else requested loustat + Claudia w/ vamp reader and theater but i accidentally deleted it. also in this Lestat hasn't had Akasha’s blood yet.

“Mr. De Lioncourt, you’re on in five,” the stage director said nervously, peaking into the dressing room.

Staring into the mirror, he couldn’t stop the heavy weight on his lifeless core. Perhaps it was due to the homage he had been contemplating.

Fixing his soft hair, he stood, adjusting the half-buttoned top. Taking large steps, his walk emitted confidence, his head held high, in his mind, a recessed warfare.

The piercing screaming became louder as he moved closer to the stage. After months of traveling and backlash from other vampires, as well as the media, he was finally at his last show of the world tour.

“Lestat! I love you,” he could hear his fans screaming.

Smirking, he chuckled, while his thoughts drifted to the ancient days, enjoying the sight of mortals marveling at his presence. In Paris, the city adored him with a love so great, while also managing to shred his heart into pieces. Stopping next to the backstage staff, one of them held the box, protecting the precious relic of his. Opening the lock, he carefully placed the delicate mask on his face.

Holding his head elevated, he closed his eyes, it all seemed like only a little while ago when he met the one who would make him fall deeply in love, through music.

“Y/n, do you have any new songs written? We will be having a special guest joining us tomorrow,” Armand asked, as you slowly met his eyes.

“Yes, I’ve made a few ideas,” you nodded, timidly.

“May I see them?” He asked you, smiling as you hopped out of your seat, handing him the papers with haste.

“Thank you, my love,” he told you, leaning to place a soft kiss onto your lips.

“You’re welcome,” you nodded.

“The others will be hunting later, you are free to join them,” he said, reaching for your veil, and covering your face, before walking away.

Once Armand was out of sight, you slowly sat back down, your fingertips lightly brushing against the piano keys. Humming the melody, you smiled, knowing he would be satisfied with the song that went beautifully in his play.

He was a few decades away from being two centuries old when you first met. In a sideshow, you were the most popular act of the next night. The circus was traveling throughout Europe when they finally arrived in Paris. ‘Come and see the Devil’s Mark’, they called out, catching the interest of people passing. Inside the large tint, they'd gasp at the sight, confused by the sight.

“Why does she have that on her head?”

“She was kissed by the devil himself, and it left her with the face of a monster, Y/n, entertain your guest,” hearing the sound of the whip cracking, your fingers moved on their own, against the stringed instrument.

A few left out of boredom, some through peanuts at you, while others through coins. You were seen as nothing more than a show, no more than the animals kept. Although you knew better than to act against them, this place, these people, they were all you'd ever known.

Suddenly, a scream broke out, filled with agony, others rushed out, wanting to either get away or find out what was happening. You could see the shadow of people, running further away, some of them getting tackled, screeching for help. When the man came into the tint, your trainer, backed away, turning to run, before the man quickly killed him.

Your eyes widened, seeing the man move quicker than the blink of an eye. Lifting his head, he looked your way, and instantly, he was in front of the cage, tearing the door off. Staring at him, you watched his milky white teeth, dark red blood covering his mouth, and icy blue eyes.

Slowly moving to the ground, he tilted his head at you, before ripping the sack from your head. Immediately, you turned your face, but he grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him.

“This face is something else,” he laughed. Moving his hand, covering the left side of your face, his grin widened.

“You aren't so bad on the eyes, as long as this side is covered, maybe I should keep you, how old are you?” he asked, you struggled to understand him, through his thick broken English.

“18”

“Beautiful and you want to die?” he smiled, listening to your thoughts, the entire time you had been bracing yourself, waiting for the final blow to take you out of this life and into the next.

“Yes,” you admitted. Stiffening as he caressed your cheek with his glass-like nail.

“Those who love their life will lose it, and those who hate this life gain anew, your greatness will make up for the misery this face has brought you,” he told you before his fangs sank into your neck. Draining every ounce, you could hear your heartbeat escaping your body, as you weakened. Pulling away, he cut his wrist, pressing it against your mouth for you to drink.

“Do you have a name, child?” he asked you, as he pulled his arm away.

“Y/n,” you mumbled, lying on the ground, your stomach was beginning to churn.

“My name is Nicolas, and I am your maker,” he smiled at you, as you began groaning.

“Nicolas, is there a reason you're hunting in territory that isn't yours?” hearing the voice, he turned around, facing the brown man, or boy, he couldn't tell from the youthful face.

“What are you talking about?” Nicolas asked, frowning.

“My coven resides here and you have been wreaking havoc, never once making your presence known, it is punishable by death,” the man explained, meanwhile, you began puking up your insides.

“My apologies, I could sense others nearby, but it didn't cross my mind that it could be a coven-

“You are careless, to kill by the hundreds out in the open and thoughtlessly create a fledgling, you are unworthy of the gift, and a threat,” he said, fire appearing in his hand, before Nicolas was set ablaze.

Dropping to his knees, you watched as he turned into ash before he could completely hit the ground. Wiping the vomit from your mouth, your maker, whoever he was, was now gone. Armand’s gaze went to you, and lifting from the ground, he floated to you.

While his face held no emotion, he thought of himself, and his past, feeling a bit of compassion for you.

“Would you like to join our coven?” he asked you. Nodding, you didn't know what you had become, whatever Nicolas was, but you knew you didn't want the same fate from this man.

“Then come along, we will find a place for you in the theater,” he said, furrowing his eyebrows as you grabbed the sack, placing it onto your head. Slowly standing, you felt like a new creation, your head lowered under the man’s gaze.

“You will feel very hungry, but I will show you how to hunt adequately, what is your name?” he asked.

“Y/n,” you whispered.

“I am Armand, come now, the others are waiting,” he said, turning as you attempted to keep up with his steps.

Armand was not only the coven’s leader, but the director of a popular theater. Humans came nearly every night to them all, everyone having specific roles. The others weren't the nicest to you, but they also weren't mean. You stayed to yourself, and they let you be.

It wasn't until one night, the theater was closed, and you were supposed to be cleaning, everyone had left for hunting. Cleaning each seat, you scrubbed any dried food under the chairs. Humming lowly, you couldn't get a certain tune from an earlier play from your mind. Making up your own lyrics, you continued humming the melody. Standing from your knees, you jumped, seeing Armand standing on the stage.

“That was you singing?” he asked, surprised.

“I-I’m sorry,” you cowered.

“I never asked, why you wear this?” he motioned at the sack.

“I was born different, no real reason, my old trainer, Agnes, said I was probably kissed by the devil,” you said.

“May I see your face?”

“I don't kn-

“Please?” he asked. It was the first time I heard the word, someone saying it to you or even coming from Armand’s mouth.

Sighing, you pulled it off, shutting your eyes, bracing for the nefarious critiques. However, he didn't say anything, his hand softly holding your jaw. The entire left side of your face was in short observations, scarily scarred. Briefly after birth, you had been in a terrible incident, leaving the left side of your face comparable to a healed fourth-degree burn.

“This isn't as horrible as you make it out to be, and to be wearing this old sack on your head,” he told you, grinning.

“I don't want to scare anyone,” you told him.

“I think that is scarier than your face, you obviously didn't hear it enough, but you are beautiful with an angelic voice, would you like to be in the play?” he asked.

“I don't feel comfortable-

“If we found a way around that, would you be willing?” he asked, smiling as you, hesitantly nodded.

And so, he stuck to his word, surprising you with your very own custom masquerade mask. Fitting perfectly against the side of your face, while leaving the other side free. You felt more confident with the mask, as it hid that side of you. Soon after, Armand introduced the veil to you, along with the equally theatrical dress.

His reasoning, he said he would make you the star of the stage, without anyone pointing out the mask or having questions about your face underneath. You went along with his words, trusting him, and onward with practicing the lines.

The show was a captivating success, with roses being thrown at you, along with whistles and claps. Bowing, you thanked everyone, waving your gloved hands. Later that night, when you were helping clean up, Armand scared you.

Sneaking up on you, he congratulated you, while you blushed, your face burning profusely. Praising his judgment, you thanked him, before he kissed you. Ending your night in Armand’s coffin wasn't a part of your plans, but it seemed right.

Your relationship, despite blossoming, was unconventional. You acknowledged it, overhearing a few coven members gossip about you. In your eyes, Armand became your idol, he taught you new abilities, helped learn new instruments, and provided intimacy. You eventually recognized that he wasn't as serious about you, as you were about him, but rather possessive.

He forbade you to form any other companionships, persuading you to wear your stage costume continuously. While a piece of you was hurt by these actions, you had no experience before him, and were sure you would have none after, so naturally you accepted his terms.

Now over a century since then, you remained at Armand’s side, being the lead vocalist in nearly all the the plays. If only you knew, how much things would change in a matter of months.

Standing from the piano, you went to your coffin, the others would be returning soon, and the sun would be rising. You were interested in seeing the special guest Armand spoke of, but you would have to wait and see.

“What are you doing? Use your fucking brain?” you could hear Armand yelling at the coven members. They were setting up the stage, as he stood in front of the chairs.

You sat alone in a booth, far off, a small xylophone in your lap. Tapping each key, you hummed the tune of your song. Opening your mouth, you began to sing lowly, your eyes widening as you felt a gust of wind behind you.

“Is this an original piece? It sounds lovely,” the voice said, making you turn around, revealing the handsome man. Lofty, blonde, sharp jawline, full lips, you had never seen him before.

“I-yes,” you said, moving your eyes to floor, as he squinted trying to catch a glimpse of your face.

“Lestat,” Armand called out, turning to face the two of you.

“I told you I’d come,” The man named Lestat said, a smirk in place, as he bowed.

“And you are?” he asked you.

“Busy, Y/n, go read over your lines,” Armand said, watching as you nodded, appearing in front of him, accepting the papers from his hand, and disappearing into his office.

“Keeping her to yourself?” Lestat asked, tilting his head.

“Y/n is a century older than you, she isn't interested in a newborn like yourself,” Armand grinned at him.

“But you are,” he said, making the older vampire roll his eyes, walking to continue making preparations.

You could feel the eyes of Lestat on you, as it was time for you to come from Armand’s office. You never had actual words for the play, rather allowing your singing to move the audience. The others complained and muttered that it was Armand’s way of not forcing you into reciting with everyone.

Sitting on the prop, you looked towards Armand, as the curtains opened. Singing to him, for the people, is how you always looked at it. He smirked in pride, satisfied with how everything played out. Your role, the grim reaper, serenading your victims as they pleaded with the audience to save them. Finally, death came to collect, the coven members attacked their prey, while the crowd cheered loudly for you.

Bowing your head, you waved at everyone, as the curtain closed. The show was now over, and it was time to hunt. You didn't exactly hunt with the coven, despite everyone sticking together like a pack. Even after over a hundred years, you didn't feel confident to lift your veil around anyone, except your targets. Armand was a bit lenient, letting you stray away from the others.

Watching the young man leave the bar, you followed him, leaving a bit of distance between the two of you. He was beautiful, doll-like, with youthful features on his glowy skin. The further he walked, the more empty the area became. Slowly lifting your veil, as he approached a nearby alley, you attacked, dragging him into the darkness. As his body went limp, the flames appeared in your hand, before you burned his body.

“Did Armand teach you how to do that? Is he your maker?” you heard as you covered your face, turning to face Lestat.

“Yes and No,” you said, going to past him, when he blocked your way.

“Why do you cover your face? Like…a bride,” he smirked.

“Armand will be expecting me back”

“With a voice as beautiful as yours, you shouldn't hide your face, everyone should see the countenance behind the magnificent voice-

“Y/n,” Armand stood behind Lestat, slowly walking around him.

“Oh, I think he's jealous Y/n, he wants to keep you locked away for himself,” Lestat told you, as you approached Armand.

“Meet with the others, straight to your coffins,” he instructed, reaching for your cheek. Nodding, you kept your head down, leaving as quickly as possible.

As you closed your coffin, comfortable, mask off, you smiled, thinking of Lestat. He was carefree, he didn't care about rules, and wasn't scared of anyone, or anything. If only you could be like him, maybe one day.

“Everyone get in your positions,” Sam ordered, as everyone ran around.

Armand was away for business, meaning you had the night off until he returned. You never complained, accepting the rare days, and watching the plays from Armand’s booth. Sitting comfortably, you smiled as the lights dimmed.

“Hello, ma chérie,” you heard, a hand pressing against the veil to stop you from gasping.

“You frightened me,” you mumbled.

“Shall we go out for a walk?”

“I'm watching the play,” you whispered.

“The same play that ends the same way every single night, it won't do you any harm to miss one,” he said, sounding persuasive before you took his hand, allowing him to take you away.

“Now that we're alone, will you tell me why you wear this veil?” Lestat asked as he walked in the direction of the park, your hand still in his own.

“If you knew the reason, then you wouldn't be so nice to me,” you told him.

“How will I know, until I see,” he said.

“You have no reason to see it,” you put your head down, taking your hand back, and speed-walking away.

“I yearn to see the face behind the beautiful voice?” he smirked, as he was instantly in front of you.

“Armand said you are a newborn, when were you turned?” you asked him.

“A year or two ago, I lose count,” he shrugged.

“You sing too? Why not travel outside of France?” you asked him.

“I could ask you the same thing”

“I am a part of a coven, I couldn't just up and leave” you shook your head.

“Armand wouldn't approve”

“Is Armand your maker?”

“…No, but he is dear to me”

“But are you to him? I've heard a few things about your…situation, you're not even his companion, but he keeps you to himself, why?”

“He has had compassion for me”

“And so you feel you owe him everything?”

“I do”

“Even denying yourself more, more than simply being his doll, that he can play with and toss the side whenever he wishes,” he said, as he moved closer to you, his body centimeters from pressing against your own.

“Just a peak, ma chérie, I won’t utter a word after,” he said, as you slowly stared at him, unmoving as he lifted the veil.

He gazed at the mask but didn't say anything, as his cool fingers touched your cheek.

“You exceeded my expectations,” he said, as he took in your facial features, your skin texture, marks, moles, freckles.

“No need to lie,” you said, a bit harsher than you intended.

“I have seen men and women of all kinds, and I have no reason to lie when I say, you are beautiful,” he said, as he grabbed your hand, pulling you back.

“I need to get back to the others, it is best that we stay away from each other,” you told him, turning back to the theater.

“I can't promise I will be as obedient to your leader's commands,” he said, watching as you walked away.

Lestat kept his distance for a while until you received the sudden news he'd be joining you in a play. It was a renowned success, something the theatre hadn't experienced in years, bringing humans to tears at the heavenly duet, before punishing your victim of the night.

He became a recurring guest, who refused the idea of joining the coven. Everyone was surprised Santiago wasn't jealous of him, but he admired him too much to be bothered by him taking the position of leading actor.

You steered clear of him, outside of your performances, to avoid upsetting Armand. Yes, he was jealous, and no, you may not have been companions, but you didn't blame him. He was extremely traumatized from his past and for that became controlling and untrusting to most, but once you gained his trust - he was a godsend, and you didn't want to ruin that for a newborn vampire you'd just met.

Then it happened, after the usual set, you found yourself sitting on the roof, watching as the others left to hunt. Holding the small music box, you humming the melody, your heart aching. You'd overheard a few members gossiping about you, questioning your secretive nature.

Masquerade, Paper faces on parade

Masquerade, Hide your face so the world will never find you

Masquer-

“You don't think sitting up here alone is a bit gloomy,” Lestat spoke.

“It will sound different once it is performed,” you mumbled.

“Then I hope you don't mind me joining, perhaps I can add my touch,” he said, moving to sit next to you before you could answer.

“Lestat, Armand won't be pleased,” you shook your head.

“It is ridiculous how much you care for his feelings, considering he isn't your companion”

“He has been more than generous to me”

“By making you wear a masquerade mask, along with a gown as if you are a widow, I trust your judgment,” he said, sarcastically.

“He spared me, he could have killed me, as he had done to my maker, but he helped means taught me how to even live as a vampire,” you confessed.

“But he did not give you your talent”

“No,” you shook your head.

“Then I see no reason for this appearance, you have a voice unlike any other I’ve ever met, your eyes-

“My voice has nothing to do with my eyes, my face, he saved me and in return it is his”

“What could have happened to you for you to willingly settle for so little?”

“Excuse-

“Take off the mask,” he said, catching you off guard.

“No,” you said, awkwardly.

“We won't be able to fix this deep-rooted insecurity, whatever it is until you remove all of the layers that hide you,” he said, standing up, and hovering over you.

“Or you could mind your own business,” you said, seconds before screaming. Lestat had quickly taken the mask off, watching as your hand covered your face, nearly clawing in disgust to cover up.

“Please, I beg of you, give it back,” you cried, holding out your other hand, your head down.

“Y/n, look at me,” his eyes softened, it was one thing to see you quiet and standoffish - that was normal. However, seeing you bitterly weeping, your nails almost piercing into your face, he was concerned.

“Please, I’m sorry, just-give it back, please,” you said.

“Look at me first,” he said sternly, inaudibly gasping as lifted your head.

“Are you satisfied? Am I still the beautiful star you thought me to be, or do you finally see the monster hidden under the veil,” you spat, the blood-stained on your cheek.

“Is this what he has told you? This is nothing comparable to a monster, if anything, it makes you stand out. A beautiful voice, with an equally beautiful face, you just HAPPEN to be unique,” he told you, reaching to hold your chin, making you look at him.

“That isn't true, I don't want pity-” You were caught off guard as he pressed his lips against your own.

“You are very beautiful Y/n, you haven't been reminded of it, but you are. I haven't been able to get you out of my head since that night, you lifted your veil for me. You tug at my heart, with the simplest glances, don't ever think I am saying anything about you for pity,” he said, pulling you into another kiss.

“Come with me, to my place, we wouldn't want your leader interrupting,” he said, in between kisses, as he kissed along your neck.

The last thing you expected was for his place to be a dark abandoned dungeon, but his attentive skills made you indifferent to the environment. Finally, the passionate tango, you straddled his lap, your head on his chest, as he sat up leaning against the wall. Reaching for your mask, he stopped you.

“You don't have to be so quick to put it back on, I enjoy seeing you this way,” he said, kissing your scarred skin.

“I have to get back soon,” you told him.

“I want you to leave with me, be my companion, and we can travel the world, you can be the star I know you are,” he said, wrapping his arms around your body.

“You want to be my companion?” you asked, confused.

“I want nothing more than to be your companion, to love you for an eternity”

“What about Armand?”

“How he feels is irrelevant to me, he has kept you around as his toy, but I will lick your wounds if you accept me,” he said, wiping your tears. Nodding, you mumbled, ‘Yes’, as he kissed your lips.

“I have to get back now, we can start planning after tomorrow night,” you said, as he nodded in agreement, kissing your lips, before you look the mask, pressing it to your face.

By the time you were in the basement of the theatre, everyone was in their coffin, but Armand. He sat in his office, the light dim, looking up at you, as you came down the stairs. In an instant, he was in front of you, going to speak, you stared confusedly, as he lifted the veil, smashing his lips against your own.

“I missed you,” he said.

“Sorry, I changed my mind and ended up going hunting,” you lied.

“It is alright, will you join me tonight?” he asked.

“I’m too tired to do anything,” you put your head down, but he quickly lifted it, pecking your lips.

“And that is fine, I will hold you, come,” he said, grabbing your hand, and leading you to his coffin.

“I don't tell you too often, but I am proud of what you've become,” he wrapped his arms around you, as he shut the top.

“Thank you”

“No, thank you”

Watching from behind the curtain, you peered at Santiago as he recited his typical lines. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your lower back, making you turn around, your eyes widened, seeing Lestat.

“Why are you all the way over here?” you asked, but he ignored the question, pecking your lips.

“You look perfect, it will only be a short while before we are together away from this place,” he said reassuringly, lowering your veil, moving to the side, as the curtain opened, closing behind you. Looking towards the crowd, before setting your eyes upon Armand, you began to sing. However, mid-song, a commotion could be heard backstage, as the music sped up.

Glancing at Santiago, you noticed the unusually dark gleam in his eyes. The curtains opened again, revealing coven members, dressed as judges. Your heart immediately sank, as others brought Lestat onto the stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the true show of the night has begun,” Santiago chuckled. Going to rush to Lestat, you fell to your knees as pain shot through your body.

“This, my dear friends, is Y/n, our grim reaper, she takes hold of souls that face judgment, but who judges her, you will,” he said, making the audience cheer.

“What are you talking about? Armand, what is he talking about?” you asked, but they both ignored you.

“The gracious vampire Armand has done nothing but save her, she was in a freak show, her maker, she didn't even know, and instead of killing her, he took her in as his own, kept her secret,” he smirked, as you realized this was real.

“Armand-

“The ancient vampiric laws, she has broken number two, and while it wasn't her fault, she chose to leave with this secret,” he continued, watching as the audience cheered in anticipation.

“Y/n, be a doll and take off your veil,” he said. Frozen in your mind was all over the place, trying to understand why this was happening, how you could save Lestat, how you could save yourself.

Taking too long for the judges, with a simple glance, you began screaming, pulling the veil from your hair.

“Stop it,” Lestat screamed, trying to get up, but they seemed to have had him stuck in his seat.

“The dark gift, it shall never be given to children, the crippled, OR THE MAIMED,” he screamed, ripping the mask from your face, cutting your cheek in the process.

Lestat grunted and growled, trying to get up, but the more he fought, the more pain he felt.

“I’m okay,” you tried to reassure him, yelping as Santiago picked you up by your hair.

“See this hideous face, a face, not even a mother loved, yet Armand cared about this abomination, and in return, she went behind his back, planning to leave with a newborn,” he spat.

“Armand, I’m sorry,” you cried, but he kept a straight face, watching from his book.

“And Lestat de Lioncourt, from the moment he has stepped into this theatre, he has been puffed up with arrogance, and while that isn't a sin, he was willing to be an accomplice to help Y/n escape, despite seeing her monstrous face, so we will begin with him, guilty or not guilty?” he asked.

Using all of your strength, you controlled every human in the room, blood leaking from your eyes.

“Not guilty,” you muttered.

“g…NOT GUILTY,” everyone screamed, catching Santiago by surprise, but Armand saw you, and it only infuriated him, even more, to see you protect Lestat.

“And Y/n, her pathetic excuse of a maker is thankfully dead, but she is nothing more than an abomination that should have never been created, so I ask you, guilty or not guilty?”

“GUILTY”

“and her punishment?”

“DEATH”

“The jury has spoken,” he said, tossing your mask onto the floor.

“I am sorry Armand, that I didn't leave you sooner, I’ve allowed myself to be used for far too long for your benefit. I am grateful for your compassion, but only because through it, I was able to meet my companion. I love Lestat and I have no regrets, all I ask is, for you to do it the same way you did to my maker,” you said, smiling, as Amrand clenched his jaw.

His thoughts were loud and clear, you were his, and he could do whatever he wanted with you, sure, this ideology partially came from his own maker, but you knew this already. You could never leave him, your loyalty was owed to him alone, he hadn't made you his companion but he cared about you, in an unhealthy way, and for you to want to up and leave him for some guy you only known for a few months, he would rather see you dead than for you to leave Lestat.

Facing Lestat, you kept the sad smile on your face, taking in his face one last time.

“I love you, mon chér,” you said, before Armand set you ablaze. Your screams of agony flooded Lestat’s mind, as he cried, trying to come to you, but you quickly turned to ash, leaving nothing more than the remains of your gown and your mask.

Releasing him from their hold, he grabbed your mask, before rushing out of the building. Due to his judgment being not guilty, none of them could stop him, as he went to the dungeon. Your lingering scent only made him cry harder, as he clutched the mask. He would keep this mask, as an heirloom, as remembrance, as a promise. He’d love you always, and never forget the feelings you brought upon him.

As the song ended, Lestat opened his eyes, the fans screaming loudly for him. Reaching to remove the mask, he bowed, but seeing the figure in his peripheral, his eyes began to sting. Rising, he fought the urge to cry, seeing you standing next to him, bowing alongside him.

“I couldn't be more proud of you, mon chér,” you told him.

“I’m sorry, my love, I-

“No, you are seeing the entire world, and they love you, that is all that matters to me,” you smiled.

“I love you,” he said, reaching out for you, as you faded away.

The once heavy feeling has left his body, now replaced with sweet memories, you looked just as beautiful as the first time he'd laid eyes on you. He could go on, knowing that maybe, just maybe, you had been with him all along.

[somewhere-south-of-neutral]

Senior year of high school, a classmate and I both received the STAR award, which is given to the student or students who get the highest SAT scores in their graduating class each year. The award ceremony was held at the clubhouse of an old wealthy social club, the kind that, in Atlanta at least, probably doesn't want you digging into its past. I am Jewish, and the other recipient from my school was Black. Most of the honorees, students from high schools all over the city, were members of one minority or another. A large number (though I don't remember if it was more, less, or equal to half) were also women. I remember thinking that there was a good chance that almost none of us would have been allowed into that room before the 1980s. And then I remember thinking, as one student after another who didn't fit the white, Christian, male mold these clubs were built to cater to went on stage to accept their award, that our presence in that room was a victory in more ways than one.

I have been to Masada, from which you can still see the outlines of the Roman warcamps that besieged a doomed band of Jewish rebels and where, nearly two thousand years later, an Orthodox rabbi tearfully looked up from the ruin he was investigating to inform the watching archaeologists that the ancient mikveh they had found, the oldest we know of, was kosher.

I have stood in the ruined Jewish quarters in Lisbon and Madrid, where there are very few Jews anymore. But I was there, and I did not need to hide. I have been to the former headquarters of the Spanish Inquisition, where, in buildings made of bricks hewn from the graves of my forebears, they orchestrated my nonexistence. But I was there, and I existed, and the inquisition did not.

I have been to Savannah, GA, where the descendants of those who fled the inquisition founded a synagogue. The Inquisition headquarters were in ruin, but that synagogue still stands strong, and people still pray there. It is beautiful.

I have been to Berlin, where less than a century ago a plot to ensure that I could never exist, along with the descendants of many other minorities, was hatched and came frighteningly close to succeeding. But I was there, and I walked the streets visibly Jewish, made so not by a badge of shame but by my kippah, which I wore, and still wear, proudly wherever I go.

I have been to Prague, where centuries ago, according to myth, the rabbis created the golem, a magical protector built out of necessity to shield the community from harm. The golem is not there, but the community still stands. The Great Synagogue is one of the most beautiful and ornate buildings I have ever been to.

In every generation they have tried to destroy us, but we are still here and they are not. These next four years, and likely many after, will be hard. They will be steered by those who want us dead, and when I say us I mean all of us, any who do not fit their very narrow mold, but we will survive. And, one day, our (literal or figurative) descendants will stand in the places where they plotted to destroy us, and they will be free, and they will work to undo the damage, and their presence in those places will be a victory in more ways than one.

Good luck. Stay safe. We will get through this together. I love you.

[y3ager]

MATERIAL GIRL.

— and what do you give the girl who has everything? two rich boyfriends!

jean k. x eren y. x black!fem!reader

tags: modern au, fluff, polyamorous relationship. socialite!reader. lovergirldeepdown!reader. 4k word count. inspired by this blurb.

HAILING FROM OLD money— your father the CEO of a century old automobile brand and your mother the third generation runway model—you have seen all there is to see, worn what there is to wear, had every priceless stone dangle from your neck and fingers, and tasted the most decadent of foods. the belief that just superficial things would be enough to sway you offends you greatly. if you don’t have it, you will have it as if it’s your right at this point. it takes much more than dinner and a yacht ride to make you squeal.

and that’s what’s so tiring about the whole dating scene. the pool is filled to the brim with arrogant nepotism babies in khaki shorts and sweaters around their shoulders. they’ll never worry about a thing because daddy kisses the ass of this man and mommy grins in the face of that woman, and by god, do they make it known. if another man brags about owning original modigliani pieces over dinner, he’ll be met with an oyster shell to the eye. who are you supposed to be, some bright-eyed influencer? please. check the pedigree.

things changed when you met them, however. one in the summer, and one in the winter.

you were on the jet back home from italy when hitch, a girl you’ve known since you were a tyke, bombarded your phone with messages about christening her new penthouse with a pool party you just had to come to, lest she’d drag you there. after confirming your attendance, you rolled back over in the white leather reclining seat and pulled your silk eye mask back down, making a mental note to get your braids refreshed and place an order for a new bikini.

you’re reborn as a literal doll, the braids on the left side of your head coaxed into an intricate butterfly while the others lay flat against your scalp in faultless rows and hang low to your hipbones. white, white, white everywhere, from the nails, the strappy swimsuit, the miu miu sandals; a beautiful contrasts against your glistening ebon skin dusted with body shimmer for good measure. perfect, as usual.

hitch’s new high rise penthouse is something out of a multimillion dollar budget drama, with its dozens of crystal clear windows and modern interior. sitting far away enough from the city to avoid the hustle and bustle, but close enough to gaze at the twinkling lights, it’s practically a palace for the dreyse corporation heir.

champagne flute filled with 1820 juglar cuvée, you mingle amongst the next generation of the one percent. hitch’s friends, and your friends by proxy you assume, are a breath of fresh air. human.

but there’s one person amongst the gaggle you don’t recognize. from your spot next to the slightly tispy miss dreyse, your dark eyes glance over the rim of your ivory framed sunnies, glass rim tapping absentmindedly against lined, glossed lips. light brown mullet, slightly tanned skin, dark brown eyes...

“hitchie...” your elbow gently bumps into the blonde’s sides, snatching her out of her mild stupor. “who’s that?” you ask innocently, gesturing with your half full flute. it’s casual, inquisitive.

hitch squints a little bit, pure concentration written all over her features as she tries to put a name to the face. “oh!” when the name comes to her, her hand meets the back of your shoulder in a kinda hard slap, totally unintentional, of course. “jean, kirschtein! you know, from-” a hiccup interrupts her introduction, making her burst into a quick giggle. “-the oil company.”

the pieces begin to come together, you know the names all of the elite; the braun’s, the leonhart’s, the ackerman’s, names listed amongst yours and names you close deals with. clans with power, influence, wealth, distinction.

he, jean, is walking over now; casual with an easy stride that shows he’s in no rush, he’s confident. he pays his respects to the girl of the hour, congratulating her on her new playhouse before her attention is diverted by another guest calling her name to get her to come over there. hitch slips off, but not before discreetly tapping your lower back in excitement; an unspoken ‘get him.’

“jean,” he introduces himself, extending his hand in a polite greeting. “i wanted to speak to hitch, but i wanted to talk to you, too. you are breathtaking.” his eyes drink you in, from head to toe, even though they’ve been roaming your frame since you first caught his attention. the heir simply cannot get enough. “but you get told that a lot, yes?”

“thank you.” your lips spread into a small smile, one hand slipping into his larger one as the other pulls off your sunnies, sticking one of the arms down into your top. “i’m ___” jean bore a lean swimmer’s build, dark navy beach shorts hung low on his hips, and his tanned skin decorated with a dusting of faint, brown freckles over his body. years of private villas and yachts, no doubt. he was impossibly tall, too, you find yourself having to gently tilt your head back to see his face fully. it was cute from afar, maturely handsome up close. was that a faint hint of a mustache? it was hot.

jean repeats your name slowly, enjoying the feeling of that line of syllables rolling off his tongue. “i’d love to get to know you more. ___, you’re so beautiful. i have to impress you somehow. name it,” his other hand comes up to rest of top of yours, successfully encasing it in a gentle hold. an excuse to touch you just a little bit more. “i’ll make it happen.”

your smile becomes a grin, and your dark eyes glint mischievously under your delicate lashes. one quick test, because where’s the fun in not initiating one? you just want to see what he’d say, pick at his brain. what sweet words will he spin from his golden cords now? “but jean,” you begin softly, “what if i was the type of girl that liked a man that took control? told me we were doing this, at this time, on this day, and in my prettiest red dress?”

“it’d be rude, ___, at least in my eyes, to so quickly assume i had a right to your time, and drag you around this way and that. allow me the privilege of occupying your time, and space.”

before you can catch it, one of your expertly threaded and sculpted eyebrows quirks up in mild surprise. you beckon him a bit closer to your face with a wave of your acrylics. “good answer,” you tease, honeyed voice playful and whispery. “phone? i can put my number in, and we can talk about how you can try to romance me when i have my schedules laid out in front of me.” you watch as he fishes the device out of his shorts pocket.

you were captivating afar, but up close with your tawny skin soft, glittery, and emanating an intoxicating vanilla scent, your dark eyes glistening with mirth and playfulness… it makes jean’s body go into some type of shock, his heart plummeting to his feet and his blood running cold but racing through his veins at the same time.

“well then,” you chime as you save your digits into the millionaire’s phone, the contact simply your name with no bells or whistles to adorn it. “i hope we can get to know each soon, mr. kirschtein.”

jean thinks that pearly white smile will be the death of him.

…

every year, no matter what, your father throws his annual christmas party. you long assumed that it brings him a special type of happiness because your normally humble father goes all out for them, each year being better than the last. he flies out the best chefs in the world to cook for hours, orders the tallest, greenest tree for the foyer, and has the house cleaned til someone could check their reflection in the perfect marble floors. when it comes to this, the man skimps on nothing.

you take it upon yourself to make the most of it, requesting custom design dresses from the most exclusive sewing tables over in Europe, shoes fresh from the runway. only the very best for you, the heiress, the crème de la crème, the girl who has never known the word no.

“dance with me?”

you had been absentmindedly swirling your wine glass by its delicate stem, attempting to place its origin (red, tart-like with its cranberry flavor and a strange orange bite near the end), when you’re approached. once you turn your head, you’re meet with striking green eyes and a sharp little smile.

“you looked bored, and that’s what these parties are for, right?”

eren yeager, the german-american son of grisha and carla yeager, 2nd generation genius neurosurgeon with a net worth in the 7 figures, and the just-as-talented, third generation wedding gown designer. according to the rumor mill, after graduating in the top of class in one of those ivy’s upstate, he gallivanted across the country (no, the world) as the not-so-favorable yeager son. of course, there are entirely too many eyes on the yeager clan for grisha to do too much of anything and a son can do no wrong in a doting mother’s eyes; so eren is left free to his disagreeable desires. everyone wonders how long that will last.

steely dark eyes and your naturally neutral face does nothing to deter him. you decide to indulge him, slipping your hand into his and raising up, allowing him the luxury of whisking you to the dance floor. “i guess i don’t see why not.”

“great.” his hand is soft and a little cool against your own, the woody, cedar notes of penhaligon the inimitable gently wafting off his skin and pressed shirt. unbeknownst to you, a few pairs of eyes bore into yeager’s back. the arrogance he has to whisk you away so early into the party, especially with it being his first one. if eren was the wiser, he’d revel in their envy.

there’s a handful of other couples waltzing across the floor when you two arrive. your fingers thread through his as his free hand finds a respectful place on your waist, blessed with the feeling of the smooth skin exposed by the opening in your dress.

no matter how much money your father makes, he’s an old black man at heart. old r&b plays from the expensive sound system he had installed, tevin campbell’s can we talk playing through the speakers. the irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. nonetheless, you hum nonchalantly to the tune and glide around the floor with your partner.

“i gotta ask, do you enjoy these things? or does your dad put you up to it?” your arm is held above your head and you’re spun around in a quick circle before being guided back to eren’s chest. face still impartial, you nod your head towards your five o clock, the wavy blonde strands dangling from your delicate updo tickling your face. a table teems with gifts for you and you only, bachelors from afar vying for a wisp of your attention with shiny, expensive gifts. they fail to realize that a girl like yourself isn’t so easily bought. but, it’s their money not yours, and few things in life bring you greater joy than pulling ribbon and wrapping paper from luxury brand boxes.

“of course i do. i’m not ‘put up’ to anything. i dress up, i get my presents. what isn’t there to love?” manicured hand splayed across the man’s back, you’re dipped towards the floor. you’re one to give credit where credit is due, yeager is a good dancer; the confidence in his movements isn’t a lame front and he maintains the delicate balance between taking the lead and dragging his poor partner around. since this is suddenly an interview, you have questions of your own. “when i have time to go through them, will i find your name on anything?”

“of course you will. be pretty damn rude to show up to a party empty handed. especially when it might be my only chance to get a gift for the princess.” a name your normally cringe and scrunch your nose at sounds surprisingly nice passing by his lips. he grinned boyishly. “no hints.”

“i can wait. for your sake, i hope it’s no ring. it’s going straight into the garbage.” just the thought of such a “present” makes your blood want to boil. who raised these “men”? i mean honestly, what brain dead fool buys a ring for a girl who didn’t even know his face? and expected her to wear it? you would sooner die and go to hell first.

“no way someone is that dumb. you’re fucking with me.”

“what do i have to lie for?”

"well, taking a look at these guests, i take it back. some of these bastards look dumb enough to pull a stunt like that." eren scans the array of guests over your shoulder, and you can't even feign offense for your father's sake. scanning over a guestlist for former flames and explaining why you didn't want them in attendance would take too much time, and you really didn't feel like explaining "relationship troubles" to your dad of all people. loved him as much as you did that really wasn't his business. besides, watching them shiver and skulk away from your disinterested and annoyed glance made up for everything. "are you a betting woman?"

"did you waste grisha's money on a degree in journalism?" your eyebrows furrow and eren laughs again.

"you're funny, ___. most of our peers aren't so witty. and if it so pleases her majesty, i want to bet on the odds of one of these dumbasses putting a ring under your tree." eren's green eyes stare down into yours, gleaming with playfulness, mirth, and confidence. "what do you say? someone does, and we can go on a date, just us two, and you can smile and laugh a little bit."

"and if there's no ring?"

"i'll leave you alone and fall in place in your long string of broken hearts."

luck has always been on your side. look at the family you were in born in, the riches that are your birthright! the universe has never dealt you a bad hand and surely wouldn’t start now. and worse case scenario, you hang out with one of the few men that can mark your plump lips twitch in the shadow of a giggle. “fine.” your brown eyes meet his green, and neither of the waver. “deal.”

several days later, gifts from around the globe surround you. handbags, shoes, dresses, envelopes bursting with cash; you’ll have to tell your dad you need some walls knocked down in your already spacious closet to make room for more. amidst all this, though, a godforsaken ring is gripped between your fingers. if looks could kill, it would melting and dripping from your grasp. holding it like it’s contaminated, you snap a picture to send to yeager:

‘i’m free the 3rd weekend and tuesdays.’

…

as temperatures rise again, you spend the next few months allowing jean kirstein and eren yeager the luxury of whisking you away when your schedule permits.

the former is a bit... old fashioned, in a good way! you're led off to slow paced, cozy dates; the two of you roaming italian streets, attending shows in their original opera houses, he never strayed you out of the bubble you two were born in. it was casual, soft, predictable in a good way.

eren on the other hand, spent money like it would burn through his pocket if it sat there too long. he spent money like a man who just felt its crispness in his palms and was addicted to the feeling, knowing deep down it'd never stop flowing for him. you're frequenting the night scene in your tight, revealing dress, his firm hands on your hips as you two grind to the pounding beats. shopping spree dates that lasted all day, if your hand so much as brushed it, it was bought, packaged up, and in the car. spontaneous flights abroad, stealing you away for weekends. it was exhilarating.

they both provide the things you're looking for. jean is the type of man you imagine yourself settling down with one day, when the whole young and turnt shtick melts away into something more domestic and slow paced. he has gentle hands and treats you so delicately, softly. his reliability will be something you can learn to lean on and need.

eren could possibly be that type of man too, but for now he has a fire, impulses that keep you oh so entertained. having everything in the world gets boring, and eren brings that spark that you crave.

you ruminate at your vanity. hair tied down and tucked away under a silky soft bonnet, you run your gua sha across your moisturized face, long sweeping strokes that end with a gentle tug. eye masks rest on your face, your feet clothed by a exfoliating mask, and a fluffy robe envelopes your body. you stare at your reflection, you're the only one who gets you.

you're really at a crossroads. you choosing between something is unheard of. you're ___, you get everything you deserve and want tenfold. you like jean, you like eren. the way they look at you with such adoration, how their hands and lips caress your body, the sweets words they declare, and how every promise they've made to you remains unbroken, oh how they must certainly feel the same for you.

as greedy as it may make you sound, you want both. your cake and to eat it too. two of your richest peers fawning over you day in and day out, them caring for you and you caring for them. them loving you, and you loving them. it’s a dream that will be your reality.

…

after a long day at sea on one of many jean’s yachts, the sun beaming down on not only the beautiful blue water but the two of you, entangled in each other’s arms, docks at the private harbor.

you’re running your fingers through your french curl braids as jean talks to one of the dock’s attendees, slightly sleepy from your sunbathing session. the gentle breeze of the day brings the smell of saltwater up to your nostrils and you hear seagulls squawking from spots on the wooden posts. obviously, a day at the water leaves you craving seafood, juicy lobster tails with a decadent pasta on the side. your daydreams of the soon to be dinner are interrupted by an extremely familiar “yo!”

heads turn, and it’s none other than eren striding across the dock’s walkway towards where you and jean are standing. his green eyes shine at the sight of you, the hot pink of your two piece bikini a perfect contrast to your skin and showing curves and bends he’d worship for the rest of his life. oh, and jean’s here too.

another woman might falter, her heart catching in her throat and sweat beading up on her flesh as her suitors stand before her, but you’re the epitome of calm, brown eyes smoothly meeting eren’s. there’s no ring on your finger, and besides, you know what you’re after right now.

“haven’t seen you in a while, yeager.” knowing it’d be cliche, jean fights against the urge to wrap a protective arm around your waist. “done gallivanting the world?”

“seen all there is to see kirschtein, and you say that like it’s insult. what use is money if it just sits in accounts collecting dust.” eren looks at you again, god you’re a sight for sore eyes. “especially when there’s a woman like her to spend it on.”

jean’s eyes can’t help but to roll. what a cornball. “well, good chat, but ___ and i are on a little time crunch. i’m taking her to niccolo’s, especially after being on the water.” his hand slips into yours, taking charge but not tugging you along. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like this side of him.

“well, now that you mention it, i could go for some niccolo’s too.” eren’s grin is shit-eating. what a cute dynamic these too have, one you know has a bit more bite to it when a lady isn’t in their presence. “how about i join? matter of fact, my treat.”

“that won’t be necessary.”

“i insist.”

“you two would argue all day if i let you,” you interrupt this small tussle, and now their attention is back on you. a manicured hand raises up to cover your small yawn. “like an old married couple.”

“it’s all in good fun,” eren’s shoulder nudges jean, and if jean had lasers for eyes, the youngest heir to yeager fortune would be a pile of dust before your feet. “we go way back.”

jean ignores him entirely, but eren finds it hilarious. “what he’s suggesting is insane, ___.”

you give a gentle shrug of your shoulder, coyness at the ready. “it’s nothing serious, it’s a lunch date between friends, and i bet you’d like to catch up.”

jean’s jaw tenses. he turns to you completely as eren looks on curiously. “i think it’s a sign that you say that, ___. i’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while. yes, we are friends, but i want to be more with you.”

this moment, with the waves crashing across the dock, the sun illuminating the two of you, jean clasping your hands tight, would’ve been a soft, tender, picturesque one had it not been for eren’s booming laughter.

“oh, so now this is a pissing contest, huh, jean? well, since we’re confessing feelings, i have my own to speak for you.” his outburst breaks your gaze, and you and jean both turn in unison. “___, i want you to be my girlfriend, and i’ve felt this way for a while. i’ve been waiting for just the perfect moment, but i can’t let this jack-off take this one for himself right?” comically, you’re put between them, each of your hands in theirs.

“i…” this takes tact, a delicate way of stringing together words and honestly, with their eyes boring into yours, you find yourself falling just a touch short.

“i respect any decision you make,” jean assures.

“___, i will do anything for you,” eren promises.

any decision. anything.

you bit your bottom lip, hands minutely twitching in their clasp. you lean in neither direction, at the center of them. “any?”

and then there’s a beat of silence. and everyone’s looking at each other. this feels like a scene in a sitcom, something that should be accompanied with a laugh-track, but there’s no closed mouth that’s been fed.

“because in the time i’ve gotten to know both of you, i’ve begin to care for both of you. and i’ve made great memories with the two of you. i know i could make even more. i don’t value any time spent with you over each other’s.” your voice shakes just a tiny, tiny bit, vulnerability creeping in. “you too make me… so happy.”

eren cuts the silence first, ever the impulsive one. “i’ll do it.”

“you cut me off,” jean quickly interjects. eren really puts him on his toes, ignites an aggressive fire deep within, steps on just the right nerves. “i’m doing it too.”

“i said i’d do anything.”

“and i said i’d respect any decision.”

“okay!” you voice crashes down like a gavel. “okay. i’m glad that you two are hearing me out,” a smile tugs at your glossed lips, this feels so easy and lighthearted, a stark contrast from the seriousness you impose upon yourself. already, you feel yourself loosening up, because the two of them bring out the true, relaxed you like nothing else can. “but for our sanity the bickering needs to come down a notch before we all kill each other, yeah?”

two strong pairs of arms envelop you. it takes some effort, but you wrap your own around the two of them. three heads together, you find yourselves laughing. a weight eases of your shoulders, but not because you got your way, but because you know this is the death of a mask created by the circle you were born in. a mask that hides the love you can feel in an attempt to guard it.

“well, we won’t kill you.”

nov 13. 2021. nov 9. 2023. i nearly gave up. i almost threw in the towel. but goddammit she’s done. praise god.

[eustasskiddsprosthetic]

I have this Lawlu fic idea called "The City of Light" in my drafts. I'm most excited about writing Law here. He's a pirate who disappeared a century ago and no one knows where he is. That is...

In the present day, Luffy stumbles upon an island that's seemingly abandoned. Usopp refuses to go, claiming he has 'fear of new islands diseases'. At their campsite, Usopp suddenly disappears. Whatever, Usopp probably got cowardly—nothing new. He and Zoro push on!

They end up on a city made of white gold. It's shiny, it's brilliant and sparkling. They're greeted by a handsome man who's older than them both but speaks kindly and warmly. He shows them around, feeds them whatever they want and gives them nice clothes. He promises to keep a look out for Usopp, but there's a weird look in his eye Zoro could not ignore. It gets worse when Luffy looks positively smitten.

One night, Zoro turns to Luffy and says, "Hey, this is nice but I think we should go back. I don't like the way he looks at you." Luffy just blinks, "Why?" Zoro explains, "Usopp's gone and I think he did it." Luffy never saw Zoro this nervous before but he agrees to be careful. The next day, Zoro's gone too. Whatever, maybe Zoro got lost. Zoro will come back. He always does!

(TW: Cannibalism.)

The next morning, Luffy sees his host under a waterfall while exploring the forest. That's when Luffy really sees him as a man, a gorgeous, sexy, irresistible one. He turns to Luffy and smiles. He invites Luffy to come bathe with him, which is an excuse for him to feel up Luffy approvingly while stripping him. He touches Luffy everywhere. His chest, his abs, his hips. He is just about to come closer until...

A plant nearly bites off the man's head. Then some sleeping gas.

Amidst the confusion, Usopp grabs Luffy and runs away into the forest, runs as far as he can back to their ship. Usopp tells Luffy that this guy's really fucking dangerous. He 'disappeared' because he got chased by this huge white bear demon (Bepo's sulong form) with shining blue eyes while collecting firewood. With enough effort, Usopp finally defeated the bear. That's not all. Usopp saw him try to lure Zoro into a cave by conjuring phantoms of Kuina demanding a rematch. The guy eats people in said cave. For a brief moment, Usopp swore he looked ancient, all wrinkly like a raisin as he devours them and only when he's had enough does he revert back to his youthful appearance. Just before Luffy can process this information, the man catches up to them and he is FURIOUS. He drew his sword to kill Usopp but Luffy pushes him off and punches him back. Luffy tells Usopp to run away and take care of Zoro and the others.

Luffy's unsure of what to make of this, but he decides to stick around just in case. By this point, Luffy's half in love. He did not want to think his first love could do anything bad...

The next day, Luffy stumbles upon a cave. When he looks inside, that's when he finally understood Usopp's urgency. The man was eating someone and was half-way through eating his arm that he looked up and saw Luffy. Luffy just walks up to him, finds the locket that accidentally dropped on the floor. He opens it and recognises the people inside. Luffy said he would leave the island to return the locket to the proper owner no matter what. The man's livid now.

They get into a heated argument about the world being dangerous or whatever but that doesn't matter. Right after Luffy says that he has his crew to protect him, the man knocked him out unconscious...

[maria-of-the-waves]

The Kingdom of Life

This is an idea that has been brewing in my mind for a while and was confirmed in my head when I looked at the map of the western continent (o_ _)ﾉ彡

You see this, the desert of death and the Kingdom of Askosan are the same size, that means that there is nothing stopping the City of Life from becoming the Kingdom of Life ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

It has already been confirmed to us in history that attempts have been made to create new cities in the Desert of Death, so it is not crazy to think that if more had been created, it would end up becoming a Kingdom with its own culture.

What's more, in chapter 316 we are told that only a necromancer will be the new king/queen of death because they are the ones who know the most about the pain that darkness can cause and still handle it ╰(▔∀▔)╯

Not only that, the Night's Exultation is a gem that belonged to the Queen of Death and gives us a great clue about what could be the main jewel of a crown or jewel that marks royalty ヽ(；▽；)ノ

Now that I've explained the reason why I came up with this AU, here are my ideas for it:

The divergence began when the Queen of Death founded the City of Life and appointed a family of dark elves to run it when she I couldn't do it anymore.

She designated this family with a magical huadian that would mark who is worthy to rule, so if one day the family were corrupted their right to rule would be eliminated and assigned to some other family that was worthy.

After the final battle againts the Queen of Death and the Church of the God of Sun it became common knowledge that the next King/Queen of Death would only be a necromancer and the most loyal dark elves built a palace in the capital which was sealed only to be opened when their next King arrived.

The ruling family began to rule and was recognized as an archduchy (The highest rank of nobility below royalty) and a branch of the royal family.

With the construction of more underground cities and towns, an aristocracy began to be created that will govern their respective territories, making sure to remain firm in the principles of always being faithful to their people and helping them in every way possible.

When humans began to escape from Dubori territory to the Desert of Death they were welcomed as citizens of the Kingdom of Life.

With each generation the population continued to increase in both humans, half-breeds and dark elves which caused the kingdom to grow and prosper while the culture developed obtaining things such as harem pants, the wearing of veils on the face and hair and hena tattoos

The archducal family remained faithful to the first queen and for generations humans and dark elves mixed, causing that although the most recent generation (Obante and his offspring) were mostly dark elves the percentage will vary.

At some point, Alberu's mother decided to travel the Continent and ended up as King Zed Crossman's concubine, but since they both fell in love, she did not care much about her new position.

Tasha didn't like this very much but accepted it until she found out that her sister was pregnant and immediately went to help her by disguising herself as a maid.

From here everything goes as canon until during a return visit to her native home Tasha ends up rescuing Mary who became a necromancer, the first in centuries.

During Mary's recovery in the capital's hospital someone leaked the information that the future Queen of Death had been born, and the entire Kingdom began to celebrate the arrival of the future Queen.

Due to the social pressure of taking the throne in the future when she is only 10 years old Mary felt overwhelmed and asked Tasha to stay with her.

Tasha accepted and during the time she took a break she and Mary formed a mother-daughter bond which was solidified when Tasha asked Mary if she could adopt her by blood.

Mary accepted and once the ritual was completed she became a dark elf half-blood, maintaining her status as a necromancer.

His web scars turned white due to the concentration of dead mana and he obtained the huadian of the archducal family in the same color.

I imagine that from here things would go as in canon with the exception that Mary would get lessons in etiquette and politics while she travels throughout the Kingdom of Life to meet her future subjects.

[halfmoonshines]

I'll Always Know You

summary; a series of events following bucky barnes and the reader

hurt/comfort, fluff

You had decided about fifteen minutes ago that this was probably your dumbest idea to date; now you were just miserable. The thunder boomed loudly overhead, the sky bucketing rain down on you like a small monsoon. You'd long abandoned the newspaper you'd fruitlessly held overhead to stay dry.

Why didn't you accept the ride from your work partner? You knew the storm was rolling in but you were so hellbent on being self sufficient.

You didn't hear the car roll to a stop on the empty street next to you, the rain putting a quiet blanket on everything but itself. But the voice that broke through definitely scared the shit out of you.

"Miss?"

You jumped, turning to the dark haired man standing opposite you. You probably would've thought his broad shoulders and defined muscles you could see beneath his quickly soaking wet shirt were attractive if you weren't immediately afraid of being murdered.

"Yes?" You replied with a subconscious step back.

His smile was tentative, hands half raising in a surrender. "I was driving by and noticed you fighting for your life against the wind. Could I offer you a ride?"

Every cell in your 21st century body said that you should turn around and start running. Never accept rides from strangers, even handsome ones. But it was truly storming now and you were still a twenty minute walk through the city home.

Sensing your hesitance, he tacked on. "You could either risk me being a murderer or almost definitely die to mother nature or pneumonia."

"Fair point." You followed him to his car.

--

Turns out, that would just be the first time you saw Bucky Barnes.

He showed up at your door three days after the rain incident, and you were almost freaked out if you hadn't been kicking yourself for not giving him your number.

"Sorry for just showing up, but I was wondering if you'd be interested in grabbing some coffee?" The arm positioned awkwardly scratching his head and the nervous smile on his face was enough to make your suspicions melt fully. Ted Bundy be damned.

"Let me grab my coat."

--

Turns out Bucky likes warm mochas, and also holding hands. You learned a lot about him over the next few weeks; his likes and dislikes. You fit together like the last pieces of a puzzle, you barely noticed the months passing and when you started leaving clothes at his apartment.

"You're kidding me, you've never seen Pitch Perfect? It's like quintessential 2010's cinema."

Bucky's laugh never failed to warm you inside. "I was a bit busy during that decade."

Your eyebrows scrunched, those little comments only confusing you. "The whole decade? What are you, 80?"

"Not quite."

---

"Would you still love me if I was a cat?"

"Yes." His reply was instant, warm arms wrapped around you while he leaned down for a kiss.

You dodged his lips, a playful smile on your own. "How would you know it's me?"

His hand found your cheek, pulling you in for a demanding kiss. The feeling of his mouth on yours always electrified you.

"I'll always know you."

---

The first time you felt he ever truly lied to you was a year in, which is a considerable span, as you tried to rationalize.

But there was no rationalizing the photo in your hand. A black and white snapped picture of your long term boyfriend, James Barnes, in a WW11 military uniform. Same boyish smile, same stance. The only difference was the haunted look that seemed to plague your Bucky.

There had to be an explanation, right? I mean vampires weren't real. This wasn't Twilight. A distant relative maybe?

A voice in the back of your head was insistent that this was him.

"Bucky?" You called him to the room before you could lose your nerve.

His smile was easy when he entered the room, but you couldn't help but notice the tenseness that filled him when he noticed the box you'd be rifling through.

"What's up, Doll?"

You lifted the picture along with an eyebrow, nervousness trickling into your stomach. "Who's this?"

He paused for only a second before it was like a switch flipped in him, and his smile eased back. "That's my grandpa. I don't really display his pictures for the sake of my sanity. We could be twins." He snatched the picture from you, depositing it back in the box.

"I'll say. You look the exact same." Your head was cocked to the side, a question still sitting on your lips.

"Strong genes."

---

He should've told her. No, he should've never gone back to her apartment. Never pulled his car over in that fucking downpour. All he ever brought with him was death and tragedy, and Bucky was terrified that she was about to make that list.

"We're five out." Sam's voice was carefully guarded, knowing his partner was on edge.

It was just a normal day a few hours ago when Bucky had come home to the door of their apartment hanging off it's hinges.

His panic was instant and only mounted when he searched the home and found nothing but signs of struggle and you missing. It was always a fear gnawing at the back of his mind. He had plenty of enemies, people he'd ruined the lives of. It was negligent to keep you in the dark, to even keep contact with you. But James Barnes was a selfish man.

When the jet landed and his boots hit the wet concrete, he wasn't Bucky. He was the soldier. And he would bring you home.

---

The sight of you, broken on the examination table was almost enough to take his knees out from under him. He put a steadying hand on the door frame to your room while Bruce gave him a diagnosis he had feared.

"It seems like they experimented on her. Traces of nodes connected to her neck and head. Until she wakes up I won't be able to tell the extent of damage, if there even is any. Worse case... she doesn't remember you."

Fuck. Bucky's breathing was shallow. If he could go back and rip every single man in that facility apart slowly, he would. Even then it wouldn't be enough to punish them.

Maybe you not remembering him was a blessing. Maybe you'd be safer.

--

The lights over you were like the blazing sun, and the only thing you could assume was that you had an insane hangover. Your brows pulled together, eyes squinting to recognize your surroundings. Vaguely clocking the IV attached to your arm, your vision started to clear and so did your thoughts.

Being at home, the bang of the door coming open, men swarming you.

And then nothing.

Your heart rate quickened, panicking now to inspect what was around you. You'd been taken, like some cliche movie. But by who? Why?

Just as your panic was mounting to a full blown freak out, your eyes found a familiar figure to your left. Head hanging off the back of the chair he was passed out in, your boyfriend was a more than welcome sight.

"James." Your voice was hoarse, scratchy, but he awoke instantly.

He was wordless, flying out of his chair and onto his knees beside you. Your handsome man was haggard, dark bags under his eyes and mussed hair. His warm hands roving your face distracted you from his gaunt appearance.

"Do you know who I am?"

His question confused you, as did the worry in his eyes. You brought your hand up to the one sitting on your cheek and gave him your best, exhausted smile. "I'll always know you."

--

a/n: have requests? submit here

[whisperinggbreeze]

Eight hundred years ago, there was a prosperous kingdom known as Xianle.

They were famous for their riches and extravagance, but most of all, they were known for their crown prince.

The Crown Prince of Xianle was pure and beautiful beyond comprehension, and skilled in both cultivation and the arts. By the way he was described and even worshipped, one even could have believed he was a god.

And then, at only seventeen years old, he ascended to heaven and really did become a martial god. The Heavenly Emperor himself even showed an interest in him. Many believed he was the luckiest boy in the three realms.

Three years later, the kingdom of Xianle fell into ruin.

An epidemic raged through the kingdom, leaving untouched only soldiers. On top of that, a part of Xianle known as Yong'An was also locked in a civil war with the capital. Soldiers from Yong'An overpowered the weakened Xianle and took over.

The remaining residents of Xianle blamed their god, their crown prince. If he couldn't cure them or save their kingdom, was he any better than a god of misfortune?

In reality, the Crown Prince of Xianle attempted to save his kingdom and failed. He was banished for descending from heaven to help mortals, and his efforts were for naught.

Soon after his banishment, the Crown Prince of Xianle turned his back on the world. He attempted to summon the disease that had plagued his kingdom, killing his last and most devoted believer in the process.

For hundreds of years, cities and kingdoms were laid to waste by his hand. He taught the crown prince of the new Yong'An kingdom, and then brutally killed the prince's family, wiping out half of the kingdom. Many believe he also orchestrated the downfall of the kingdom of Banyue. He became one of the four heavenly calamities, becoming known as White Flower Collecting Souls as his old name was erased by time. His eerie but docile title led many to underestimate his wrath and evil until it was too late.

For the past century or two, barely anything has been heard of White Flower Collecting Souls, leaving the three realms asking two questions: where has he gone, and when and where will he strike next?

---

part of the prologue of my hualian swapped role fic! gonna do a part for hc next 👀 I am slowly but surely working out the lore and plot, and I think this fic will probably mostly follow the plot of tgcf with a couple of alterations (still unsure what to do about lang qianqiu and his backstory, but I don't want to spoil whatever I decide to do in case the fic ever gets to that point)

i had a lot of fun writing this part! ive kind of forgotten exactly how the tgcf prologue goes but I tried to base the format loosely on that (the prologue is supposed to be told from an outsider point of view; this is basically XL's legend/myth/established or popular "story")

[rwbyconversations]

The Faunus/White Fang plotline was NEVER inspired by the Irish Troubles/IRA

A few years ago, someone posted a "theory" about how the White Fang plotline was based, not on the American Civil Rights movements of the 1960s such as the Black Panthers and Martin Luther King's protests, but on a similar conflict in Europe that ran for much of the 20th century in the British occupation of Northern Ireland, known in short as "The Troubles."

Recently, I saw it again as someone stole the post so they could feel smart, so I want to put this to bed definitively as an Irish person:

The Faunus and White Fang plotline were never based on the Irish Troubles or the Irish Republican Army. To be frank I don't think Miles and Kerry know anything about Ireland outside of making drunk Paddy jokes in their off-hours. (wouldn't be the first nationality they've made fun of)

Barring that they were both Civil Rights Movements that happened in the general post-World War 2 wave of the 1960s alongside other countries like India and South Africa, the Troubles and Americian Civil Rights movements have little in common. The big dividing point is religion. The Troubles were a conflict that at its core was as much a sectarian divide as it was fighting against British oppression. The Protestant/Catholic divide is still active in Northern Ireland to this day, with people getting assaulted for wearing the wrong clothes or having the wrong names. The city still has dozens of "Peace walls" scattered around as remnants of the conflict. The religious/sectarian divide is at the heart of the Troubles; you cannot do a depiction of it without at least acknowleding that divide. Even Captain Planet managed this, for Christ's sake.

RWBY does not do this. There is no religious element to the White Fang unless you blink and squint at Fennic and Corsac- and they don't matter to the story at large outside of being minibosses in Volume 5 and they are the only White Fang agents who are vaugely religious. There's no religious element to the Faunus at large unless you look up supplementary material and read about the Faunus creation myths in the Fairy Tales of Remnant series. Trying to be inspired by The Troubles without referencing the sectarian part of it, is like trying to write an two-question essay when you only read the first half of the first question- i.e., you're going to fail miserably. Yeah, there was a conflict, and a question can be raised of how appropriate the use of violence was. And that's it. There's not even an Irish character in the show or anyone who uses an accent, so safe to 100% say, no. The Troubles were never on Miles and Kerry's mind when designing the Faunus racism.

Additionally, there is a silver bullet debunking the entire theory. All the way back in Volume 1 on the commentary track, Barbara Dunklemann said this:

"If anybody needs a comparison for what the Faunus are in this world, it's kind of like if you're in the 1930s/1940s and it's the way African American people were treated and viewed."

After someone else asks for clarification, Dunklemann then confirms they meant the 1960s and the Civil Rights Movement by name. No attempt is made to correct Dunklemann or say the White Fang was inspired by other Civil Rights movements- it is firmly, 100%, solely about the American movement.

There you have it- a quote from the crew itself confirming without a doubt that the Faunus and White Fang were always based on the Americian Civil Rights movement, with no mention of the Troubles or the Irish sectarian divisions. Attempting to say otherwise goes directly against stated intent from the beginning of the show.

Now please, don't let this stupid, asinine theory come back a third time, the next time a white RWBY fan gets uncomfortable at the racism in the White Fang plot, and reaches to a different civil rights conflict as a deflection tactic.

tldr- keep my country's history out of your mouth if you only care about using it to deflect blame on the catgirl racism subplot.

[monstercampus]

WHAT. 😱 He’s cursed?!? ELLIE PLEASE, I AM BEGGING. 🙏 Lore on Plauge Doctor???? A snippet of his deep dark backstory perhaps? Pretty please? A cherry on top? 🍒?

Oh, it's nothing special! Just the story of an average young man with an insatiable lust for death flying a bit too close to the sun </3

(cws: death, active plague, sickness, mentions of rot, body horror)

In life, "Doctor" Symon Knox was as average as anyone else you might meet in that tiny village on the outskirts of Ordomia--a kingdom-turned-capital city as the world knows it now, far, far away across the seas from the campus he now finds himself employed. Being such a talkative, curious boy in his youth, it was no surprise to his elders that he dreamed of becoming a doctor, and perhaps one with impeccable bedside manner since he found it so easy to make people laugh their pains away.

But this was an era before cellphones and sterilization, and upon reaching his tender adulthood Symon found himself in the throes of an unimaginable plague spreading across the continent, wild and uncontrolled as it killed indiscriminately. Still in the service of his mentor at the time, Symon was given the role of scribe during the last moments of each patient's life. Chivalrous or wicked, senile or sane, he penned each word to save and keep on record for many months, and grew quieter and quieter as the job worked him past his own limits. In time, it felt as though the mask he donned was a feature of his own face, the leather and cloth part of his skin that stuck fast to his bones. Not long after that did his mentor fall from the illness, as did the people he knew and loved from his village as sickness swept over each poor, kindred soul.

Upon returning home to such a sight, Symon began penning his own last words. Page after page of nothingness slung into fire, ink spilled over half-spelled curses, quill-tip pierced through the tough parchment into his father's writing desk. Days passed into weeks and months, the sickly-sweet stench of rot invading the bed of crumbling lavender protecting the beak of his mask. Having adored the man so much in his early years of doctorhood, Symon wouldn't realize that his descent into madness was caused by his mentor's wicked desires--even if he had at the time, there would be no stopping his transformation. The Lich that had masqueraded as a well-to-do doctor, had taken a dirt-poor youth under his wing to teach him the practice of medicine, had crafted that same disease that would kill his corporeal body and take his protégé's life next.

And while Symon Knox unknowingly wrote out his last rites in his own hand, his body was changing to fit the mold he'd been given--the shape that the Lich had deemed worthy to house the fount of his unimaginable necrotic power. Four hundred years prior to present day, Symon Knox died at his writing desk, quill perched deftly in his left hand. Less than four days later he awoke, quill pierced through his gloved palm, with nothing writhing beneath his robes but the curse of rot and death. Blood drained to a pale-skinned touch he rose as a phantom of his true self, his blue eyes no longer clear but cloudy, his hair bleached to a cowardly white from the strawberry blond strands he inherited from his loving mother. Neither living nor a corpse, black vines twisted themselves into neat array over his skin like the fibres of muscle beneath it, only patches of pallour visible and even less with several centuries of rot between them. He may as well be nothing but a lich himself if not for that distinct craving for the true depth of his power, his knowledge lost but the presence of his master violently cramming itself into his brain--for four hundred years he must keep it out, keep it away, lest it overcome him in the absence of his psyche and steal away the last part of Symon he so desperately clings to.

Memories, emotions, senses, and functions trickle out over time, falling limp and blank and drawing to a close, but never quite reaching the point of dying. The body wants to die but Symon Knox rather wants to live, to see more out the polished glasses of his plague mask than he ever would as a young man dying of an incurable sickness. He may have died at twenty, but he lives to twenty-one every day--and although he never quite shakes the feeling of need, need to kill, need to die, need to watch the light leave their eyes, he's gotten quite good at shaking that voice loose and shoving it to the back of his mind. To find something else to fill it, that would do the job quite well....if only he had something to occupy every waking thought, someone so endearing he can't help but run them through his head every waking moment of every living day.

[freyasilverbough]

The Cave Bear and the White Wolf - Waking the Flaming Fist

Cw for blood, mentions of suicide/self sacrifice. Freya being a prickly bitch like normal. Don’t worry she gets better soonish.

Freya handed Halsin a small bag of gold to restock their supplies with the quartermaster - Talli, he learned - while she went inside to speak with Jaheira. He couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of hope, this small pocket of safety in a land he was sure had been all but lost.

As Halsin hoisted his pack over his shoulder - now brimming with bandages, food, fresh water, and herbs to make potions - he tried not to think about the Selûnite who’d captured his attention. She was beautiful, to be sure, the picture of elven grace beneath all the dirt and grime. Her beauty was almost matched by her strength, both mental and physical, and her wit was as sharp as the blade she wielded with that unwavering ferocity. Most soldiers found themselves encumbered by their heavy armor, but Freya danced across each battlefield with the elegance of a noble lady.

He admired her, this woman who was half his size and a hundred years his junior, yet mightier than any he’d ever met. He’d gotten the tiniest of peeks into her mind, and he wanted more than anything to tear down the wall of stone erected around her heart. He wanted to know everything there was to know about her.

As if his thoughts summoned her, Freya came barreling out of the inn, searching the square until her gaze landed on him. He was immediately on alert at the sight of her urgency, and dropped his pack to hurry to her.

“What is it?” He asked, searching her face. Her expression, normally a stoic mask, was excited and swimming with hope.

“There’s a Flaming Fist in the inn. He’s insensible and unconscious, but he keeps singing about Thaniel.”

————

Halsin and Freya stood over the Fist’s bedside as he mumbled his song in his sleep. Over and over, the sleeping man mentioned Thaniel. Freya had not misheard, it was true. They needed to rouse him, to find out what he knew, but how?

“It’s true, then. He’s met Thaniel. We need to wake him.” Halsin repeated his thoughts aloud to Freya as she studied the man.

“Look at his hands,” she said. “His callouses, those aren’t from wielding a sword. He’s a musician, probably played some stringed instrument or another.”

“His name is Art Cullagh. He had this letter on him when we found him,” one of Counselor Florrick’s guards said, handing an old piece of parchment to Freya. She took it, and her brow furrowed as she read it to herself.

“Duke Eltan…he’s long dead,” she whispered. Halsin racked his brain to remember where he’d heard that name, but in truth, the city’s politicians were ever changing and Halsin paid them next to no mind. Freya’s eyes flicked upward to meet Halsin’s. “He was the duke in Baldur’s Gate a century ago,” she explained. “The timeline matches. This letter is an order to investigate a ‘House of Healing.’ I’ll go get the others, and gather a party. We’ll head there tomorrow.”

Halsin wrapped a hand around her bicep as she moved to leave. “You shouldn’t go out in the shadows alone,” he whispered, earning him an icy glare from the paladin.

“I need you here, to watch him. Make sure he doesn’t succumb to whatever this is that ails him. He’s our best lead - our only lead. I’m trusting you with his life, and I’m asking that you trust me with mine.” She sighed when Halsin did not let go. “On my oath, I will return. You have my word.” He loathed the idea of sending her out into the darkness alone, and hated even more that she was right. Art looked like he was on the brink of death, and he was the key to finding Thaniel. If there was anyone who could traverse the shadows on their own, he knew that it was Freya. She would go, retrieve their friends, and return to him intact - or so he prayed.

“Be swift, be brave, and be safe,” he commanded her. She nodded once, her resolve hardening her features, and Halsin released his grip on her arm. He watched as she turned and strode out of the room with her easy swagger. Shoulders back and head high, the picture of confidence and strength.

He prayed to the Oak Father, to Selûne if she would listen, that his soldier would be true to her word and return to him.

————

The Flaming Fist in the room were visibly annoyed by Halsin’s incessant pacing. Freya had left close to two hours before, and there were no signs of her return.

She was probably slowed down by all the gear they had to lug from campsite to campsite. That, or she was a shadow-cursed corpse somewhere…

Halsin growled in frustration at his own thoughts. She probably was slowed down by the larger group and all of their supplies. She had given him no reason to doubt her capabilities, but even the most skilled of warriors could be overwhelmed.

So, he paced. He worried. He watched Art Cullagh as he’d been directed. He worried some more.

After what felt like an eternity, Freya came sauntering through the door. Halsin quickly closed the distance between them and checked her over, but there wasn’t a drop of blood in sight. She removed her gauntlets and flexed her slender hands, the calluses of her palms glinting in the inn’s soft light.

“Not a peep from the shadows, if you can believe it. The others are setting up camp near the lakeshore. Apparently, Shar is protecting Shadowheart from the curse. As much as I despise it, we might be wise to keep her close. Shar’s protection may be an asset. The rest of us will have to figure something else out, if we’re all to reach Moonrise, I heard the shadows are deeper there and our torches won’t keep them at bay.”

“You are not our only secret weapon, paladin. Isobel, a faithful cleric of Selûne, casts the spell that protects this inn. She might be able to aid you, too. She’s upstairs in her room.” Halsin turned to find Jaheira in the doorframe. Secret weapon? He had no idea what she was talking about, and Freya refused to meet his questioning gaze.

“Thank you, High Harper,” Freya nodded at the half elf in gratitude. She finally turned to Halsin, but rather than explain what they had talked about before she left, she simply inquired about Art’s condition.

“He’s restless, but stable. I can come and assist you in settling the camp, but I’ll stay here tonight.” Freya nodded, then motioned for him to follow. Before they could leave the tavern, she spun on her heel and nearly smacked into Halsin’s chest.

“Oh, by the way, there’s an extra wizard. I don’t know what he wants, but it seems Elminster Aumar decided to pay us a visit.”

There was never a boring day with this group. Halsin chuckled as Freya led the way, and noticed it was getting harder not to stare at the sway of her ass as she walked.

————

“By the fucking gods, Gale, are you touched in the godsdamned head?!” Halsin heard Freya shriek at the wizard as he helped Shadowheart erect her tent. “I mean, honestly, you’re meant to be the smart one among us, and this has to be the dumbest fucking shit I’ve ever heard.”

For one so devout, the paladin had a mouth that could make a devil blush. He’d always thought of them as being the pinnacle of righteousness, almost above typical mortals, but Freya seemed bound and determined to prove him wrong at every turn.

“The Absolute is a threat to all of Faerûn, and if I can destroy it and earn Mystra’s forgive - ”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about Mystra. She can rot in the Outer Planes for all I care, or better yet, she can come demand your suicide herself so I can smite her where she stands.”

“What, so you’re the only one allowed to make sacrifices in the name of this mission we’ve all been thrust on? The orb is powerful enough to rid the world of this cult, and you know that. What good is a sword against - well, not a god, but close enough.”

“You doubt my blade, wizard?” Freya’s eyes narrowed as she hurled the accusation.

“Never. But even you must understand that what we’re up against is beyond our mortal capabilities.”

“Your mortal capabilities. Last I checked, my goddess and I are still on very good terms. She’s at least not commanding me to kill myself.”

“And if she did, would you? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. We both know that if Selûne asked you to sacrifice your life to save others, you would throw yourself on your sword without question.”

Freya sucked in a deep breath, then turned on her heel and stormed away from Gale towards the tavern up the hill. Their shouting had drawn the attention of everyone in the party, and a tense silence settled over the camp like a cold blanket. Halsin approached the wizard, noting the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his lip. He’d lost weight, enough that it was obvious under his thick amethyst robes.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The druid asked carefully. While he was typically the camp healer, the role of mediator often fell to Freya. Resolving disputes was something he had much practice in thanks to his time as an Archdruid, and while he despised it in the grove, he found that he wanted to help his new friends overcome their differences and come to an accord.

“She thinks she knows what’s best for everyone, but this isn’t up to her. It’s my life, my orb, my goddess.” Gale shook his head and ran a hand through his hair.

“She cares about you.”

“Funny way of showing it,” Gale mumbled.

“She’s angry because she cares about you. About all of you. Her goal is to see everyone here make it out of this in one piece.” He glanced in the direction that Freya had gone when she stormed off. She had a short fuse on her best days, but something seemed…off. She was wound tighter than normal, and Halsin suspected the curse wasn’t the whole of her troubles.

“Go,” Gale said, interrupting his thoughts. “Check on Freya. I will get over it.”

Halsin nodded at the human before clapping him on the shoulder and heading in search of their paladin.

————

He found her drowning her feelings with the tiefling wizard, Rolan, at the bar in Last Light. As he got closer, he heard Rolan snapping at her as she nursed her drink.

“If you hadn’t convinced us to stay, Cal and Lia would still be here. This is on you,” he seethed, causing a hot fury to boil in Halsin’s stomach. After all she’d done for the grove, for the refugees, he dared to speak to her this way? They would all be dead if she hadn’t come along.

Freya didn’t so much as flinch. “Then it’s my responsibility to bring them back.” Her voice was calm, factual, and ever so slightly slurred.

“They’re my responsibility!”

“Rolan, that’s enough,” the bard, Alfira, scolded quietly in an attempt to calm the other tiefling.

“Go. Save the world, or your own arse, or whatever it is you do.”

“Enough.” Halsin raised his voice as he towered over the red mage in warning. Rolan backed away with a final glower at the paladin, and Halsin took his seat next to her.

“If you’re here to tell me to apologize to Gale, you’re in for a hell of a fight, druid.” She finished what was left in her glass and reached for a bottle half full of amber liquid to fill another. Whiskey, he’d observed these past weeks, was her favorite. Good ale was a close second.

“I’m not. Something is bothering you, and I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Look around us and tell me you’re not bothered.”

“Ever since you talked to Jaheira earlier, you’ve been acting strange.”

She slammed her glass on the bar and gripped it until her knuckles turned white. “I’m not in the fucking mood, Halsin.”

“What happened?”

“Ketheric fucking Thorm happened,” she snapped. “Ketheric Thorm, not just risen from the dead, but invulnerable. I’ve been tasked with infiltrating his stronghold, and now I have to kill an invulnerable man and pray that he doesn’t fucking recognize me. That’s what happened. Are you happy now?” Freya grabbed the whiskey bottle by its neck and stormed away once more, leaving Halsin reeling in her revelation.

Ketheric Thorm. The man who unleashed the curse on this land, the man that he and his comrades had fought so hard to destroy a hundred years before, alive. Memories of that horrid day crashed into him like a tidal wave, and he found himself wishing for his own drink to push them away.

Instead of smothering his growing misery with alcohol, he returned to Art Cullagh’s bedside. He decided he would stay with the man until they woke him, or he eventually succumbed.

————

“Look alive, druid.” Halsin barely had time to catch the lute as it came flying at his face. Freya strode into the room with Shadowheart, Astarion, and Lae’zel in tow, the githyanki and the paladin soaked in black blood. It was a similar sight to the aftermath of Marcus’ failed abduction of Isobel, the Selûnite cleric who protected this patch of land and extended that protection to those who would need to travel outside of the shield’s boundaries.

“Found this on a surgeon in the House of Healing,” Freya explained gruffly.

“Are you hurt?” His eyes trailed up and down her form in search of injury, but unless she felt inclined to strip the black armor that covered her from neck to toe, there wasn’t much to be seen. Given her mood towards him lately, he found that particular scenario unlikely.

“The surgeon was some creepy follower of Shar. Wanted to take my eyes. I took his head instead.” Shadowheart huffed at Freya’s explanation. “Found the lute in a chest, look at the neck.” Halsin did as she wished, spinning the instrument until he found the letters A.C. carved into the wood.

“This is what we needed,” he whispered. “Well done, indeed.” His chest swelled with pride as he held the lute out to her, this day was her victory. She should be the one to break the man’s trance. “Go on, then. Maybe its music will restore him.”

“Or perhaps my horrid musical skills will finally put the poor man to rest,” she quipped as she removed her bloodsoaked gauntlets. Freya rolled her black sleeves up to her elbows, lithe muscles flexing with the movement. She took the lute from Halsin with a roll of her pretty blue eyes, and began to play.

With her prior comment, he was not expecting the easy notes that floated from the strings in a haunting melody that floated effortlessly through the air like a ghostly whisper. Her fingers danced across the strings with grace, each note carrying the weight of centuries past, filling the room with a sense of mystery and longing. A northern tune, to be sure. Perhaps a clue to her homeland, Halsin had guessed that she hailed from the frigid tundras of the north, but where specifically he could not say. Her playing brought tears to his eyes, until Art startled awake and he was once more brought back to earth.

Halsin laid a calming hand on the Fist’s shoulder and knelt as he jolted upright. “Calm,” he murmured, the bedside manner of an Archdruid taking over. “Breathe. You’ve been trapped in the Shadowfell for a century. Take a moment to clear your mind.” Freya set the instrument down carefully next to Art’s bed and knelt on one knee, nodding at Halsin to take the lead.

“You-you’re Halsin. Thaniel said to find you. He’s in danger, you have to save him.”

“I will. But I must know where to look. If I venture into the Shadowfell blind, I will never find him.” He met Freya’s piercing blue gaze. Perhaps he should have told her the whole of his plan before they got to this point, but she wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her own schemes.

“The landscape shifts and changes…lavender. Whenever I saw Thaniel, I always smelled lavender.” Halsin nodded and helped the man to lay back down before turning to Freya.

“Meet me by the lakeshore. I have what we need, but I’ll need your help to see this through. Be ready, this may prove…perilous.”

Freya’s eyes narrowed at Halsin’s direction. “What is it you’re planning to do here, druid?” she demanded.

“I’ll explain everything, after you’ve gathered your supplies. I suggest bringing anyone along that wields radiant magic. Fire, light, the works. Your own magic will be needed more than your blade, I’ll wager. Meet me there, and we’ll discuss what comes next.”

Freya studied him for a long moment, then turned on her heel and headed in the direction of their camp. A ball of anxiety took root and began to grow in his stomach. He knew the shadows would not be banished without a fight, and he was asking even more of this woman who had already done so much to aid him. A paladin of Selûne was perhaps the most well equipped to handle the threat that was about to come her way, but he’d seen enough great warriors fall to a well placed blow that he worried for her. He knew she would protect her friends - and him - no matter the cost, even at the cost of her own life.

Halsin took a steadying breath and retrieved a lit torch from the wall, making his way in long strides either to his doom, or their salvation.

[illusivesoulgaming]

"Directions"

Yesterday I saw an re music video on Youtube and one of the comments said "The alternate reality where the Raccoon City outbreak never happened". That was my inspiration for writing this short little thing.

.

Summary: "In a world where the Raccoon City outbreak never happened, a cop in the subway gets asked for directions"

Relationships: Leon/Claire

Word Count: 699

Read on AO3

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The subway never had many people at this hour. All the better for him, he thought as he rubbed his eyes. The hangover from last night’s party with Jim was killing him. Downing half a vodka bottle after losing a coin toss didn’t seem like a good idea today, but it had certainly seemed good enough for him last night.

���Train arriving soon”

The computerized voice and the short jingle made him rub the sides of his head. Everyday he spent posted to the subway, the more he wished to get out of there. But rookies went wherever they were sent, not where they wanted to be.

“Just a few weeks and then we’ll have you in the streets. You’ll like the subway, Leon. Not a lot goes on there” Marvin had said to him. 

“ “Not a lot goes on there” Understatement of the century” the cop said as he stretched his arms, barely containing a yawn as he did. Still had to keep the appearance of professionalism.

“Why does a city of a hundred thousand even have a subway?” Leon said to himself as he watched the few people that went in and out of the arriving trains. There were a lot more around rush hour, but still, he didn’t think it justified the number of trains or even the existence of the system in the city. “And Warren said they’re going to expand it even more next year. Must be laundering money or something. I should look into it”

“Give it up, mayor Warren! You’re under arrest” Leon said with his gun drawn as the door from the mayor’s office fell to the floor after he kicked it, a squad of police officers and the S.T.A.R.S unit behind him backing him up as he entered the office “You’re nothing but Umbrella’s puppet, taking their dirty money in exchange for letting them do as they please with this town, but it ends now!”

And just as he was exiting the building with the mayor in cuffs, ready to give his statement to the waiting reporters and their flashing cameras, a strong pull in his shoulder snapped him back to reality and out from his daydreaming.  

“Hello? Civilian contacting planet cop. Anyone in there receiving me?” 

Leon shook his head as he turned to see a redheaded woman in a leather jacket that left her toned arms exposed, black fingerless gloves and long brown boots staring into his soul with a very annoyed expression set on her face.

“Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?”

“Glad to see the city officers being so aware of their surroundings. Only had to stand here for a minute before you noticed. Do you know what station goes to the police department? I’m going to see my brother?”

“Take the train to Redstone Street Station. Once you exit, it’s only a short walk to the department”

“Good. Thanks” the woman replied “By any chance, do you happen to know if Chris Redfield is currently there?”

“Sure is. At least was when I left 2 hours ago” Mentioning the time made him remember all the hours he still had ahead of him before his shift ended. He complained mentally as usual. "Huh, did Chris ever mention he had a sister? Can't remember"

A bright white light began filling the tunnel, and shortly after the big red train arrived and stopped at the station.

The woman stepped into the train, and shortly before it closed, Leon spoke.

“Hey, tell Chris he still owes me 5 bucks”

The woman chuckled “Will do. He owes me money too. What’s your name?”

But before he could answer, the doors slid close and the train moved away from the station.

“Meh, whatever. I’ll tell Chris the daydreaming blondie cop at the subway station told me that you owe him money” Claire said to herself as she watched Leon slowly fading away into the distance as the train entered the tunnel.

“He’s cute. In that dorky way kind of cute” she thought as she sat down and turned on her walkman, put on her headphones and lost herself in the music as the train took her to her destination.

[keepsmagnetoaway]

X-Men 50 (November 1968)

Arnold Drake/Jim Steranko

For its half-century, X-Men goes all out with an absolutely groundbreaking, balls-out crazy issue with easily the finest art the series has yet seen, starting right off with the cover.

That cover is by Jim Steranko, who also drew the interiors of this issue, and my god is he good at it. Steranko drew extensively for Marvel in the 60s, especially Nick Fury/SHIELD stories, and almost always wote as well: this and the next issue are rare instances of him drawing someone else's script. Steranko was amazing - he brought a level of creativity that verged on surrealism to the medium. He also, as you can see, designed a new logo for X-Men, which became iconic in its own right. That cover is followed immediately by the deeply atmospheric, radically composed first page.

And then that is immediately followed by a two-page splash of an impossibly strange vista, including the issue's title in monumental stone. We're not past the scene setting and this is probably the most exciting issue of X-Men ever.

Steranko clearly owed a debt to Jack Kirby too, and he brings back some of Kirby's high weirdness, including the characteristic energy dots and the bizarre machinery - but he pairs it with a stronger sense of human form and a radical use of colour. This, again, is the very next page. Plot-wise - oh, right, there's a plot - this is Lorna Dane being mysteriously techno-crucified by Mesmero.

Unfortunately there are also some normie X-Men in this issue, trying to break into Mesmero's San Francisco home - but after a fight they too are spirited away to the city in the desert as things like storytelling logic begin to break down in the face of the art.

Look at this! Just look at it!

The machine does indeed turn Dane - now revealed to be Magneto's lost daughter - into a villain queen, arriving in another splash page of massive daring and wild perspective.

It's almost embarrassing to see the regular X-Men in their dorky costumes and leaden wisecracking interfering here.

Fuck! Look at this!

That panel was Lorna Dane revealing that in fact she's not evil: she has simply been massively empowered and was playing along, and then saves the day in a single burst of blue-white force. But it's a double-twist, because machine's true purpose...

...was bringing Magneto back. Incredible. Masterpiece. Indisputably the best issue of this series so far. Steranko also drew the next issue and then never drew X-Men again and I'm so mad about it.

[separatist-apologist]

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

There was no hungover Arina to join Elain that next morning when she woke. There was a box, with a small, pink swim suit tucked against pretty white tissue. That was from Arina, an apology Elain thought for falling asleep in the library, leaving her to make her way through the palace alone.

She hoped, anyway. 

There was also a note in masculine script. 

Two o’clock. 

She supposed it was childish to go to his mother and demand a new teacher. Lucien acted as if she’d personally wronged him, when he was the one who’d shoved her. And yet Lucien acted as if she’d committed some grave, unforgivable sin against him. He was going to ruin everything for her, prove Killian right, and more than anything, Elain couldn’t abide by that. So she’d let tears fall down her cheeks and begged Amera Spell-Cleaver to please, please let someone else tutor her. 

Clearly that had failed. 

She didn’t believe Lucien could reign in his temper long enough to give her a worthwhile lesson which was the only thing that kept Elain from stalking to the throne room for his mother again. Let Lucien prove was a spoiled princeling he was. No one could accuse her of not trying, at least. She’d had her fair share of males like Lucien—Killian was just the same. Self-satisfied, pompous and arrogant, with a handsome face and a title that ensured he was never without company.

Elain dressed in blue and tried not to feel out of place with the satin sleeves hugging her arms despite the choking humidity. Elain wasn’t ready for breezy gowns with open backs and long slits up the sides, nor was she ready for pants.

Or teeny tiny swimsuits.

Instead, Elain chose to be dutiful. In the library, she pulled a book of all the current trade deals made between all seven courts over the last century and a half. The book held nearly a thousand pages of transcripts, documents, and testimony—and all of it was terribly dull. Four pages in, and Elain caught herself wondering if marriage to Killian wasn’t so terrible.

And then she remembered he was born the same year her mother was, and how often he’d picked her up when she’d been a little girl, and Elain went back to writing out detailed notes.

Sometimes agreements between courts was simple. Night and Day had built roads between their border cities, and seventy four years earlier, had arranged to have a guard of two soldiers from Day, and two from Night, inspect all goods that came in and out. Merchants were required to have matching seals—a sun and a moon—in order to sell their goods between the two courts. 

Other times they were more complex, such as when Summer imposed a tariff to all incoming ships looking to dock at their harbor. For Autumn, who relied on goods from the northern part of Prythian to make their way through Summer, this had been especially fraught and had nearly resulted in a war. 

Elain didn’t know how any of the High Lords managed any politicking when their overly large egos constantly got in the way. More often than not, simple things caused major fights that could go on for years. 

Decades, even. 

Elain rubbed at her eyes. She wanted to go back to her book about Seers—to read the firsthand account of a young girl grappling with visions, and the observations of a philosopher pondering the nature of such magic and why the Cauldron saw fit to pass it down the way it did. Seers rarely came through genetic lines, and were borne of all seven courts indiscriminately. 

Though, they showed up most frequently in Hybern, where Elain’s father was from. He was unremarkable unless you counted his head for numbers. What were the odds he had three extraordinary daughters? 

Elain compiled her notes, prepared this time for if Lucien asked her about trades. She hadn’t covered all of them, but she’d done just enough to hopefully impress upon him that she was serious. If he was the best, then Elain wanted him to show her how it was done. How to gather information, how to sit at the table with lords far older and cannier than her, and still have her way. Elain already knew the value of a pretty smile, of a well-placed hand and a well-timed laugh. 

But that was merely feigning interest and not getting her way. It was what saw Elain in her current predicament. She’d been too nice to Killian and now he believed she had genuine affection for him. 

He tried to sleep with her before she left. Pinned up against a wall, grinding himself against her as he’d murmured in her ear, “Something to remember me by.”Part of her thought it might just be better to get the whole thing over with. It might even temper Killain’s own lust once he realized he’d had her and no one else would ever get that distinction. She’d been too afraid, squeaking out an apology and excuse until he stopped kissing her neck and let her go. 

It seemed like sex was the favored pastime in Day. Elain knew of the orgies, the parties—had seen the prince on his knees, even—and didn’t think that was how she wanted her first time to be, either. She wanted to at least like the male. To be able to look back on it fondly rather than cringing at the memory. 

She was thinking of, maybe, if she could get her bearings, finding someone in the Day Court who was charming. Kind, even. Someone who would understand the limitations of her situation without being a massive prick about it. That wouldn’t expect marriage but not be cold or callous with her, either.

She pushed open the door to the small study, disappointed to find Lucien lounging in the high backed leather chair at the head of the square table, sandaled feet. The material of the fabric slung over his hips had ridden against his long, muscular thighs to a near indecent length. As he so often was, his chest was bare save for the white that cut diagonal over the broad planes of his torso, clasped with a golden brooch shaped like the sun. 

His auburn hair was half braided off his handsome face, and his wrists and bicep were cuffed in gold. He looked powerful, rakish even with that long hair, and still well-mannered and elegant. Every inch of him betrayed what he’d one day become. High Lord of Day—and an ally, if he ever stopped hating her.

If she could ever get past how much she loathed him.

Lucien looked up from the book in his hands, russet eyes sweeping over her before landing on the clock on the fireplace mantle.

“On time today,” he said, swinging his legs to the floor. Elain closed the door behind her, dropping her stack of notes to the table before sitting primly in her chair. 

Lucien drummed his fingers over the table for a moment, his jaw clenched. Elain braced herself for an onslaught of his temper, for him to slice her to bloodied ribbons for going to his mother.

“About yesterday,” he began in that deep, rich voice of his. Elain suppressed a shiver, bracing herself. “I’m sorry.”

Her mouth fell open. “What?”

Lucien’s full lips pulled into a thin line. “I’m not going to say it again.”

“You’re sorry?” she gaped. Of all the things he might have said, she’d never considered an apology.

“Yes,” he agreed crisply. “I—regret my words.”

He didn’t sound wholly convinced of that, and yet he was still apologizing. Elain nodded, deciding she wouldn’t outright forgive him. Not until he’d proven he would at least work with her. They didn’t have to be friends—he didn’t have to even respect her, really. So long as he trained her well enough to never have to return to Spring, Elain would be satisfied. 

“We’ll be going to Summer,” Lucien began, pulling out a large pad of paper. He propped it against an easel he’d dragged in, standing beside it with a black pen in hand. “There are things you need to know before you ever step foot inside.”

“Like what?” she asked, moving aside her own notes to jot down whatever Lucien said. 

His eyes swept over her. “Like the way they dress, for starters,” he said, making his distaste for her attire plain. 

Elain’s eyes widened, though she wrote it down anyway. “Okay.”

“Unlike other courts, Summer doesn’t conduct their meetings in a hall or a throne room. They take foreign dignitaries to an off-shore pleasure barge.”

Elain forced herself to remain unbothered, though the mention of a pleasure barge made her uncomfortable. She knew exactly what that meant and from the way Lucien was decidedly not making eye contact with her, she knew he understood, too. Elain wanted to ask him if the expectation was for her to have sex with one of them, but that was wild—and far too cruel, even for Lucien. 

He began writing on his large sheet of paper. “Dominic is who we’re trying to sway. He oversees the narrow channel between the Gulf of Adriata and the Prythian Sea. He had immense sway with the High Lord and right now imposes a tariff of thirty percent of all incoming goods against foreign ships.” Elain nodded, writing so quickly her hand was cramping.

“Summer has long coveted a relationship with Day outside of our usual dealings—one the High Lord is prepared to ink on paper if we can get them to lower the tariff to ten percent.”

“What’s the deal?”

“Saffron,” Lucien said, eyes sweeping over Elain. “It’s costly, especially to export.”

“So you’re offering to, what, exactly?”

“A wholesale price of saffron without the export fees and taxes in exchange for passage through the strait. Passing the straits lets us avoid the dangerous waters of Prythian’s southern sea and make more direct routes to Hybern and beyond. Without it, we’re forced to go up around night where the icy water damages our ships.”

“What am I supposed to do, exactly?”

Lucien glanced over his shoulder. “Surely I’m not required to teach you the art of seduction as well.”

Elain hated him for saying that. “Is that what you’ll be doing?”

A wolfish smile spread over his face. “Yes.”

“I thought there would be more…negotiation…” Elain replied lamely, hating that stupid look on his ridiculous face. Lucien arched a brow before turning back to his paper. 

“You thought we’d spend more time sitting around a table arguing when every court has a celebratory orgie? Truly, Elain?”

She did choke on her air, then. “Excuse me?”

“This is why I thought bringing you here was a bad idea. You don’t have to fuck anyone. It’s the illusion, Elain. The game—”

“And when they visit you, is that how they get what they want?” she demanded. 

He was still grinning. “Sometimes.”

Elain believed it. Against her will, the image of Lucien ducking his head beneath some nameless females skirt flooded through her mind. Elain pushed it aside, determined she wouldn’t be distracted. 

Elain let Lucien drone on about Dominic, the Summer court noble they’d be expected to charm and woo, until her hand ached. Two hours was all she got with him until it was time to go. Elain meant to sprint out that door in order to escape Lucien.

“Elain? Can I ask you a question?” he called when she stood, reaching for the door handle.

“No,” she replied, walking out without a look back. Elain had no interest in Lucien’s questions. He might have gotten himself together to educate her today, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he was back to insulting her.

The less they knew about each other, the better.

LUCIEN:

Lucien exhaled a breath, his head hitting the marble wall behind him. He didn’t know who was on her knees in front of him, pushing the fabric of his clothes up over his hips. He didn’t care. Lucien was more than a little intoxicated and was back to doing what he did best when he didn’t want to confront his feelings.

He was fucking. 

Well, he was getting his cock sucked, to be precise. He groaned when soft fingers wrapped around his aching shaft.

“Is this what you like, lord?” she whispered, pumping him roughly. Lucien bucked into her hands, gripping the strands of her hair.

“I’d like it better in your throat,” he growled, angling himself so the tip of his cock smeared precum against her bright red lips. She opened wide, tongue stuck out in invitation. Lucien was going to get caught. Despite the late hour, he hadn’t managed to get back to his bedroom before he’d lost control of himself and the writhing female he’d been hauling over his shoulders. 

He didn’t care. Not when she swallowed him nearly to the root, gagging softly on thick length of him. Lucien’s groan of pleasure bounced off the high ceiling, echoing around him. This was what he needed, he told himself. A release—a pause from the stress he felt and his regular life. 

Something was off. Lucien watched her bobbing head, fingers threaded through thick, dark hair and yet where he ought to have been building higher, he found himself stalled. He wasn’t so drunk that he’d become numb.

Lucien closed his eyes, which helped. Thinking of nothing specific, he let himself be overtaken by the silken heat of the females tongue. Of her wet mouth and the sounds of soft gagging that seemed to spear straight into his balls.

He didn’t try and hold himself back like he so often did, drawing out pleasure until the last possible second. He didn’t want to risk losing the cresting pleasure and the orgasm he so desperately needed. Lucien tightened his hold in the sucking females hair, spreading his legs ever so slightly. 

A flash of big, brown eyes stole through his imagination. Of Elain staring up at him from the table, her lips sucked around the tip of her pen. Elbows on the table, pushing her small, pert breasts higher until they practically heaved against her rather modest neckline.

“No,” he groaned, but it was too late. Lucien came with a violence he wasn’t accustomed to, spilling himself all at once. He couldn’t stop, nor could he recall a time he’d ever felt that good. Pleasure quickly sluiced into cold dread when he realized he’d come, whether intentionally or not, to the image of Elain taking notes. 

The female pulled back, pressing a kiss to the tip of his cock. “Was that good for you?”

“I—”

Clipping shoes down the hall caused her to rise to her feet while Lucien adjusted his clothing. A moment later, Arina rounded the corner holding a pile of clothing in her arms. She narrowed her eyes when she saw him, eyes sliding down his body to the bulge of his still erect cock straining against the white fabric of his clothes.

“Charming, as always,” she said, glancing toward the female. “Larissa.”

“Arina,” she murmured with an incline of her head. Lucien saw his opportunity to escape and took it. He shot Larissa an apologetic glance before trailing after Arina.

“You stink,” Arina complained the moment he fell into step beside her.

He only shrugged. “Where were you tonight?”

“Trying to make Elain Archeron feel welcome like your mother asked me,” Arina said. “She asked me what kind of clothes were worn in Summer Court and I went and dug some up for her.”

“You should have made her do it,” Lucien grumbled, unwilling to be charitable despite how his pulse was still pounding in his cock. He didn’t want to think about her like that. Lucien imagined Elain as a nervous, silent thing besides. Exactly what a Spring Court prince would want. Seen and not heard, legs spread silently, unconcerned about pleasure. 

If she could even feel it, of which Lucien doubted. What kind of High Fae didn’t like to fuck? Elain looked as if her eyes might pop out of her head when he’d suggested seduction as a political tactic. 

Arina only sighed. “Not everything needs to be so difficult, Lucien.”

“Try telling her that–”

“Spoke like a true child,” Arina snapped, rounding on him. “And Larissa? Really?”

“Why not Larissa?” he asked defensively, though in truth, Lucien doubted he’d see her again. 

“You don’t remember last summer? The fight in the garden—”

“Oh, that was her?” Lucien asked, thinking of that muggy night when Arina had come to physical blows with another female at court. She’d never said what had happened and Lucien knew better than to ask. “What was the fight over, anyway?”

“My father,” Arina gritted out. Lucien’s smile died, nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath. Arina’s father had once been a respected member of Helions court. Now he was little more than a drunk pissing away generations of wealth at the gambling tables. He’d never recovered after Arina’s mother died, though from what Lucien remembered, the male had never seemed to show much affection for her, either. 

“Oh,” he said, feeling like a shitty friend.

Arina cut him a sharp glance. “It’s like I said, Lucien. Not everything has to be so difficult.”

“Arina,” he pleaded, but she took off ahead of him, tossing her glossy waves over her shoulder without a look back. Lucien was fucking everything up lately. He knew he was. He just barely had friends anymore. His parents were disappointed in him, Arina didn’t like being around him…fuck, Lucien didn’t like being around himself, either. 

He thought about that until the sun rose—how he couldn’t figure out how he’d ended up like this. Jaded and angry despite having no reason to be. And he knew where Arina would be first thing in the morning. Padding out to the blue mosaic tile and the sparkling, inlaid pool that his family used when they couldn’t be bothered to go to the beach, Lucien stretched himself out on Arina’s favorite raft in nothing but a pair of orange shorts. He’d spent half the morning floating with her and the other half dragging her into the city for food and drinks until the bridge of her nose was sunburned and she didn’t look at him with such open exasperation. 

He was pleased when Arina rounded the corner wearing matching orange. She put her hands on her hips when she saw him, sighing loudly.

“Haven’t you heard of just saying sorry?” she demanded, wading down the steps while tying her hair messily against her scalp.

“Nope. This is all I know,” he replied with a grin.

“The least you could have done was bring drinks.”

“That comes later. On me,” he added, as if there was ever any doubt. What good was being the High Lord’s heir if Lucien couldn’t get his best friend rip roaring drunk on occasion? 

Lucien slid into the warm water, holding the raft still so Arina could fling herself on top of it gracelessly. They both couldn’t fit, so instead Lucien braced his arms against the side and propelled them around the pool lazily, flooding her with water without sinking her. 

“Tell me the gossip,” Lucien said, even though he knew just as much as she did. It was a peace offering.

Talk to me.

“Is it true your mother is inviting all of Autumn Court for her birthday?”

Lucien sighed. “Just my brothers. They’ll be here for three days.”

Arina glanced over at him. “I’m sorry, Lucien.”

He played dumb. “Why? Mother loves them—”

“But you don’t. They’re awful. I hear the rumors too, you know…”

“It’s not that I don’t love them,” Lucien murmured, his heart pounding in his chest. “It’s that…I just—I wish they didn’t exist. They tie her to that place where she was hurt and I know they’re angry she left, too. They all think she should have stayed and endured Beron Vanserra and—”

Lucien was breathing so hard he thought his chest might cave in. Arina turned her head and poked him in the cheek.

“We could leave. Spend a week in another court?”

“And leave my father with four Vanserra’s? I know they’re only coming to spoil things for mother. No. We need to be here as a reminder of how much better off she is. That leaving them was the right thing to do—that she has a son who she wanted, and wasn’t forced on her.”

“Lucien,” Arina murmured again, but he shook his head.

“One day she’s going to realize they were rotten from the start. There was nothing she could do to fix them and no amount of bringing them around is going to free them from the Vanserra genes. I want to be here as a reminder that leaving was the right thing to do—and if she’d met my father first, she could have had more sons that weren’t such obvious and terrible disappointments.”

“So we throw her the most obscene party Prythian has ever seen,” Arina said with a smile. “I know Helion likes to celebrate her in the palace, but imagine the whole city celebrating their Lady. Given how Beron has never said one kind thing about her, I would imagine it would be difficult for his sons to enjoy themselves. And ruining it just proves everyone right about them.” Lucien straightened himself. “And it might convince them to even leave early.”

He felt as if he could breathe again. It was, perhaps, a devious plan—a cruel plan given how much her mother wanted to bridge the gap between her sons from her first marriage and her happy life now.

She didn’t understand how much better off she’d be without them. 

Lucien could show her though. He’d free her from Autumn.

[dwellordream]

“At the end of the 19th century, when slightly more than half of all working people were still engaged in agriculture and the nation’s population was still concentrated mostly in the Eastern states, the statistically and geographically average American woman would have been a 38-to-40-year-old white farmer’s wife with four or five children, living in southwestern Ohio. Like 98 percent of married white women in 1890, this “average” American woman did not work for pay outside her home. In addition to housekeeping, cooking, and child care, though, she probably performed a great deal of farm labor and may have sold eggs and butter to make a little cash.

She may also have been involved in local church work, or a temperance (anti-alcohol) group, or a ladies’ auxiliary of the county Grange, an organization that encouraged farmer cooperatives and agitated for farmers’ political rights. Our typical mid-continent woman was probably not an immigrant, but she might well have been the offspring of German or Scandinavian immigrants, the groups that had dominated the settlement of the Midwest after the Civil War. Her own daughter, coming of age in the 1890s and educated in a local township school, might have more opportunities than her mother. Unless she married a farmer, or her parents needed her labor at home, she could move to Chicago or some other large city and take up work in a factory, shop, or office.

This picture of the statistically average American woman and her daughter does not tell the whole story. In fact, the typical, if not the average, white American woman in 1890 was just as likely to be a young working-class woman--a Russian-Jewish or Italian garment worker in New York City, a Polish meat packer in Chicago, or an Irish domestic servant in Boston--as she was to be a farmer’s wife in Ohio or Nebraska, because immigration was changing the population so rapidly in 1890. The waves of British, Irish, and German immigration had ended in the 1880s. Now the immigrants, who arrived each year in the hundreds of thousands, came mostly from eastern and southern Europe--Russia, Poland, Serbia, Hungary, Greece, and Italy.

…The picture of women’s lives in the South at the turn of the century differed in several significant ways from that of their Northern counterparts. Southern society had been all but destroyed in the Civil War, along with Southern cities and much of the Southern landscape. Recovery had been slow and incomplete, and the South did not share the industrial prosperity of the North. Society was sharply divided along racial lines, and white racism had become steadily worse after Reconstruction ended in the late 1870s. Confined largely to jobs in agriculture, African Americans worked as laborers on vast cotton or tobacco plantations, or as sharecroppers, paying for the fields that they leased from white landowners with a share of their crops. Few black families owned farms of their own.

Although many black women dreamed of a life in which they could devote full time to family cares and household responsibilities, most had to work full days for white landowners or toil in the fields alongside their husbands in order to maintain even a minimum family income. The few jobs available to black women outside agriculture were in domestic service--working for white families--or in laundries, or in segregated mills and cigarette factories. Black families made enormous sacrifices to keep their daughters in school, with the expectation that they might become teachers or small-business owners. African-American parents could hope that the next generation of black women might escape sharecropping or working in white men’s houses, where they were subject to insult and frequently in danger of sexual assault.

…Western coastal states were especially attractive to Asian immigrants, though the influx of Chinese laborers had slowed to a trickle after the Chinese Exclusion Act became law in 1882. Filipino immigration increased significantly after the Spanish-American War in 1898, and by the end of the 19th century, Japanese immigrants had established substantial communities in California. Although the Chinese and Filipino immigration was at first mostly male, Japanese immigration was more evenly balanced between men and women.

The Asian groups tended to remain isolated from the larger, white society, which regarded their different physical characteristics, as well as their languages and customs, with deep suspicion and contempt. Like women in other immigrant cultures, Asian women remained more isolated and less assimilated than men, remaining homebound or working in restaurants, laundries, or small industries run exclusively by members of their community. Many new brides went straight from the boat to the farms of central California, where they picked fruits and vegetables alongside their husbands by day and cooked meals and cared for their children and living quarters the rest of the time.”

- Karen Manners Smith, “Woman’s World in 1890.” in New Paths to Power: American Women, 1890-1920

[the-scarlet-manor]

The Crystal Isles guide (2023)

Alright tumblr folks if anyone even reads these, Ive started working on the character sheets and i decided to put in fictional places as part of their info, however tumblr dont have the context for the silly floating place yet so im just gonna drop this here real quick

This post oughta be a bit long. Written in November 2023, copypasted from my Deviantart (dont go there)

This is The Crystal Isles, its where The Scarlet Manor's story takes place in and its cool

originally a sunken landmass that resurfaced from the rise of gigantic seamonsters centuries ago, it sits in the Oceania continent , got marked as us territory, its a wild place

one half of the country is populated with humans, and the other is populated with vampires (or mutants if youre a science nerd but just call them vampires)

the yellow white + red blue represents the division between humans and vampires, with the white+ yellow representing the sun and sky, and the red + blue representing the bloodshed and deadly oceans vamps are associated with

the two races are in a truce though bc the only way to combat the ocassional leviathans invading their country is by working together

Making for some very interesting dynamics.

This whole country is still a draft , so things are expected to be changed and expanded in the future, but thats still in the future . Anyway-

First we'll start off with the human zones:

Emeralis- this is mainly more of a military headquarters area but theres the One (1) city in here that residents live in , theyre middle class and working class, and some are homeless from other regions that had no other choice but to move here, this region is also one of the main two barriers that divide the humans from the vampires, outside the wall you enter Lazule

Carneli- now this ones BIIGG its the second biggest region in the human portion and its thriving, main agricultural grounds and the source of food, has a very diverse cuisine culture raging from cool garden salads to seafood by the region's edge

Quartzfort- home to the richest mfs of the isles, very pretentious and extremely wealthy region , also home to very shady and crappy people . claims themselves as the main representative of humans in the entire isles, so everyone has to look their best all the time, No Exceptions, none, ever

Amethys- the one gateway to Crystal isles to the rest of the world, you cant enter from anywhere else. theres lots of planes here !!! and airline stations, and a super diverse population of people because they come from all over the globe (whats left of it, anyway) . because of so many people living here, its also beome a huge entertainment center, showbiz, bootleg crystal hollywood, whatnot

Opalis- a fifth region that i didnt include here because it doesnt have its own flag currently. but its still a crucial part of the country, the second barrier of the isles. once a thriving region turned into the experimenta. grounds of this mega science corp called SCI-REN , absolutely deplorable company that endorses child experimentation and killing for the name of science, its awful . but what can anyone do about it ? theyre powerful af and has built themselves up to the top where noone can plummet them down

Now onto the vampire regions (or if you want to be fancy; Mutant Zones)

Lazule- the main setting the story, the flag is designed after a moonflower because its all over the place and they like that. The region is the main source of entertainment amongst vampires so you got the arena, vampire hollywood (if they named it vollywood im gonna do something bad to myself) and other cool celebrities, its also very tech savvy, you got the tech bros in here and Perlas

Ruby- hellhole. thats it Ruby is a hellhole, its very impoverished next to Tanzan and has extremely high crime rates and child abuse cases, unethical labor, trafficking, very corrupt government, further screwed over by the higher ups from the richer regions. you get noodles and chilli here also

Tanzan- another hellhole, also impoverished and is the origins of the most brutal sport of vampires named "dogfighting" which is basically make hungry vamps attack each other to the death while you place your bets on them , they have a tough warrior kind of culture around these parts, very into solving things with violence

Perlas- Richest and also biggest region in the vamps portion , also has a lot of factories and mass produce, partners with Lazule in their tech bizz, pretty shady though , theres jerks here who profits off of the suffering of Tanzan + Ruby and pays trashy big corps

Sapphire- the token vegan region , theyre cool here and they want to prove that vampires can still live without abusing the animals in the meat industry and just. not eat meat at all , considered "progressive" in their time, they eat more legumes because honestly as much as they crave blood they just need the protein . popularized blood and meat alternatives, go green , blablabla

Azur- buddies with Sapphire ! though they still eat meat but theyre more of omnivores, Sapph encouraged them to eat more leaves. good for them , there economically on the down low and have the smallest population but honestly ? theyre the chillest region by far, theyre vibing. oh also they popularized eating bugs

- AZ