#the knowledge of the passage of time is a curse

[ineffag-swag]

Anyone else suffering from chronic not being able to rewatch things syndrome

[chimkin-samich]

Posted it on the clock app right here

Context under the cut

But basically we came up with a new AU that I've been calling "Unphotogenic" for simplistic obvious reasons in which it diverts from our og au and it involves Tari working as a photographer (used more as a backpack carrying assistant) for a studio affiliated with fazcorp and situated in the pizzaplex to take care of every picture to take for birthdays and events, discouraging ppl to use their own cameras, phones, flashes, or hire other groups of photographers unfamiliar with safety rules and obstructing passage to important vacating areas for staff.

In this au the boys didn't get their upgrade either, the best they got is a fix to their face's internal mechanisms to be able to move eyebrows, close eyelids and slightly move the corners of their mouths , but that's about it.

I tried, truly, to go with the full biblically accurate look but I, as a person, am so unserious I had to grant them at least the bare minimum of expression or I was going to giggle my checks off every serious scene.

Also... I want to curse you with the knowledge that the age I went by is approximately canonical to the time they've been built and activated first.

They're OLD OLD lmao

Even if they consider themselves to have "two birthdays each, one is the system date, the other is when they gained full sentience and emotional spectrum.

[tatzelbookwurm]

A Round Door Like a Porthole, Lazarus Green Pt. 1 Pt. 2 (you're here) Pt. 3 Pt. 4

Art of LBM

Danny was still lying under the Specter Speeder, mind reeling as the words “they opened this portal with a child sacrifice, and bound his death and all the lost life potential to their bloody machine to create a perpetual gateway to the Infinite Realms” ran in a loop through his head. Could that really be true? Is his death attached to the portal, forever lodged in the doorway, preventing it from closing?

The guy clearly knew what he was talking about. The bit about why his ghost friends and frenemies caused so much chaos as they unleashed their obsessions on Amity Park made so much sense. It would certainly explain a lot of his interactions with ghosts after he died. 

 Danny silently cursed himself for not destroying everything in the lab before they got here. He and Jazz hadn't worried about the portal schematics, because they honestly didn't have any way to open a portal, only cycle energy in a recursive loop that shouldn’t have done anything. No one, not he and Jazz, not their parents, not Tucker or Technus, had been able to figure out why it had worked when Danny was inside. But if the machine was able to sustain a portal that was already opened. . . He wondered idly if he could light a fire that looked accidental and would both destroy the lab and leave the two men enough time to escape. It’d probably be too risky. And who knew what destroying the portal would do to him. Fully kill him? Destroy him completely and shatter his core? It might be worth it to prevent anyone from gaining this knowledge. 

No wonder Lex Luthor was interested in this business. A child was murdered in this basement, and for all Tim knew, the child’s soul could still be trapped here fueling a Lazarus Pit that connected the world of the living to the afterlife. What Luthor could do with an interdimensional portal or even a single sample of Lazarus water. . . Tim shuddered to think.

On the one hand, he was grateful that Wayne Enterprises secured the business before Luthor had the chance. On the other hand, he felt rather ill to think his family had directly enriched mad scientists who performed child sacrifices. At least he had full faith that between him and Oracle, they’d hunt the Fentons down and make sure justice was served.

“What is to be done for the child?” Tim asked Constantine. “Is his soul tied to that machine?”

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it’s just his death.” 

“You’re gonna have to explain the difference to me, ‘cause I’m not sure I see the distinction.” Tim said wryly. 

“I guess. . . Hm. You could think of it as the moment of transition drawn out endlessly like a plucked string whose note never stops vibrating. Like life is the anchor point of one end of the string, and the afterlife is at the other end, and the child’s death is the note created when his soul crosses from one side to the other. The soul is the bow causing reverberations, but the reverberations are the actual death itself. The effect of the soul’s passage. And in this case, the portal is amplifying the death so it doesn’t end like a normal death ‘note’ would.” Constantine leaned in to examine some of the runes that were part of the array. “Not a perfect metaphor, obviously, since you bow perpendicular rather than parallel to the string, and death and souls are nothing like music, but you get the idea, right?”

Tim was still caught on John Constantine saying the words “death note” together unironically in a sentence. He was going to have to share that with Steph later. Maybe with the whole family group chat, even. “Yeah, the metaphor makes sense, as much as any of this occult stuff does to me.”

“Whatever. As for whether there’s anything we can do for the child, I think we’ll have to try and summon him if we can.” The Brit started pulling items out of his trenchcoat’s inner pockets. “We need to ask what the spirit wants done, before we go messing with things we don’t understand.”

“Alright, need anything from me?”

“Yeah, move this stuff out of the way so I can draw a circle.” Constantine directed Tim to shove aside a few stacks of boxes, something called a Fenton Ghost Weasel, and together they shifted a coffin-shaped iron maiden that for some reason was labeled Fenton Stockades. Then he set to work chalking a circle and runes on the ground.

Finally he sat back and dusted chalk off his hands. “That should do it.”

“Will this be bright too?” Tim asked warily.

“Eh, might be? Shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tim grabbed an auto-darkening welding helmet with a green “Fenton” sticker on it off the workbench and slipped it on.

“Alright, here goes.” Constantine began the summoning ritual.

While Danny debated arson, the other two had finished clearing a space and chalked some kind of circle onto the floor. He tuned back into the conversation when he heard the trenchcoat guy begin a traditional incantation for a summoning. Were they trying to summon him? Danny really hoped it wouldn’t work. 

When people tried to summon the Ghost King he could almost always ignore the pull. This pull, however, was very strong and immediate. It seemed proximity made a difference, or this guy was just better at summonings than the average cultist. Before Danny could accept the inevitable, he was pulled bodily — literally! — out from under the vehicle and across the floor, still flat on his back on the Fenton Under Car Creeper, with the Specter Speeder’s ecto-engine hugged tightly to his chest. The wheels of the Fenton Creeper (not to be mistaken with the Fenton Anti-Creep Stick) sped him straight to the summoning circle. Still very much in human form. 

This was his first real look at the guy called Constantine, and he couldn’t help a horrified yelp. “Eugh!! What the fuck is wrong with you, dude!?!!” 

His lapse in attention made him lose the battle with the summoning spell, and it gripped him, pulling him through the convolutions of the spellwork even though he was already lying half across the circle, and forcing him to change into Phantom in the process. It was such a disgusting sensation, like he was one of those squishy water filled tube snake toys that look like a fleshlight, and someone squeezed really hard and abruptly so he turned inside out and went flying to go splat against a wall (or in this case, against the ground inside the circle of chalk). He tried and failed not to retch.

The younger man in the crisp suit whom he’d already identified as Mr. CEO-Timothy-Drake-Wayne looked at him in startled bafflement, while the older blond, still smoking his cigarette, (gross, and was that thing never ending?) was probably looking at him. Maybe. It was really difficult to tell, because he was a frankly vile sight. Danny winced and swallowed down nausea. “What have you done to your soul?”

“I — what?”

“Trypophobia central, man! Ugh that’s gotta be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen. Can’t you cover it up?”

“Who are you?” Timothy Drake-Wayne interjected.

“I’m the dead guy? You literally just summoned me.”

“Constantine said you were a child”

“I mean, I was?” Danny looked down at his obviously twenty-something year-old self and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I was fourteen though. These things happen.”

“Not typically, no. The dead tend to be pretty unaging.” Constantine said. 

“Dude I’m not having a conversation with you while your soul looks like Escher’s swiss cheese nightmare. Anyways, some of us do. Heck, I know a guy who constantly shifts from infant to old man and every stage in between. It’s pretty distracting when you’re trying to get him to let you fix the timeline again.” Danny continued to look anywhere but at the blond man. “But if it’s so important to you, I can —” He got an abstracted look, and slowly de-aged himself until the two men stood over a fourteen year old boy with snow white hair and glowing green eyes.

“That does not help. No.” The guy whose soul looked somewhat like a bleeding tooth fungus said. He turned away and started doing something magical. Danny hoped it would mask his soul in some way, but so far all it did was make Danny feel like he needed to pop his ears.

He also felt particularly uncharitable, so he didn’t revert to his natural age, and instead tried to see how young and cute he could make himself appear.

“So are you just haunting this basement? Seems hazardous, given the former proprietors.” Timothy tried to redirect the conversation. He didn’t seem nearly as distressed to see the ghost of a child, but his eyes darted surreptitiously to the Lichtenberg figure Danny used to always hide under gloves.

“Nah, haven’t been back here in years. I mostly live in my Infinite Realms haunt these days.”

“You . . . live? Is that just a figure of speech?”

“It’s rude to ask about a ghost’s nonliving status, you know. Highly taboo to ask how a ghost died or poke into the circumstances of our deaths without permission.” Danny admonished. Making himself younger than fourteen took more effort than he expected.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” Timothy raised his hands placatingly to the boy who now looked younger than Damian. “What brings you back to Amity Park?”

“Uh, you summoned me? Are we still not clear on that?”

Tim looked pointedly at the Fenton Creeper and the engine Danny still held. He’d shrunk down to the size of a four year old, and the engine really should be crushing him given it was bigger than his torso now. He quickly set it aside, and turned his biggest puppy dog eyes on Tim.

“You were in here already, and you looked pretty alive for a moment there.”

“I can look lots of ways!” Danny focused really hard on looking as cute, small, and nonthreatening as possible. He thought it was working when all of a sudden there was a pop! and he was smaller than he’d ever managed before. 

Timothy Drake-Wayne looked like a giant. The other guy, who had thankfully managed to put away his soul somehow, wore scuffed oxfords bigger than Danny. Hell, he could probably fit his entire self into one of Constantine’s shoes if that wasn’t a bizarre thing to do, and they weren’t already full of stinky feet. Holy shit what happened to him!?

Tim blinked down at the cat? Snake? Ghost. . . thing at his feet. What the fuck. A moment ago he was talking to an adult man whom he’s pretty sure was dead and he’s very sure was trolling them. Now his interlocutor had turned into an adorable creature with soft white paws, a long twisting tail, big pointed ears that swiveled like a cats, and a humanoid face that should’ve been creepy but was actually eliciting cute-aggression in him. Tim blinked again. The little baby ghost creature blinked enormous green eyes back at him. Then it yawned, revealing three rows of needle sharp teeth that looked like a cross between what you’d find in the mouth of a shark and a cat. Yikes.

“Does that mean the interview is over?” Tim asked him.

The creature just blinked up at him again, then zeroed in on his shoelaces, pupils expanding until only a narrow band of green ringed them.

Yup. The interview was over. Those paws hid some wicked claws which could apparently slice through leather with ease. Oh, Tim really hoped ghost scratch fever wasn’t a thing. At least the ghost looked sufficiently contrite after he yelped, and it waited while he removed a shoelace to sacrifice as a toy.

If Damian ever met him, there would be a new member of the family. Maybe he should name the creature preemptively so they didn’t have a cat-snake named Bat-Ghost in Wayne manor. 

“Do you have a name, little baby cat-snake ghost? Little baby ghost man?” He cooed as the miniature monster dashed back and forth, intent on shredding his shoelace.

The ghost paused long enough to chirp, “Li’l baby man!” before launching himself at the string. Even shocked, Tim’s reflexes had him whisking the toy out of the way, and the ghost went careening under a cabinet.

He wedged himself in the gap, landing face first in a dust bunny, and quickly wriggled backwards with an indignant squall. His wordless protestations cut off as he fell into a violent sneezing fit that thankfully dislodged him from beneath the cabinet.

Tim suppressed his laugh, and asked, “Little Baby Man? Is that what you want to be called?”

The ghost pawed most of the dust away from his nose, but spider webs covered his face and a big dust bunny perched atop his head like a fascinator with a cobweb lace veil. He looked Tim right in the eyes and nodded, dislodging the dust in his hair and setting off more sneezes.

“Li’l Baby Man” he confirmed. He placed a paw on Tim’s shoe and chirped, “Tim!” Then he pointed his tail at Constantine and said, “Gross!” with narrowed eyes.

[holycowboytiger]

Poly!141 x Hacker!Reader (Part 2)

GN!Reader

(It is heavily implied that the reader is autistic)

CW: Blackmail, implied murder, religious trauma, religious imagery, reader is slowly losing it- or they lost it a while back

(A/N: this is not the best chapter, I'm actually iffy about this one and the pacing, but i really wanted to show a little bit more behind the curtain, and some more about the reader- so !! tada!!)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

fuckfuckfuckfuck,,, what the fuck do you do?! Peter has the laptop,, he will see.. fuck he'll se everything,, they'll be ruined, kiss their jobs goodbye- you need to do something-

Wait... Why do you care? This man had cursed your eyes, and his fuckass boyfriends had been harassing you at work for the better part of two weeks, who cares if Peter finds those videos- who cares if the taskforce's secret is revealed, and their careers are torn into shambles?

who gives to shits if all they live and stand for will be ripped away from them?

......It's you, you care, strangely enough you might be the only one who does, this office adores some drama, and 141 being revealed would cause such a stir people would be talking about it for years on end, but you knew what else would come of it.

At the same time- do you want to put yourself on the line? Do you want to be shady and blackmail your fellow techies to protect these men? You could just leave it... It has nothing to do with you, and to take time out of your own day to help these guys out? Are you really that charitable?

Who are you kidding... now is not the time to have a morality check, you know what's right,, and what is wrong, and - maybe you care a little bit, these men don't deserve to be revealed in such a way, and you can save them from the shame the contents of the laptop would bring.....

It would ruin the taskforce's lives, all four men would be disgracefully discharged, and their names would be dragged through the dirt for years to come, and as heartless as you were, you just couldn't let it happen, maybe you could be like an office vigilante?

Batman would be proud.....

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Holy shit you're actually doing this aren't you? You're such a good person, maybe it will make up- and cleanse you of your previous sins, wash the blood off your hands of the people you laid to rest.. For good reason

those people deserved to die, you know this, as desperate and gut wrenching as their screams were, they deserved the punishment you laid upon them... Maybe this- this kind gesture will ease your mind, maybe this action will help you sleep easier

Fuck it... time to go keep 141's secret, hopefully without their knowledge.

The cogs turned in your head as you slowly worked out a plan, was it a morally correct plan? no, absolutely fucking not! but you've skinned someone alive so how bad could this be ?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your eyes narrowed at Peter as he took the laptop from Soap, his own eyes lighting up as Soap slapped his shoulder and thanked him,, calling him a life saver- yeah right.. If only Soap knew that Peter had a habit of straying a bit too far from home, to girls that are a bit too young for him.

Would Soap care? Surely he would right? That's something he cant turn a blind eye to right? He was a good person, You're a good person.. right? Of course you are, you're helping him out... But is it really a good deed if you're doing it for selfish reasons?

To calm the sinful thoughts in your head? Are you a good person? surely...Surely not? You've killed people, tortured people because in your eyes they're bad...

What would the big man in the sky say? He would tell you to forgive,,, wouldn't he,, what you have done,,, the people you have hurt,, there is no prayer great or long enough that would grant you passage to the pearly gates...Maybe.. Or maybe you were sent down here to do the dirty work, to do the actions your forgiving God could not bare....

You're a good person.. you are a good person...right?

you don't have time for this.. get it together, you need to get that laptop..

Rising from you desk you approach Peter, slapping on the best smile you can without looking deranged you stand infront of him.. looking like a predator whose spotted easy prey

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

''Peter! Hey there...'

''Uhh,, hello?'' his eyes narrowed at you

''Hows your wife hm?'' you are great at social interaction! no really you're doing great, this is a normal structured conversation..

''She's... she's good! Do you need something?''

''Yes actually''

strike one, revealing that you're here for selfish reasons and don't give a fuck about how his wife is doing..shit

''Okay? What is it?''

''That laptop''

strike two, you're too forward

''What?''

''The laptop.''

''I-Im, not too sure I can give it to you- Johnny.. Soap asked me to take care of it''

HAH look at this loser, using Soaps name like they're friends, the guy probably doesn't give a fuck about him, he's only a tech drone, only here to take care of his technical troubles

''oh- yeah.. sure- but- but you have alot on your plate right? You're close to a promotion right? You wouldn't want to direct your attention somewhere else, especially when you're sooo close? Right?''

Ok ok- we're getting somewhere, stroke his ego-

''Yeah but- I'm sure its nothing big-''

''Peter. You seem- weary to give this laptop away.. I know you look up to the guy but- its just a device''

''You seem a bit too eager to get this laptop.''

Strike three, he's onto you, switch tactics, you need that fucking laptop.

''If you don't give me the laptop, your wife will find out who Cierra is.''

''wh-what?!''

''You heard me.''

''What,, what the fuck?!''

his eyes widened, you've got it, secured the bag,, by- strange means, but you're a strange person, it isn't ideal to let him know this early into the plan that you know of his adultery, but you don't have alot of ammo in your arsenal.

''The laptop.''

''I don't know what you're talking about.''

''Yes you do. Black hair, green eyes, freckles? How strange, I thought your wife was blonde and blue eyed Peter. And.. Isn't, Cierra a bit young for you?''

''You- You're fucking insane, I would never-''

Denial- he thinks your bluffing. Show him you aren't

''You also frequent a motel on the west side of the city- what would your wife think when she finds out that you actually did get your Christmas bonus this year? but you spent it on that little side piece of your's..hm?''

''finefine! fuck...Just - just don't''

''I wont. Just do as i say and your secret is safe with me'' for now..

Ahhhhh the sweet taste of blackmail and victory in the morning, truly a breakfast to die for... except its not morning,, its early afternoon.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You return to your desk, trophy in hand, and you get to work quickly, afraid Soap might return too soon and see you working on his problem.

Just wipe the search history, take care of the virus, and DO NOT TOUCH THE FILE. You know what's in there and you are not curious enough to check if its been updated.

or are you?

NO YOU ARENT- BRO STOP???

anyway..

The wipe only took about five minutes, that's great! in and out, Soap wont suspect a thing! ...

You should reward yourself with a coffee! Even if you hate it, you haven't slept in days, keep yourself awake.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sauntering into the office kitchen, you come across someone you weren't the happiest with coming face to face with, and by the scowl you received, he wasn't happy either-

He's the taskforce's pretty boy, Gaz- or Kyle? Garrick? Wasn't his callsign because someone spelt his name wrong? Hah, loser-

Ok stop that's mean....

Forcing your gaze to the floor you approached the counter, opening one of the cupboard to reach for a mug, you were going to offer Gaz one before you stopped yourself, this guy does NOT like you- make your coffee and get out.

Would it be weird if you just left now? Took the mug with you? ..

Yes that would be so weird, but you really don't feel like making coffee whilst a member of special forces watches you like you're defusing a bomb.

You reach for the coffee tin before feeling how ...empty it was.. oh for fucks sake- Sandra that bitch, she definitely finished it- Ugh, fucking- such an inconsiderate asshole..

Now you have to put the mug back like a weirdo and leave-

''None left hm?'' Pretty boy spoke up

''Uh.... no.'' you answered

''Shame that.''

you swore, you fucking swore you saw a smirk cross his lips- that prick- he knew- he knew it was empty, and just didn't tell you, letting you embarrass yourself infront of him,

''Yeah'' fucking shame he didn't die from that fall from a helicopter

you sigh and put the mug back. Guess you'll just have to fight off sleep with pure will power, which never worked.

Turning to leave, you avoided Gaz's heavy gaze and dragged yourself from the kitchen, ignoring the urge to bash his head onto the counter.

Maybe you should leak the videos...

No- no you should not, shake your head, hes an ass, but he does good work,,, and he takes it up the as-

ok enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You walked back to your desk and picked up Soap's laptop, preparing to take it back to Peter- only,, he wasn't at his desk.. Where the fuck did he go?

Is he on lunch??

No its only 2:30...

Your eyes scan the room until they land on your target, pointing at your workspace,, talking to.. Soap...oh fuck....

Peter looked flushed, as Soap glared at your desk, then his eyes landed on you, holding his laptop.. fuck...fuck... caught red handed, with your hand in the cookie jar... do you think this is the time that you unlock your secret invisibility powers? Or teleportation! anything to get you out of here

Maybe you should flee the country, change your name to something ridiculous- and oh fuck he's coming over, and he looked pissed, brace yourself! this is the day you're gonna get knocked out! in work! infront of a bunch of people, not your proudest moment but hell, it was for a good cause-

''You. With me.''

Don't fight it, just, let him take you away, maybe he'll be nice and shoot you out back, maybe he'll bury you too!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Following him felt like you were being led to the guillotine, walking through the empty halls until you find an area that you now realise is the barracks, this is not your territory, you are out of your element, lets just hope his teammates aren't here, lets hope he doesn't jump you with his boyfriends, as much as they would enjoy it-

Soap stops suddenly, and you almost walk right into his back, he whips around with an unreadable expression, he looked you up in down, before his eyes zeroed onto his laptop, still firmly in your grasp

''Can ye explain to me why I gave Peter my laptop to fix, and why it is now in yer hands hm?''

shit.

[diz-eaze]

I JUST WANT TO BE WITH YOU. (yandere alhaitham x gn reader)

; written during 2023. general warning for yandere content <3 reader has specific characteristics mentioned in one paragraph but it's just used as a writing device.

; It begins when he fills the Acting Grand Sage position.

PRIOR TO Azar's ultimate downfall, back in the days wherein Sumerians heavily relied on the Akasha, Azar had a secretary - given his position as Grand Sage. Alhaitham only knew this because it was common knowledge throughout the Akademiya. Who wouldn't notice the bumbling and stuttering fool? The fool that trails behind Azar every time he makes a public appearance.

In the rare moments the two saw each other in official gatherings - him as the Scribe and them as the Secretary of the Grand Sage, he thought of them as an utter and complete fool. What other word could have suited them better, when it was right in front of his eyes that proved it to be true?

Clumsy, easily crumbles under pressure, can't refute Azar's orders no matter how heinous it was - a pushover.

And Alhaitham has no tolerance for those who can't bother to grow a backbone.

So, like everyone else he's met so far, he tunes out their voice every time they were in his general vicinity - doesn't bother to greet them, and the only acknowledgment they got from him was a simple nod.

Nothing more beyond that.

The Grand Sage gets busier, and being Azar's secretary, so do they. And by extension, Alhaitham does, too, with him needing to read through and proof whatever act Azar had proposed.

His days consisted of getting up in a timely fashion, eating a nutritious breakfast, leaving the house, arriving at work on time, leaving work without any overtime, sleep, and repeat. A mundane life with a high-paying job, just how he likes it. He rarely sees the Secretary anymore, if any, at all.

Perhaps they got a different job, or maybe they were fired after their jittery nature got on Azar's nerves.

Whatever the reason for their absence may be, life goes on, and that Secretary completely fades from Alhaitham's mind.

Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.

Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.

Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a break, go home, eat, sleep, and repeat.

Wake up, eat, sleep, go to work, take a brea-

"Hey," the not-so-hushed voice of a scholar rings out through the spacious House of Daena, and Alhaitham curses them for ruining his focus on reading a book. In hindsight, he was partly at fault for not activating his noise-canceling headphones as soon as he stepped foot into the library.

And yet, something stops him from doing so, as he side-eyes the pair of scholars sitting a few feet away from him - his curiosity gnaws at him to pay attention like something was telling him it will be worthwhile.

And he does.

He pretends to read his book as his ears pay keen attention to what the two scholars will be gossiping about.

"What?" The other scholar replies after finishing a passage in his ongoing thesis. Papers are littered throughout their table, some covered in words while some seemed to remain unfinished.

"You know (Y/N), right?" When the name doesn't seem to click into the second scholar's mind, the other clarifies. "Azar's Secretary, remember?"

Like a lightbulb buzzing to life, the second scholar snaps his fingers in recognition. "Oh! them, what about them?"

Alhaitham is curious, too. Perhaps this gossip will finally bring a potential answer to the reason why you've seemingly disappeared off the face of Teyvat - with no warnings whatsoever.

The scholar leans in to whisper, yet is ignorant to the fact that his voice is so loud Alhaitham can still hear him - talk about being inconspicuous. "I heard that they've gotten arrested by the Matra a few months back, heard from a friend of a friend that it was because they went against doing a paperwork Azar needed."

The second scholar's eyes comically bulge out in shock, "No way!" he lets out louder than expected, as the first scholar immediately covers his mouth with his hand. "Shhhh! Shut up, dude!"

Hurriedly removing the hand covering his mouth, the second scholar whisper-shouts, "No, but seriously! I mean I get that Azar is really strict and stuff, but is he actually that bad?"

The other scholar replies with something but Alhaitham has already gotten the information he wanted, and thus, he tunes them out.

Shutting his book, Alhaitham looks at the elevator centered at the library, if what that scholar said was true and you're currently in prison, then you must be on the floor below. Unfortunately, he's not a part of the Matra so he doesn't have access. So close, yet so far.

To go against Azar, knowing very well that he's brewing something behind that monocle of his,

Perhaps Alhaitham has misjudged you. Maybe there is more to you than what meets the eye.

Maybe it would benefit him in the long term if he were to extend his grace and hatched a plan to get you out of that cell? He hopes so because the lengths he's about to go through better make it worth it.

He's simply doing this so that his job position won't be at risk, and to ensure Azar doesn't get his way.

Your full name is (Y/N) (L/N), you're in your mid-20s, you like the color (favorite color), you prefer dogs over cats, and you like visiting Puspa cafe after work and ordering their coconut charcoal cake. Your favorite place in all of Sumeru is Pardis Dhyai, you love books to a certain extent, you're friends with Nilou from the grand bazaar and Dehya the eremite mercenary, you get along well with Paimon due to her jovial nature, you love sumeru roses, you're an avid follower of Lesser Lord Kusanali from the very beginning, and you grew up in Gandharva Ville.

You moved out of your parent's house after getting accepted into the Akademiya and chose to live with a roommate until you graduated, you immediately got a job in the Akademiya and climbed up the ranks until you got the position of the Grand Sage's secretary, you hate the heat and summers in Sumeru renders you unfunctional, you wish to one day visit another nation outside of Sumeru, you live in a small house within Sumeru City, and you're planning on getting a dog soon.

Alhaitham knows all of this - it's carved into his brain and can recite it word-by-word anytime, anywhere. He knows more, in fact, but he knows you'll find that concerning. But really, it's not Alhaitham's fault that you turned out to be such a blabbermouth after getting past your shy exterior.

(It doesn't help that he likes to monitor your activities after work, too.)

After releasing Lesser Lord Kusanali from confinement and overthrowing Azar from his position, the Akademiya saw fit for Alhaitham to become the new Grand Sage. He tried to refuse at first but after a little pleading and with the promise of a salary increase from Lesser Lord Kusanali, he agreed to take on the position of Acting Grand Sage.

And with being the Acting Grand Sage, comes you as his Secretary. It was almost commendable how quickly you accepted the drastic changes in Sumeru's ruling right after you were released from jail. Laughable, even.

Life pieces back into place, almost as if nothing happened. You're still the secretary, Lesser Lord Kusanali is still the dendro archon, Cyno is still the General Mahamatra, and yet, Alhaitham is temporarily not the Scribe.

So different, yet still stagnant in a way Alhaitham can't put together.

Sighing, Alhaitham stops reading the thesis of a researcher and rubs his eyes in frustration. This uncharacteristic action causes you to pause writing, and look over him in concern.

Alhaitham tries to put down the rush of serotonin that enters his brain the moment you start walking toward him. It must be his hormones talking, surely.

"Are you alright, Grand Sage?" You ask softly. In the back of his mind, he wants to correct you that he's only Acting Grand Sage - yet that thought is overpowered by the joy he gets from you addressing him by his position - a position obviously higher than yours.

(A position of authority over you.)

Alhaitham weakly nods, still rubbing his eyes in slow circles - trying to dispel the unfathomable yearning he's feeling for you right now. It's unprofessional, uncharacteristic, and disrespectful to think of you as anything other than a coworker.

It's simply wrong to think of you when he should be efficiently reviewing the stacks of paper that are steadily growing on his desk. It's wrong to think of you in general.

But for the life of him, he can't stop. It's like a parasitic leech latched onto him the moment he saw you again after so many months - only for a blossoming feeling to fester deep within his heart the more he spent time with you.

It's a feeling he both wants to nurture and destroy. A feeling that leaves him feeling like he's in the clouds, only to plummet down into the harsh ground below as soon as you're out of sight.

A feeling that gives as well as it takes.

Alhaitham has never been so conflicted before in all his years of living. The most logical and rational decision, in his perception, would be to pursue you and if you weren't interested then he'd move on with his life. Yet, there's a factor stopping him - the fear of rejection. It's simple on paper, but he dreads the possibility of it happening in real life.

The idea of him investing time and effort in flourishing a companionship in hopes of reciprocation - only to come up with nothing, in the end, is not only tiring but a pity. It both irks and frustrates him,

Is there any way for him to ensure that you will reciprocate his courting? Or is he stuck with a guessing game?

"Grand Sage?" You ask again, noticing that he's been mulling for a few minutes. Alhaitham merely glances at you for a brief second before he's back to mulling - or would sulking be a more appropriate word? "Grand Sage, are you sure that you're okay?"

Alhaitham grunts out a reply, and you struggle to hold in a chuckle at the way he's acting right now. "If you're so troubled, then perhaps visiting Puspa cafe after work can ease some of your tension. I always go there after work," you pause, gauging his reaction for any sign of refusal.

(Alhaitham has the urge to say, "I know." but refrains from doing so.)

"If you don't mind, we can go there together. You know, I really recommend their black coffee." You absentmindedly reach out to play with a strand of his hair, and Alhaitham leans in ever so slightly. "Especially if you pair it up with their coconut charcoal cake, oh! I promise you won't regret it, Grand Sage! Don't let looks deceive you! Just because it looks horrendously charred doesn't mean-"

And there you go blabbering again.

Alhaitham wonders if you were this chatty with Azar as well, and this time, he can't push down the bubbling jealousy that rises in him. He'd truly hate it if that were the case.

But Alhaitham reminds himself that Azar is out there in the rainforest working his ass off, no longer in the Akademiya - ever. Besides, Azar could never hold a candle to him.

It's clear in Alhaitham's mind that logically speaking, he's the best choice for you.

No one else can compare. 

Alhaitham has noticed that you've been absentminded these days.

Blankly looking at papers without intaking any actual information, signing and passing on the incorrect documents, messing up the times in his schedule, and more. You've been silent, too. The sound of your chatter in his office is a missed presence and he worries at first that you got self-conscious of your (endearing) habit.

It turns out that after a little work of following you for a few consecutive weeks, that was far from the case.

If anything, the reason for your airheaded behavior was all because of a boy you've been meeting in front of the Sanctuary of Surasthana. It grinds on his nerves how cautious you are when coming up to your designated meeting place - as if the boy was your secret lover (the thought alone causes him to mald), a little sweet secret of sorts.

You're jittery yet your smile is undeniably wider in the presence of the boy - the boy who wears a hat and whose Anemo vision rests just right on his chest. The boy with a scowl and biting words, yet you take it in stride, even making jabs back.

It can't be spelled any clearer to Alhaitham, you and the boy are close - closer than he'd like.

And he doesn't want to entertain the possibility of that guy being your boyfriend - or worse, secret husband. Surely, that's impossible. Your official records state that you're single and have never married anyone in all your years.

It's simply unfathomable.

The only way to solve this problem is to confront you in person. Preferably in his office tomorrow.

With the door unknowingly locked.

With no way to escape.

Regardless of the outcome, you've pushed his buttons too far, and like reigning you in with a leash, Alhaitham deems it suitable to confine you until you've learned that;

Alhaitham is the only man for you. Now and forever. Whether you know this or not, he'll do the job to drill it into your brain.

[agentstarkid]

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 06

✦ WORD COUNT: 7.8k

✦ WARNINGS: language, cussing, angst, a brief appearance of the green monster, self-deprecation and feelings of inadequacy are a soulmate thing ig, brief mention of torture. Proofread but i'm so sure i missed something.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: i'm posting this now because if i read it one more time i'll keep changing things 🫠 i think it was a good idea to split it into two chapters tho—this one has so much emotions woven into it. it's blowing my mind all the love this series is receiving—thank you so much, angels!! 🥹🖤 i really hope you guys like this one,,, if you don't,,, well, fuck.

< previous | series masterlist | next >

Cassian’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck—” 

But he stopped himself.

The woman standing in front of the hearth, hood still drawn over her features, was the one who had vanished again after refusing Azriel’s outstretched hand. And at the same time, the one who once dragged him into the kitchens in the middle of the night to steal a pie—and then somehow made him take the blame when Rhys’ mom caught them.

She came home.

Azriel took a single step forward. The shadows that lingered between them stilled—then split down the middle, as if granting him passage.

She didn’t bother lowering her hood. Didn’t need to. The firelight reached beneath it anyway, casting golden arcs across the scars that hadn’t been there two hundred years ago. Eyes gold as ever. A little haunted. A little dangerous.

She didn’t smile.

The tension in the room was suffocating.

The scent of lightning still hung heavy in the room, threaded with scorched cedar and something bitter—like ozone before a storm. Feyre said nothing, her arms tight around Nyx. Rhysand hadn’t moved.

And there she was. The female who had once fought and laughed beside them, who’d whispered war plans with Cassian on balconies and stolen wine with Mor in the library. Who’d told Azriel secrets in the dark.

Now she looked at them like strangers.

Cassian’s stomach twisted. 

Ghosts don’t walk, he told himself. Don’t smell like crushed spices and ash and saltwater. But he still stared at her like he was seeing a ghost. Everyday since, he’s been struggling with accepting the knowledge of her being alive.

 “No. No way.”

She tilted her head. “Surprised?”

His eyes narrowed. Then widened.

“Wait a damn minute—” His gaze darted to Rhysand, then Azriel, then back to her. “You–You’re the one who—”

“Sent half your soldiers running in circles? Lit up your wards like Solstice lights?” Her lips curved—not into a smile exactly, but something crooked. “Yes. That was me.”

Cassian let out a sound—half a laugh, half a curse. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Gods, she was really here.

Even after she’d sworn she never would be again.

“You really do know how to make a fucking entrance,” he muttered, running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair.

But he didn’t move closer.

Not yet. Not unless she let him.

Because part of him still wanted to grab her and shake her and demand why.

And another part—deep down—was afraid that if he got too close, she’d vanish again.

(And this time, he might not survive it.)

She took a step forward, shadows curling up her back like half-formed wings. Azriel still hadn’t moved. But she felt his gaze—like a hand at her spine. Tracking every breath. Every shift.

Cassian’s arms crossed. Not defensive. Just bracing. “So, what—after all this time, you’re suddenly here to…do what exactly?”

“You said you needed help fighting Koschei,” she said smoothly.

Cassian folded his arms. “So? Why now?”

Her brows lifted beneath the shadow of her hood. “Well, you asked.”

Cassian blinked. “What?”

Her eyes flicked to him. Unbothered. “That’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it? To help you?”

“That was four months ago,” he said, voice low, but sharp enough to cut. “You told us to go fuck ourselves and vanished into the wind, remember?”

“I do. Vividly. And yet, here I am,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “You wanted help against Koschei. Now you have it.”

Cassian laughed—short, humorless. “Forgive me if I’m not falling over with gratitude.”

She raised a brow. “That’s fine. I’m not here for thanks.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”

A pause. “Strategy.”

“That’s not an answer,” he snapped.

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

His wings shifted behind him, like a reflex. “Why now?” he pressed again. “Why show up now? How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

Her smile was slow and razor-sharp. “You think I’m working for Koschei?”

“I think,” Cassian said carefully, “that the male who raised me like a brother left you to die. And I think I’d be a fool not to ask who you’re really loyal to.”

That landed. Her expression didn’t change, but the air around her sharpened—grew colder, heavier. A faint pressure curled inward, as if the room itself had taken a breath and was holding it. The scent of ozone threaded through the air.

A bead of condensation gathered on the nearest glass. 

Her voice was quiet, lethal. “You think I’d put myself in the same room as this asshole for fun?”

Feyre’s grip on Nyx instinctively tightened.

Cassian didn’t flinch, but he didn’t back down, either. “I think I don’t know you anymore.”

A beat of silence. The air loosened—just slightly. The invisible pressure receded, the tension ebbing like the hush after distant thunder.

Then—

“Well,” she said, flicking a hand, “maybe you never did.”

Cassian huffed a bitter breath, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something softer. “That’s not true.”

She tilted her head. “Isn’t it?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then shook his head, muttering, “Gods, you’re still such a pain in the ass.”

That crooked smile ghosted her lips again. “You used to call it charming.”

Cassian gave a snort. “I used to be stupider.”

“Used to be?” she echoed, mock-surprised.

Even Azriel blinked at that, a flicker of something almost like amusement passing through those shadows. Feyre glanced between them, brows lifting slightly. Rhysand remained stone-still, but his gaze was locked on her like he was trying to crack open her skull and see what had changed.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Cassian threw up his hands. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You vanish for two centuries, walk in here like it’s nothing, and the first thing you do is insult me,” he whined.

“Some things never change,” she said airily.

“No,” he agreed, voice quieter now. “Some things don’t.”

The pause that followed didn’t feel like silence. It felt like something fragile being held between them.

It was too easy, the banter. 

She saw the moment he realized it too—that despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal and the impossible distance of time, this rhythm between them was still there.

Still alive. Still theirs.

Cassian looked at her the way someone might look at a memory they thought they’d lost. One that hurt to remember—but hurt even more to forget.

She saw it. Felt it. And something in her cracked, just a little. A flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.

She’d told herself it was gone. That the person she was with him—who she used to be—had died long ago.

But for one blink of a moment, it felt like stepping into the past. Like that old rhythm between them was still there, buried under everything.

Then Feyre shifted Nyx in her arms, and the small noise was enough to snap her back.

Her spine straightened. Her face smoothed over again into something unreadable.

The mask slammed back into place.

She turned back to the fire. “Don’t mistake this for something it’s not. This isn’t a family reunion. It’s a war council. Let’s not confuse the two.”

But Cassian—stupid, soft Cassian—did.

The General’s chest tightened. He nodded once, solemnly. But he couldn’t stop the way his eyes lingered on her face—just for a moment longer.

Because even if she’d shut the door, he’d seen it.

That flicker.

That piece of her—the real her—still buried underneath the bitterness and bone-deep hurt.

And for the first time in two hundred years, it had looked back at him.

Her voice cut through the room, clear and cold. “I'm here because we have a common enemy.”

Cassian’s brows knit. His arms remained crossed, “So what—you figured we were convenient?”

“I decided,” she said, gaze hard as flint, “you were the lesser of two evils. That’s it.”

That landed harder than he expected. His mouth pressed into a line. For once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback. 

There was no warmth in her tone. No room for argument or emotion. Just strategy. Cold, clinical. Calculated.

And in that moment, as he stared at her, he saw it. The Commander of the Night Court’s army. His right-hand soldier. The blade-sharp edge of her that had once led thousands into battle without hesitation.

Next to him, there was no motion from Azriel, no flicker of expression. The weight of his stare alone felt like pressure against her ribs. His eyes locked on her—deep, still, assessing. Like he was watching for signs of damage. Or for truth.

She didn’t flinch under the weight of it. But gods, she felt it.

That pull. That old, terrible pull.

Like standing too close to a cliff’s edge and pretending the wind at your back isn’t temptation.

His eyes devoured her—like he was cataloguing every inch. Lingering on the scars. On his shadows that now curled around her shoulders like armor. Like she might disappear again if he blinked. 

The silence stretched until footsteps echoed down the hall.

Not heavy ones like Cassian’s. Not the silent, predatory gait she knew belonged to Azriel or Rhysand.

These were lighter. Hesitant.

The door creaked open.

A female stepped through. Her presence was all polished grace and gentle hesitance. There was a kind of stillness about her—like spring dew clinging to a blade.

She paused just over the threshold in a sweep of soft fabric and garden-blushed perfume, her hand still on the doorknob. “I heard voices—”

Her words died when her eyes landed on the hooded female standing before the fire.

The room seemed to shift.

The female’s gaze moved slowly—from Rhysand to Feyre, to the shadows gathered male in the corner. It lingered there a moment too long before flicking back to the stranger at the hearth.

Only… not quite a stranger.

Not with the way a few of Azriel’s shadows were wrapped around her like they were tethered. Not with the way Cassian stood taller, broader—like a shield he didn’t realize he was trying to become. Or the way Rhysand’s eyes seemed to be stuck on her, a weird mix of softness and wariness in them.

Elain blinked, her expression uncertain. “Is… everything alright?”

The hooded female made no move to greet her. Only turned slightly, shadows hiding most of her face, and offered nothing but silence. 

Feyre’s voice broke through, too soft to startle. “Elain.” A faint edge of worry laced her words, though she kept her tone calm—for the sake of the child in her arms. “It’s alright. You should head back to your room.”

But the female—Elain—didn’t move.

Didn’t listen.

She could feel it, after all. The tension hanging in the air. The sharp alertness of those she called family. The way they stood like they were braced for a fight. 

(Who was going to fight who wasn't clear, though.)

So Elain stepped forward instead, crossing the room in soft, deliberate steps and stopped beside Azriel. 

(Too close.)

The dark-cloaked figure kept her eyes ahead, focused on the hearth, but she felt it—the closeness of Elain’s hand near Azriel’s, the tilt of her body turned subtly toward him. Heard it in the way Elain spoke quietly to him, a question only he could hear.

And maybe it was the softness in her voice. Or the way she reached out to gently touch his arm.

But something sharp twisted in the female’s gut.

She wasn’t sure if it was instinct—or the ghost of something far older.

Whatever it was, it made her shoulders stiffen.

Azriel didn’t answer Elain right away. His eyes were still on her.

Because his shadows—traitorous little spies—slithered away from her and coiled at his ear, whispering the truth directly into his ear.

She’d tensed the moment Elain stepped beside him.

Tensed like something in her had bristled. Like instinct. Like a wound prodded open.

Something inside him stirred and purred pleased.

His shadows curled inward for a breath, then slithered away again, like smoke drawn back into a flame, as if relaying the message had been enough.

But one tendril lingered. Slipped back toward her like a question, like a breath. Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t stop it. It brushed the edge of her hood and gave the faintest tug—just enough to let the firelight catch her face. Just enough for him to see. 

As he instinctively took a step in her direction, the air shimmered—

And Morrigan winnowed into the room, voice already mid-rant. “What the hell is going on? I swear if you made me share the same air as Keir just to—”

She froze.

She stared.

The blood drained from her face.

“No,” Mor whispered. “No. That’s not—”

Her voice cracked. She took a step forward. And then another, slower. Almost afraid. “We thought you were—Rhys said you were gone. We grieved you.”

Her expression softened. Just slightly. “I know.”

“You died,” Mor choked. “I—”

“I didn’t.”

Her voice wasn’t cold. Just tired.

“Mother above,” Mor breathed. “It’s really you.”

And then Amren appeared, in a swish of silver and cold.

She scanned the room. Took one long look at the cloaked figure. And unlike the others, didn’t freeze.

She tilted her head.

“Well,” Amren said coolly. “I’ll be damned.”

The second-in-command female gave her a once-over, arms folded. “Still using chaos as your calling card?”

The golden-eyed revenant arched a brow, not once breaking eye contact. “Still collecting trinkets and terrifying males?”

Amren’s lip twitched. “I should’ve known the attacks had your signature on them. Subtle as ever.”

The woman shrugged. “Subtle doesn’t get messages across.”

A beat of quiet.

Amren tilted her head, a glint of something like approval flickering in her ancient gaze. “Good,” she murmured. “I’d hate to think you’d gone soft.”

The female’s mouth curved—barely. “You always did have a warped idea of softness.”

But the tension between them wasn’t harsh. Not quite. There was a flicker of familiarity. Of something like respect.

And then silence again. The kind that meant there was too much to say—and no time to say it. 

Still, she could feel it. The weight of a gaze locked on her. 

Hazel eyes. Unmoving. Watching.

She met them, finally.

A second passed. One heartbeat.

Two.

And it felt like the whole room tilted.

So many words unsaid.

So much weight.

But it wasn’t just his gaze she felt.

Just beyond him, she caught the brown-eyed female. Lovely, all delicate features. Draped in softness, in sweetness, in everything she never was. She noticed the way the girl’s hand hovered near his, too casual to be coincidence. Familiar. Intentional. 

The scent of flowers and honey curled in her throat. She almost gagged on it.

Something in her chest coiled, but she smothered it before it could rise.

She looked away first.

“Wait–Hold on. Where have you been? How are you here?” Mor’s voice wavered, thin and disbelieving, cutting through the charged silence and dragging her gaze from the male standing motionless—as if carved from stone—and his lovely shadow dressed in bloom. “I saw you fall and–and Rhys confirmed to us you died. I–I mourned you.” Her final words cracked around the edges, barely holding together. Her eyes scanned the female as if trying to find the seams in the illusion. As if convinced she’d dissolve if Mor blinked too long. “And now…now you are here.” Her voice dipped into a breathless whisper, as if the truth of them had only just landed—and it hit hard. Too hard. Her expression twisted—shock still warring with something darker. Like she wanted to be angry, needed to be, just to hold back the grief clawing at her edges. 

“Standing in front of us as if nothing has happened.” Her voice sharpened. “Why would you do that? How could you do that?” To me. She didn’t need to say it aloud but the weight of it was there. It settled between them like ash.

The female didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Only said, “I could explain to you the hows and whys, but I think it would be more fun to hear it coming from the one who orchestrated everything, don’t you think?” Her voice was calm—almost too calm. But there was something simmering underneath it. A glint of challenge. A thread of buried fury woven into silk. 

She turned her head slowly toward him. “What’d you think, Rhysand?  I always did enjoy listening to a good storyteller.” 

All eyes turned to the High Lord, who until now had kept to the shadows of the room. He stood with Feyre and their son positioned protectively behind him—his silence no longer a shield but a spotlight. 

His posture was a practiced stillness—one he’d mastered over centuries of war and diplomacy. But inside… his heart was thundering. The sight of her—alive, standing, breathing—was a blow he hadn’t prepared for. Not even in his nightmares. Not even in his hopes.

And now, every lie he’d told to keep his court together, every excuse he’d spun, was unraveling—thread by thread.

“What does she mean, Rhys?” Feyre’s voice was quiet. Controlled. But her hand had gripped his arm, tightly.

He didn’t answer.

Because her eyes were still on him. Pinning him like a butterfly beneath glass. There was no softness in them. No mercy. Rhysand could feel the weight of it—her gaze, like a blade held at his throat. Daring him to lie. Daring him to not say it. And from either side of the room, four more gazes pressed in.

Cassian’s: wide with disbelief, waiting—needing—answers.

Azriel’s: colder. Sharper. Burning with a fury so quiet it could only have come from grief. 

To the side, Mor stood frozen mid-step, golden hair catching the firelight. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She looked between her cousin and the female she hadn’t seen in centuries. Her face was pale, the beginnings of realization dawning like a storm behind her eyes.

Amren sat back in her chair, her expression unreadable, but her silver eyes narrowed on Rhysand with laser precision. She hadn’t said a word either—but she was watching. Not just the scene unfolding, but everyone. Measuring truths. Measuring lies. Her stillness was a warning in itself.

“Would you like for me to make an introduction or would you prefer taking center stage?” Her tone was laced with mockery, but just beneath the sarcasm lurked the sharp edge of frustration—like a long-held dam threatening to break. 

Cassian breathed her name like a plea—soft, like it would settle her. It didn’t. It only helped to light a fuse beneath her skin. The weight of it, the familiarity, the audacity. Was he seriously trying to play peacekeeper now? After everything she’d already been forced to carry alone? 

Her voice snapped like a whip. “Shut up.”

She turned to Rhys once more. If they were going to stand there and pretend ignorance, then fine. She’d spell it out for them. 

“Won’t you like to know how your brother handed me over to the enemy like I was just some fucking inconvenience?” Her voice rose—not in volume, but in fury. Low and shaking and sharp. “Or how he watched me beg for help when, suddenly, my body didn’t respond to me?” A brittle laugh broke from her lips, all edges and old wounds. There was no humor in it. No cruelty either. Just the brutal edge of a wound that had never healed.

Rhysand’s stomach hollowed.

It scraped through the room like shattered glass.

“Oh, would you like to explain to them why that happened, Rhys?”

Silence fell. Total. Suffocating.

Rhysand opened his mouth. Then closed it.

Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter now, pulsing around him like restless sentries. As if they could sense something his body hadn’t yet allowed itself to feel.

He couldn’t stop watching her.

The cut of her jaw, sharper now. The way her stance held weight, not just from the steel at her back, but from something deeper—grief calcified into bone. The tilt of her chin, defiant and exhausted in equal measure. The brief sight of new, faint tattooed lines, branching out and resembling lightning, going up her arms and disappearing under her leathers; ones that were worn and plain, travel-stained and practical. No jewels, no flourish. Just her—and somehow, that made her more striking than he remembered.

But it wasn’t just how she looked.

It was the silence she carried like a cloak.

It was the stillness in her eyes, the kind you only learn after you’ve lost too much, too young, for too long.

What made him excel at his job was the fact that he had always been good at reading people—at seeing what was buried beneath the surface. And with her… he saw it all.

The fury in her voice might have been aimed at Rhys, but beneath it, Azriel could feel the pulse of something else. Something cracked and quietly bleeding. A kind of tired that didn’t sleep. A sorrow that didn’t speak its name.

She was angry, yes.

But she was also hurting.

And he understood that hurt more than most would.

He’d known the girl she’d once been. The girl who laughed too loudly at Cassian’s jokes and used to steal his books. Who slept with her head against the armrest whenever he was reading just to keep him company. The one he’d sparred with in quiet corners, who thought silence was safer than asking for help.

And this female before him?

She was still her. But not.

There was a new stillness to her. Like standing before a frozen lake—you could admire the beauty of it, the sheer, clean edge of the ice, but beneath it ran dark, cold currents you’d drown in if you weren’t careful.

Azriel couldn’t look away.

He didn’t know what he expected to feel when he saw her again—if he’d feel anger for the way she vanished, or guilt for how they’d failed her. But all he could feel was the weight of the distance between them. A distance not just of time, but of everything unsaid. Everything broken.

She had every fucking reason to be this angry, this wounded, this hard. And still, all he wanted—all he wanted—was to step between her and the pain. To reach for her, steady her, shield her from all of it like he hadn’t done when she’d truly needed it.

But would she even let him?

Would she flinch from his touch the way she had flinched all those months ago?

He wanted to protect her.

Even if she didn’t need it now. Even if she might stab him for trying.

She had survived something none of them had seen. Had endured far beyond what they’d all assumed she couldn’t. And he—

He wanted to know her.

He wanted to know what had been carved away and what had been built in its place. What had been lost. But he also wanted to learn the new pieces—the armor she’d had to forge, the edges she’d had to sharpen just to make it back alive. Just to exist again.

What still lived behind those eyes he used to know better than his own reflection?

What had she sacrificed to stand here now, cloaked in silence and fury?

What had it cost her?

Could he ever be worthy of even asking?

And maybe if she’d let him, he wanted to earn the right to stand beside her again.

Whatever she’d become in the years she’d been gone… a part of him had never stopped looking.

Not really.

Not when she became the only silence he could never quite find peace in.

Azriel couldn’t look at Rhys without feeling something twist inside him.

He had followed Rhysand into war, into darkness, into every impossible choice—and never once flinched.

Until now.

His brother was composed, too composed. Still as stone, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. But Azriel knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way Rhys’s hand subtly shifted in front of Feyre, the careful way he stood between her and their son—as if the female across the room posed a threat.

She had posed a threat. But only to the truth.

And that, Azriel realized, was what Rhys feared most in this moment. Not her wrath. Not her return.

But what she might say.

And wasn’t that telling?

Azriel’s jaw clenched. Because even now—after all this time, after all this pain—Rhys hadn’t said a word. No denial. No explanation. Just silence.

A silence Azriel might’ve once interpreted as strategy. Restraint.

Now it felt like cowardice.

He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that Rhysand, who had once sworn to protect them all like family, had made a choice that damned her. That left her to rot in some prison of shadows while they grieved a ghost.

He’d seen the wound beneath her calm.

Something Rhys had put there.

And that… that was harder to swallow than anything else.

Because if it was true—

If Rhys had let her fall…

If he had decided she was expendable, a sacrifice made in the name of some greater good—

Then what did that mean for everything they were?

Azriel kept his face blank. His shadows knew better than to react.

But inside, a slow, cold fury was building. Not explosive like Cassian’s, not loud.

Something quieter. Sharper.

Rhys hadn’t just miscalculated.

He had lied.

And whatever came next… Azriel would not forget that.

Not when it had cost her everything.

But Azriel had always known how to bury things.

Pain. Doubt. Longing. He was a master of silence, of shadow, of holding truths in his mouth like they were knives too dangerous to set loose. Loyalty had always been a clean line for him—clear, unwavering, etched in stone. Rhysand was his brother, his High Lord. The one who had pulled him out of the hells of his childhood, who had given him purpose, a place, a voice—even if that voice was most often used in whispers.

But tonight, that line blurred.

He watched her speak, saw how she looked not at the floor or the ceiling but straight through Rhys, eyes sharp as blades honed in silence and survival. The same eyes that used to hold mischief, defiance, the fierce fire of someone who trusted the people around her. That fire was different now. Still burning, but colder. More dangerous.

And Mother help him, Azriel understood.

Because he knew the way people broke quietly—how they bled out belief, drop by agonizing drop, until the only thing left to believe in was yourself.

And he knew Rhysand. Knew how far his brother would go to protect the bigger picture—even if it meant cutting pieces out of the frame.

So he began to do what he always did when the world tilted.

He started sorting things.

Loyalty to Rhysand.

Loyalty to this Court.

Loyalty to her.

He didn’t know yet which would win out. But he understood now, with a cold clarity, that they might no longer be the same thing.

And it terrified him.

Because if Rhys had truly done what she implied—if he had let her be taken, if he had made the call and never told them, never told him—then Azriel would have to ask himself a question he’d never dared to before:

What happens when the person you trust most turns out to be the reason someone else you care about suffered?

He wasn’t ready to answer it. Not yet.

But in the corner of his mind, he began building the walls anyway.

Not to shut Rhys out entirely.

But to protect himself if—when—he had to choose.

Because he wasn’t just watching her now.

He was watching Rhys too.

And for the first time in centuries, he wasn’t sure which of them he’d follow if those paths ever split.

Mor finally found her voice. “Rhys…” she whispered. “What did you do?” But even she didn’t seem sure whether it was a question or an accusation.

Amren, from her seat, gave a soft snort. “Well? Say something, boy, before she tears your spine out and feeds it to your own pet shadows.”

No one laughed.

Not even Cassian, whose hands had curled into fists, trembling slightly at his sides. Who looked like he might be sick.

“Well?” she asked.

Time was up. 

Rhysand couldn’t run from this anymore.

Feyre’s voice cut in, tight and confused. “Rhys, for Cauldron’s sake, what is going on?”

Nyx was quietly in her arms, one small hand clutched in her gown. But his violet eyes were locked—not on his father, or his mother, but on the female across the room.

Rhysand straightened, gaze never wavering from the female across from him. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse—but steady. “I had to make a choice.”

The silence pulled taut, a thread ready to snap.

“A choice,” she repeated, soft and disbelieving. “That’s what you’re calling it?”

He inclined his head. “It wasn’t an easy one. You were outnumbered, surrounded. We had seconds. And the information we had… it pointed to a trap. One that risked not just your life, but hundreds of others.”

Her laugh was low. Empty. “You violated my trust.”

She took a step forward. Rhys didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes as her next words fell, deliberate and quiet:

“It took me time to realize why I couldn’t move. Why my body didn’t respond—why I couldn’t even scream. I saw you above me. Stone-faced. Still. And then I felt it, faint but there—velvet and cold. Your talons in my mind. Wrapping around it. Silencing it. Holding me down.”

Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury so raw it scraped bone.

“You made yourself judge, jury, and executioner. And you handed me over—gift-wrapped—to our enemy.”

A sharp inhale echoed from Feyre. Cassian muttered something under his breath, a curse swallowed by disbelief.

“I didn’t understand at first,” she went on, tone tight. “I kept asking myself why. Why would my brother leave me there? Why would he do that? Why would he betray me?” Her fingers clenched at her sides. “I kept asking myself that as the first arrow struck. And the second. And the third. Each one laced with faebane. And then… then I asked it again for years. In a dark hole beneath the earth, as they tore pieces from me and stitched them back together just to start all over again. For ninety years.”

The room was stone-still.

She paused, her jaw trembling before she forced the words out.

“I became their entertainment. Their toy. But even then, even as they carved me up and left me bleeding and barely alive in the dark—I never gave them anything. Not a single name. Not a secret.” Her eyes burned now, fixed on Rhys. “I protected this Court, even as it abandoned me.”

Rhys's composure wavered—only just. He opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” she snapped. 

She stepped forward again, and Azriel found himself shifting slightly, instinct tightening in his gut. She didn’t need protection—he knew that. But his body itched to offer it anyway.

“I shouldn’t have cared if it burned.” she said. “But I’m not you, Rhys. I don’t betray my people. And the people here aren’t to blame for the monster they follow. The people didn’t betray me. You did.”

Her words cracked the air.

Across from her, Rhysand stood motionless—no longer the powerful High Lord of the Night Court, but something far more raw. More haunted. He stared at her as if trying to hold onto the shape of her now that the truth was laid bare between them. But there was no shape he could mold her into that would make this easier.

So he spoke.

Low. Rough. A voice trying not to tremble.

“There was a prophecy.”

The room stilled again. Even Nyx looked up at the change in his father’s tone.

“It was passed down to me once. A long time ago. From my father.” Rhysand’s eyes didn’t leave hers. 

Her confusion etched plainly across her face. Rhys reached for the worn leather-bound tome resting on the desk beside him—a translation of the scrolls passed down from High Lord to High Lord. The pages crackled faintly as he turned to the marked passage, careful, reverent. The ink was faded in places, but the translation was still legible, scrawled in the slanted handwriting of a High Priestess long dead.

He read aloud, his words slow and deliberate:

“And when the final storm awakens, the skies shall be torn asunder.

Lightning shall carve the heavens, and thunder shall shatter the earth.

Their fury shall be unrelenting; their wrath, unyielding.

And where they walk, ruin shall follow— For they are the storm that ends all wars.”

He looked up slowly as the words settled between them, hanging in the air like smoke—dense and clinging, curling through her thoughts and refusing to clear.

It didn’t make sense.

It made too much sense.

“Should the storm be unleashed, the world shall bow—or be undone.”

The line surfaced unbidden, echoing in her mind—familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. Older. Deeper. From the dreams that returned night after night, always ending in fire and ash and her—wreathed in lightning, standing where the world had cracked.

Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and too fast, as if her lungs suddenly forgot how to work properly. Her body remained still, but inside, she felt like she was falling—spiraling down through every memory, every unanswered question, through nightmares, through a prophecy that had always worn her face.

She was drowning in the space between then and now. Between the moment Rhysand chose to let her fall, and the truth he was finally speaking into the open.

A prophecy.

A storm.

A destroyer.

Rhysand’s voice pulled her back. “It was translated from an old tongue,” he added. “At first I naively  thought it was about a warrior. A symbol of hope. I thought it meant someone would rise to help end our suffering. A weapon the world needed to break free. But that night, when I saw what was beginning to awaken in you…” He exhaled. “I understood. The prophecy wasn’t about salvation. It was a warning.”

Cassian spoke softly. “You never mentioned it before.”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Rhys said. “Not then. I grew up with old stories and half-burned scrolls. Riddles dressed as legends. None of it ever felt real. I didn’t care much for myths.”

He drew a breath, the next words slower.

“But then I saw her. I’m guessing high emotions triggered it…” She looked away. Lowered her eyes like they were too heavy to hold his gaze. Because she remembered—

The way Azriel had fallen.

The sickening sound of his body hitting the ground.

And how something ancient and foreign inside her had cracked open.

“...The sky began to bend around her. The air itself went still. Like the world was holding its breath.”

A silence fell over them again. Uneasy. Unwilling.

“I saw the power waking up inside her,” he said. “And I realized—this prophecy wasn’t about ending the war or saving us. It was about ending everything.”

He turned his gaze fully on her. “If you had let go—if you’d truly given in—there wouldn’t have been anything left. Not of our enemies. Not of Prythian. Not even of us.” He swallowed. “So I did the only thing I could. I stopped you. I stopped the storm.”

A pause. A whisper. “And I lost you forever.”

Her heart thundered so loud she could barely hear him. Her mind raced, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the ground shifting beneath her.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

This wasn’t supposed to be her.

Mor’s voice broke the silence. “Is that all the texts said?”

“No,” Amren murmured, her silver eyes distant. “I’ve read them too. Before the scrolls vanished.”

Rhys blinked. “You can read Iskra’tan?”

The old tongue. Most scholars could barely decipher fragments—let alone speak it. And yet Amren said it like she’d lived with it.

“Yes,” Amren said simply.

Cassian frowned. “How the fuck do you even know it?”

Amren didn’t answer at first. Only tilted her head, silver eyes glinting. “I remember it,” she said simply.

Mor’s brows knitted. “From where?”

Amren’s smile faded. “From before.”

She continued, lifting a shoulder. “It’s older than the mountains. Difficult to translate without... context.”

“Context?” Feyre echoed warily.

Amren’s smile was slow. Unreadable. “It is not a language you learn in books, girl,” she went on, tone distant now. “Iskra’tan is… primal. It was never meant to be transcribed—I’m impressed someone managed to, somehow.” She explained. “It was carved into the world before your kind ever walked it. You don’t read it. You listen.” 

They stared.

“And you understand it?” Feyre asked, disbelieving.

A glimmer of amusement sparked in Amren’s eyes. “Well enough.”

Silence again.

Then Amren turned her attention back to her. Her silver eyes, usually so sharp and dismissive, were watching her as though she were a blade unsheathed. Something like awe in her gaze.

“They spoke of a lost kingdom,” Amren said. “A bloodline that should have died out. It was said their very existence threatened the balance of this world. Not because they were evil—no, the Gods do not fear monsters.” She tilted her head. “They feared what could not be controlled.”

The words slammed into her chest.

“They could bend the skies,” Amren went on. “Crack the fabric of reality itself. Maybe more. No one really knows. But it was believed that, if one of them ever reached their full potential, they wouldn’t just defeat their enemies—they’d shatter the world.” She held her gaze. “The only reason it never happened before was because they were wiped out before they could reach that point. Hunted until none remained.”

Amren paused.

“Or so they thought.”

The room blurred.

Her thoughts scattered. Dizzy, jagged, directionless.

Too much. It was too much.

Was this who she was?

Some... ancient weapon?

“And you think she’s one of them?” Feyre asked quietly.

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The truth was already written in the set of his shoulders. In the way he couldn’t look away from her.

In the way he’d let her fall. Chosen it.

Her fingers curled at her sides to stop the trembling, to ground herself in something, anything. But the ache in her chest kept growing. A raw, trembling weight behind her sternum, pressing into her lungs, into her spine, into the very seams of her bones.

Her voice had vanished somewhere. Her mind scrambled to process it all—the betrayal, the prophecy, the bloodline she had never heard of, the things she had felt inside her and never dared to name.

And worse still—the dreams.

The dreams she'd had for years. A ruined kingdom, crumbling towers choked in ivy and ash. A river that bled red. The unfamiliar symbols etched in stone walls that felt too familiar. The cold marble beneath her feet as bodies reached for her. The deafening screams and the storms that always followed.

Had those dreams not been nightmares?

Had they been memories?

Were those people—the ones who called to her across the veil, who screamed her name as the walls cracked and the skies turned black—hers?

Was that ruined place where she came from?

Was she the reason it fell?

Her thoughts spiraled faster than she could catch them. Doubt sank in like ice water in her lungs.

Maybe this was why Rhysand had done it.

Maybe he had been right to let them take her.

She tried to be angry again, to stoke the fire that had burned so hot a moment ago—but it flickered now, dimmed by the overwhelming certainty that maybe—maybe—she had never been meant to survive.

That she shouldn’t have.

She had begged for death in that dungeon more times than she could count. Had hoped for it. And maybe—maybe if it had come, the world would’ve been safer for it.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.

She couldn’t.

Because how could she let them see that underneath the fury, underneath the wounded pride and rage, there was only this:

A female who didn’t understand what she was.

Who never had.

Who wished she could go back in time and never listen to Theron when he told her to come here. Who wished she'd stayed hidden with him, far from the Night Court and its shadows and its history and its truths.

Ignorance would have been a kindness.

They could have stayed by the sea, in that sun-warmed villa, chasing chaos across distant lands, letting the world forget she ever existed.

And maybe—maybe she should have been forgotten.

Maybe that was the only mercy she’d been denied.

Her heart pounded, her breath caught—and across the room, Azriel saw it all.

She wasn’t saying a word, but she may as well have been screaming.

Because every emotion painted itself on her face like a storm rolling in: confusion, grief, a dawning terror. The look of someone suddenly unmade. And Azriel—he watched as if each crack in her resolve echoed in his own ribs.

He didn’t move, but his shadows did.

They hovered near her, restless and reaching, as if unsure whether to touch her or not. As if unsure whether she would shatter or unleash a force that would level them all.

Her throat worked around a breath, rough and thin. Like her lungs had forgotten how to function.

She didn’t look at anyone. She just stared at the far wall—at nothing—as her voice finally slipped free.

Soft. Tired.

“Maybe you were right,” she said, her eyes cast down. A breath in. A breath out. “Maybe I am something to be afraid of.”

The words hung there. Flat. Lifeless. As if even she didn’t know whether she meant them. The silence that followed pressed in from all sides.

“No,” Azriel said. Quietly. Firmly. The first word he’d spoken since she’d arrived.

She looked up, slowly, into his face.

His shadows stirred gently at her side, not in warning, but in comfort.

“You’re not a monster,” Azriel went on, voice low but steady. “You never were.”

Her throat worked around the knot lodged there. But she said nothing.

Rhysand’s mouth opened slightly—but no words came. Maybe because he heard what everyone else did:

She wasn’t accusing him anymore.

She was accepting it.

Worse.

He stepped forward. Slowly. No High Lord mask now—just a male who looked older than she remembered, more tired than she’d ever seen him.

“I thought I was protecting everyone,” he said, voice hoarse. “I thought I was protecting you.”

The apology wasn’t eloquent.

It wasn’t enough.

“I didn’t need your protection,” she replied, not with venom, but exhaustion. “I needed my brother.”

Surprisingly, Amren was the one who stepped forward next.

Only a step—but it was something. The silver in her eyes shimmered, the faintest trace of what they’d once been. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her like someone who saw too much.

Her voice was low, quiet, but unmistakably steady. “You weren’t born for shelter, girl. You were born from the storm itself. Wild. Unwritten. You’ll never fit in their neat little kingdoms. You were meant for something greater.” A faint curve pulled at her lips. “You keep trying to be understood. Stop. You weren’t made for understanding. You were made to be felt.”

The female didn’t answer. Didn’t acknowledge it. But the words found her anyway. Sank deep.

Cassian shifted next—just a little, his arms folding over his chest again like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. The look in his eyes said it all. That big brother kind of grief. The helpless kind.

He cleared his throat. His voice was a poor cover for the emotion choking it. “I was supposed to protect you,” he muttered. “Back then. I—I didn’t. And I don’t know how to make that right.” She turned to him, just slightly. “But you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again. I don’t care if the whole damn mountain shakes when you breathe. You’re still my sister.”

The female blinked once. Just once.

Mor… Mor had tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She made no move to hide them.

“You were my sister,” she whispered. “You are. And I don’t care if you can split the skies in two. That never scared me. And it never will.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The room was too much—too many truths, too many eyes, too many pieces of herself scattered across the floor like someone had taken a blade to her past and split it wide open.

Her throat tightened. The room blurred at the edges. She didn’t want to cry in front of them. Something in her locked down, like a gate slamming shut in a crumbling hall.

Her gaze dropped to the floor. Her shoulders drew back—but not in pride.

In armor.

A fortress rebuilt in a blink.

“I’m tired,” she said finally. The words scraped against her throat. “I need—” she broke off, then tried again, “I need to go.”

Cassian moved instantly, almost panicked. “Wait—don’t—”

“Please,” Mor said, already circling to intercept, her voice trembling. “You just got back—”

They all felt it—that same gut-deep instinct the winged Illyrian males felt in the forest, the same one that screamed if she leaves, we may never find her again.

Her gaze swept the room. The hurt in it. The confusion. The hope no one dared name.

“I’ll come back,” she said, quiet but sure. 

“No one will stop you,” Rhysand said, but his voice was hollow. Ash in the wind. “But please—don’t disappear again.”

A hundred words waited on her tongue. But she swallowed them down. Too raw. Too unfinished.

“You can stay here—” Feyre rushed to offer.

“No, I can’t.” she shook her head slightly.

Then she exhaled—and vanished.

The air around her warped. 

Like lightning through glass.

A shimmer along the seams of the world, threads of raw pressure and storm cracking outward in thin, silvery lines. The space she occupied seemed to fold in on itself, pressure building so fast it made the walls hum, the fire gutter. The temperature dropped. The scent of ozone rushed in. Sparks—real sparks—danced in the air, gold and white and pale blue.

And then the room shuddered with a sound like distant thunder.

She was gone.

Just… gone.

Like the storm had come for her and taken her back.

And the room—so full of tension and hurt and grief—stood still again.

Except for Azriel.

Who hadn’t stopped watching the place where she’d stood.

Not even when Mor sank into a chair, shell-shocked. Not even when Cassian cursed under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Not when Elain moved towards her sister and nephew.

The silence she left behind wasn’t quiet.

It thrummed. It sang. It ached.

And as the others stood frozen in the echo of her departure, Azriel only breathed her in.

Because some fools ran from the storm.

But he—

He’d always been the kind to step into it, head bowed, heart bare, hoping it would swallow him whole.

< previous | series masterlist | next >

💬⚡ — if you wanna be added to the taglist, just leave me a comment below! – i do expect a reblog and/or a comment once i tag you tho 🫵🏽🤨 also, there's a few accounts i can't tag so you might wanna check your settings for it x

[aanoia]

Between Shadows and Flight

Sirius Black x reader words; 1,963 summary; A guarded Slytherin girl, haunted by grief, discovers a hidden mirror that reveals her truest desire—and an unexpected future with Sirius Black. As war looms and secrets unravel, she follows the path of an ominous raven, drawn into an ancient ritual buried in the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Love and pain intertwine, forcing her to choose between the past that binds her and the future that might save her. warnings; grief, loss, angst, self-harm, suicidal ideation, trauma, emotional distress, death, war, blood magic, emotional manipulation, family conflict, supernatural elements, dark magic, isolation, obsession, gothic imagery, psychological turmoil pt. 1 the bitch is back with a new story. Hope yall enjoy, my beautiful freaks <3

October 1976

The west tower was colder than it should've been. The air was still and quiet, the only sound being faint laughter from the courtyard echoing in through the windows. It was a draughty, empty corridor no teacher nor student had spoken of, or even thought of, in years. That's precisely why Y/n liked it. No portraits. No footsteps. Just the cracked windows and the minuscule insects hiding in corners.

She leans against the wall, pressing her fingers to the cool surface. Even the stone feels older here, like the castle itself has forgotten this corridor existed.

A fly incessantly buzzes around Y/n's head, making unsteady circles around the circumference of it. Her eyes follow it when it's in view, her hands twitch to swat it away. She doesn't get to chance to, however, as the flapping of wings chokes the silence. Her head swivels sharply, her heart catching. Perched in one of the broken windows is a raven, larger than most, with beady black eyes and glossy black feathers. It stares at her, not with menace, but knowing.

She narrows her eyes at the bird, “Go on, then. If you're here to deliver doom, get it over with.”

The raven blinks subtly, and its head tilts to the side. Then hops from the sill and further into the corridor. Y/n hesitates, but the mysterious pull of the raven forces her to lift from the wall. Her feet drag against the floor gently as she follows the bird down the corridor. She pauses at the end, looking over the blank stone. There's nothing. The raven stares once again, standing still in front of the wall. She glances at it uncomfortably, the hairs on her neck standing up.

“There's nothing.” She says, and mentally curses herself. Merlin, she's talking to a damn bird. The raven doesn't respond, and she realizes that if she hadn't just seen it move, she'd think it was taxidermy by its stillness. She bites the inside of her cheek, looking again. This time, she notices a small crack that diminishes suddenly.

In the Slytherin common room, it's private knowledge to the upperclassmen that there's a short hall. At the end of it hangs a large tapestry depicting Salazar Slytherin’s serpent, ancient and unsettling. The tapestry is as old as Hogwarts, the fading colors melting into the greenish gray stone. If one were to run their hand along the head of a serpent, it would reveal a subtle seam in the stone. A result of the cunning Salazar Slytherin himself. He created the secret passage to hide powerful magic from those unworthy, however, the one found in the Slytherin common room had been turned into a secondary commons. Where the elder kids could peacefully relax, away from the younger years.

It's a common belief that Salazar had littered these secret entrances throughout the castle. Inside held magic that not even the most advanced wizards could understand. They're said to hold magical objects–vials of forbidden potions, cursed lockets, serpents' fangs- dangerous magic that must be hidden.

Y/n runs her fingertips over the crack, to its mysterious vanishing spot, and a short breath leaves her. The same crease. Her hand continues, her palm falling flat against the stone. In the middle of what she assumed to be the doorway, her fingers catch on an almost imperceptible raised pattern resembling a snake's scales.

She glances around the dim hallway, searching for a clue to opening the door. Her eyes lock onto the raven, who suddenly has a piece of crumpled parchment crushed in its beak. She leans down, carefully removing the paper, and standing back up quickly. She swallows thickly as she unfolds the parchment. The ink writing is neat, but it looks rushed.

Where scales of stone conceal the key, the serpent's tongue will set it free.

“Serpent's tongue,” she reads aloud quietly, glancing at the door in contemplation.

With a deep sigh, she leans forward. The tip of her tongue meets the cool stone. The wall didn't shift so much as a shiver–a subtle ripple ran through the surface like a warm breath exhaled through cold lips. A low, grinding hum stirred beneath the floor, creaking with exhaustion. Like the castle itself, awakening after a century-long slumber.

There's a faint click, and then a second. An outline of the serpent bled to life, followed by the doorway. It was glowing briefly with a pale green light, and dust lifted in spirals from the seams as they split. Y/n takes a small step back as the stone parts like theatre curtains.

There's no creaking of old hinges, just a soft sigh of air escaping from somewhere sealed for centuries. A cool draft rolled out, making the girl shiver, carrying the scent of old magic, books, and damp stone. Then came silence, eerie and expectant. Y/n peered into the entrance, stepping forward with trepidation. She breathes out, and her breath fogs in front of her. She wraps her robe tightly around her body, her wand and the note clutched tightly in her grip.

The raven suddenly takes off in flight, gliding into the room without fear. The weight on Y/n's heart lightens slightly, and she gains the courage to enter the room completely. The passage opens into a tall, circular chamber carved into the stone, its walls smoothed by magic. The ceiling curves into a high dome, veined with pulses of faint silver lines–like starlight trapped in rock. At the very top, a cluster of enchanted crimson crystals, dim and flickering like dying stars.

Around the room stand tall alcoves, each housing strange relics behind glass. One had a floating vial full of dark clouds, with small and short zaps of electricity mimicking lightning. Another had a feather suspended mid-fall, the edges glowing with magic. And then, the one that drew her attention the most was a candle burning seemingly in reverse. As the flame stands tall and proud, wax slowly builds itself around it, as if attempting to create a barrier of safety for the fragile flame. On one wall, she notices a faint inscription, barely noticeable behind a torn tapestry. The words are in Parseltongue, only to be read by those who can speak the tongue of the snakes. Y/n, unfortunately, does not possess such power.

The raven squawks from the rafters, catching the girls' attention. Her eyes caught a large figure draped with green velvety cloth. A sliver of a gold frame peaks through the edges, and Y/n hesitantly clutches the cloth, pulling it off. Dust arises, dancing in the air as she stares in awe at the mirror. Along the top of the intricate tarnished gold frame lies an inscription.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi

She then focuses on the mirror itself, and a soft gasp leaves her throat. In the mirror, she stands, not alone. To her left is Sirius Black, eyes soft, not smirking or guarded like usual, but unconditionally open. He's holding her hand, looking back at her in the reflective glass. To her right is her deceased sister, very alive and well, no signs of illness or death creeping in. Her sister looks proud, safe, like she's protected from the life Y/n couldn't shield her from.

Above them, in the rafters, is the massive raven, watching her once again. It perches calmly, wings folded, and head tilted in quiet understanding. It glows faintly blue, perhaps a reflection of the light on its inky feathers. It could compare to the moon, and instead of being the harbinger of death, the raven has become a guardian. A symbol of trust.In this reflection, there's no impending war. No choosing between good and evil. There are people gathered behind her, family. Both hers and people she doesn't recognize, all adorning smiles and love.

The raven squawking breaks Y/n out of her trance, and the image in the mirror becomes warped. She exhales shakily and retrieves the bag she had set down in her stupor. She slings it over her shoulder with haste and turns on her heel. The bird squawks again, urging her to hurry. So she runs.

She runs out of the room, through the empty corridor once again. In her hurry, she misses a step, tripping over a fallen broom. She braces her fall, hissing slightly as a protruding sliver of metal slices her cheek. Her palms meet the old wood, and she breathes deeply for a moment. There's a faint buzzing above her, weak and pleading. She raises her gaze to find the fly from before, trapped in sticky silk. A spider wraps its prey in a cocoon, and she swears under her breath, racing to her feet.

She leaves the empty corridor and is greeted with the cheerful warmth of the main hallways. Students push past her, the final class of the day finally coming to a close. She furrows her brows, glancing out a window. The sun is beginning to dip below the horizon, bringing light to the amount of time she had spent in that room, staring at that mirror. It was lunchtime when she had sought solace in the quiet of the abandoned corridor, and now she’s sure the students are heading towards the Great Hall for supper.

Y/n’s breathing is uneven, so she leans against the wall and inhales shakily. She rests her hand over her thumping heart, quietly grounding herself– you’re fine, you’re fine– and she turns and walks down the hall, her head bowed.

Loud footsteps echoed from around the bend.

“Well, well. Look who decided to haunt the castle today.” Sirius Blacks voice was light, smug, and irritatingly charming.

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat as she looks up, blinking against the golden light pouring in through the windows. Sirius, James, and Remus strolled towards her, the first two laughing between themselves. All messy hair, loose ties, and warmth she wasn’t ready for.

“Thought you’d finally joined the shadows for good,” James adds with a grin. “Missed all of Charms. Flitwick actually looked disappointed. We almost sent a search party.”

Y/n straightens, trying to slip on her usual mask. But her cold exterior cracked slightly at the edges, going unnoticed by all but one.

“Maybe I just didn’t want to be behind you lot and inhale your collective lack of impulse control.”

Sirius barks a laugh, hands shoved in his pockets. “You wound me, Y/n/n. I was this close to offering you my last Sugar Quill in class.”

She rolls her eyes, “Please. You’d only offer it if you’d already licked it.” Remus snorts, James pretends to gag at the thought.

Sirius tilts his head, watching her a second longer than usual as the other two boys get distracted by a flock of ducks outside the window. Something in her expression must have flickered, something fragile, because his smirk fades just a little.

“You alright?” He asks, quietly enough, only she caught it. His hand raises to her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over the cut. “What happened?”

She hesitates, almost says no. She pulls away from his hand. “I'm fine.” She smoothes out her robes. “What’s it to you?”

The boy sighs, opening his mouth to respond. He doesn’t get a chance to, however, as James slings his arm around Y/n’s shoulders.

“Come on. We’re heading to dinner. You can judge our table manners in real time.”

Y/n prepares to protest, but James moves to link arms with her like it's normal, and Remus falls into step beside him. So, she walked, still carrying the weight of what she saw, just now surrounded. The raven stays perched in her memory, wings outstretched for flight. But for now, she walked beside the boy who’d looked at her like that in the glass, not knowing that he already had.

my masterlist

If you'd like to be added to my main taglist comment or DM me!

taglist; @loving-and-dreaming @1lellykins @poetrypirate @ashisabitgay @kodiskisses @whitemanswh0r3 @ultraoreoqueen @miss-mercuryy @peanutbutterinacup @r-scneptune @pheonixfucu @luannemaru @jluvsjpotts @its-a-ittle-bit-cold @maraudersgirlie @thescarletredwitch @irjdujsksjahhbs @irjdujsksjahhbs @1-800-ididurmum @jennasco @myradiaz @chellyrps @lixiefelicis @ittybittyhogan @lollloki @dreamingofmarauders @everybodyhatesari @agy-mari @wayytoocooll @notaboutlovebyfiona @harrington-potter @little-bubba @whoreforlupin @jdoshalablab-blog @mybelovedneilperry @bellathethirstybitch @poetrynerdsunite @talesof-old @remussbitch @keira-fitzsimmons @peopleisdumbs-blog @dunaahahah @starsshinebluewhite @lizzieolseniskinda @fast-slow-disco @bubblegumanatomy @sparkling-ariaria @blooberry-bagel @whiskeywineimfine @fluidfandoms @lyrahelmand @reaa88 @mysteriouslydeliciousmoon @randomchicksstuff @loca4moony @lynnleanist @alliacnh-blog @sususdiaryy @imafckingbitch

[g3tinl0ser]

Cant come up with a title for this. it will be a Caius mate story. not sure how long honest. but feel free to shoot me name ideas or things you'd like to see happen!

MASTERLIST

Living as a vampire carries its own unique trials, an eternity of unchanging existence interwoven with emotions that cut deeper than mortal hearts could ever endure. Nothing illustrated this more profoundly than your relationship with Edward Cullen. Before the transformation, you were inseparable, bound by a love so fierce it seemed eternal even before immortality sealed your fates. Together, you navigated the strange, tumultuous world of vampirism, finding solace and purpose in one another amidst the chaos of your new reality. For a time, it was as close to perfect as creatures like you could dare to dream.

But everything shattered when Bella entered Edward’s life. She was his blood singer, a siren in human form, her very presence a temptation he couldn’t resist. Though you knew, deep in your immortal soul, that she wasn’t his true mate, Edward was drawn to her with a force neither of you could comprehend. Watching him drift toward her was like standing helplessly in the path of a tidal wave, unable to stop it, unable to save yourself. The man who had been your constant through lifetimes walked away, leaving you to grapple with a betrayal so profound it felt as if eternity itself had turned on you.

The pain was indescribable. How could he abandon everything you had built together? A century of shared existence as vampires. Five tender years as human lovers. The weight of those years, the trust you had forged over time, felt irreplaceable, until it wasn’t. His departure tore through you like jagged glass, leaving wounds that even immortality could not heal. You questioned everything: his love, his loyalty, and your own worth. The betrayal lingered in your chest, a phantom ache that no passage of time could soothe.

Edward’s apologies were frequent, his explanations earnest, but they only deepened the wound. He spoke of Bella with a mix of awe and torment, as if struggling to make sense of his own feelings. He insisted that his pull toward her wasn’t a rejection of you or what you shared, but rather some inexplicable compulsion, a force of nature that neither of you could have foreseen. And yet, his honesty, however well-meaning, felt like salt in the wound, each word a reminder of the love he had willingly risked for someone else.

Even now, you struggle to reconcile the man you once knew with the one who left you behind. Was it weakness? Was it something broken in him, or in you? Edward’s departure wasn’t about your worth or the depth of your bond, and yet, that knowledge does little to ease the ache. It was a cruel twist of fate, an evolution of his emotions that neither of you could control. But knowing that doesn’t make it any less painful.

Eternity once seemed a gift when you faced it together. Now, it feels like a curse, stretching endlessly ahead, haunted by the echoes of what you lost.

Staying with the Cullen family after Edward left was an act of resilience, a daily test of your ability to endure the weight of loss. Every corner of the house carried echoes of what you once had, a love you thought would span eternity. Yet, amidst the pain, you found strength in the bonds you had forged with the others, bonds that kept you tethered when it felt like you might drift away.

Carlisle and Esme were your anchors, their unwavering support a steady light in the storm. Carlisle often reassured you, his gentle voice filled with conviction, that your mate was still out there. That one day, you would be loved as deeply and completely as you deserved. It was a comfort, even if it felt impossible to believe. Esme, ever the nurturing soul, would stroke your hair as you rested your head in her lap, her touch soft and motherly, as if willing some of her boundless warmth to seep into your fractured heart.

Rosalie and Emmett became your greatest sources of distraction, pulling you out of your grief and grounding you in the present. Rosalie introduced you to the intricacies of vehicles, and together you spent countless hours in the garage. She was patient and meticulous, her passion for the craft infectious. Emmett, rarely far from her side, had set up his own gaming station in the corner of the garage. You couldn’t help but smile at how inseparable they were, even when doing their own things. Between rounds of whatever game he was immersed in, you’d catch him sneaking adoring glances at Rosalie. She’d pause her work to ask how he was doing, genuinely interested in his animated rants about his latest strategy. Their bond was effortless, a quiet yet powerful reminder of what love could be.

Emmett also became your outlet for the anger and energy you couldn’t seem to contain. Together, you took down more trees than you could count during your wrestling matches, the crashes loud enough to draw attention from nearby humans. After a stern scolding from Carlisle, your sparring sessions moved to bare-knuckle boxing in the backyard. Jasper often watched, entertained by the fiery matches, though the others were less amused.

It was during one of these bouts that Edward finally snapped. His voice, sharp and unfamiliar in its anger, cut through the tension like the crack of thunder before a storm. “You’ve scared her,” he accused, his words heavy with condemnation. “She doesn’t feel safe here because of you.”

The accusation hit like a slap to the face, leaving a stinging shock that lingered in the silence. The weight of his misplaced judgment bore down, harsher than any physical blow could have been. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words faltered, caught in the tangled web of disbelief and indignation.

“Scared her?” you finally managed, your voice low but shaking. “I barely speak to her, Edward. How could I possibly scare her?”

Edward’s eyes blazed, his jaw tight as though holding back the full force of his anger. “It’s not just what you say,” he retorted, his voice trembling with restrained fury. “It’s the way you look at her. Bella’s worried your anger will turn on her one day. She told me she’s afraid to be alone in the same room as you.”

The words struck harder than you expected, winding you. Bella, afraid? Of you? The notion was absurd, yet Edward spoke with such conviction it almost made you question yourself. Almost.

You shook your head, trying to process the accusation. “I’ve never done anything to hurt her,” you said, your voice rising. “I’ve never blamed her for, for you leaving. I haven’t threatened her or even bad-mouthed her to anyone but Rosalie, and she doesn’t count. She doesn’t like Bella anyway.”

Edward’s expression darkened further, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the air heavier. “That’s not the point,” he shot back. “Intentions don’t matter if she feels unsafe.”

“Unsafe?” The word burned on your tongue. “This is my home, Edward. I’ve done everything I can to make it comfortable for her. If she’s afraid, maybe it’s because of you constantly filling her head with paranoia about me.”

The accusation seemed to strike a nerve. Edward’s fists clenched at his sides, and his gaze darted to the floor for a brief moment, as if weighing whether to respond.

“This isn’t about me,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less intense. “It’s about her. All I’m asking is that you think about how you come across. You don’t see it, but, ”

“But what?” you interrupted, stepping forward, your voice rising with each word. “But I’m some sort of monster? Someone incapable of being in the same room as her without scaring her to death?”

Before Edward could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, and the rest of the family appeared. Carlisle and Esme entered first, their faces etched with concern. Alice hovered near the doorway, her sharp gaze darting between you and Edward, as though trying to predict the next move. Behind her, Emmett loomed, his large frame filling the space. His expression was grim, his posture tense and ready, as if expecting the need to step in.

“What’s going on?” Carlisle asked, his voice calm but firm, cutting through the heated tension.

“Edward thinks I’m some kind of threat,” you said bitterly, gesturing toward him. “He’s accusing me of scaring Bella.”

“Edward,” Esme said gently but with an undercurrent of disapproval. “That’s a serious thing to say. Are you sure?”

“Bella told me herself,” Edward insisted, though his voice faltered slightly under Esme’s gaze.

Emmett took a step closer to you, his broad shoulders squared as he positioned himself slightly in front of you. “That’s enough,” he said, his deep voice steady and protective. “You don’t get to throw accusations around like that without proof.”

Edward glared at Emmett, his frustration evident, but he didn’t reply. The room felt charged, the silence stretching as everyone processed the scene.

“Let’s all take a step back,” Carlisle said, his tone soothing but authoritative. “We need to address this calmly. Edward, if Bella has concerns, we’ll address them, but accusations won’t solve anything. And you,” he added, turning to you, “have every right to defend yourself, but let’s not escalate this further.”

You nodded stiffly, though your jaw remained tight. Emmett stayed close, his presence a solid reminder that you weren’t alone in this. The family’s intervention diffused the immediate tension, but the storm between you and Edward was far from over. For now, though, the room was quiet save for the unspoken words lingering in the air.

Rosalie’s voice rang in your mind, sharp and sarcastic. “Typical Edward,” she’d say. “Always the self-righteous protector.” And maybe, just maybe, she’d be right this time.

Still, his words lingered, heavy and suffocating. You’d been toying with the idea of leaving for some time, and this moment pushed you over the edge. The choice crystallized in your mind, clear and inescapable. The tension in the room seemed to ripple as you made your decision, and Edward’s head snapped toward you, his expression shifting from anger to alarm. He’d heard your thoughts.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head, his voice low but urgent. “You don’t have to do this. Don’t go.”

But it was too late. You had already turned away, the decision a quiet roar in your mind. Each step felt heavy yet purposeful, the weight of the moment grounding you even as your heart ached. Behind you, Edward’s voice faltered, and for the first time, you heard it break.

“Please,” he whispered, almost inaudible, the single word laced with desperation.

You paused for the briefest of moments, your hand resting on the doorframe. You could feel the family’s eyes on you, the unspoken pleas mingling with Edward’s. But the choice had already been made. With a steady breath, you stepped forward, the door closing softly behind you.

The silence that followed was deafening, the weight of your absence settling over the room like a heavy fog. Emmett stood frozen, his protective stance faltering as he processed your departure. Rosalie’s voice echoed in your mind, sharp and sarcastic: “Typical Edward. Always the self-righteous protector.” This time, though, her words felt like a hollow comfort. Whatever came next, you knew one thing for certain: there was no turning back.

As you wandered through the sunlit streets of Athens, a profound sense of connection settled over you, as though the city’s ancient soul was reaching out to yours. Each step you took on the sun-warmed stone felt like a conversation with history, the whispers of a thousand forgotten voices echoing in the air. The fragrant aroma of fresh basil and thyme mingled with the faint saltiness of the Aegean breeze, grounding you in the present even as the past seemed to ripple through every corner. Street musicians played melodies that seemed to straddle the line between joy and sorrow, their music weaving effortlessly into the bustling life of the city.

Athens had become more than a refuge, it was a sanctuary, a place where you were learning to piece yourself back together. Edward’s departure had left you fractured, but here, among the winding alleys adorned with cascading bougainvillea, you felt the faint flickers of resilience take root. The city whispered its secrets of survival and renewal, offering you lessons embedded in its very foundations. It was as if the ruins, weathered but enduring, mirrored your own slow journey toward healing.

Still, there was something else, an inexplicable pull, like a thread tethering you to the city itself. At times, it felt like a sharp tug in the center of your chest, coming and going with the cadence of your steps. It wasn’t a burden, but a strange, persistent energy, a call from something within Athens that resonated with a part of you you hadn’t yet come to understand.

Rebuilding your heart had been anything but easy. There were days when the weight of grief felt insurmountable, when the shadows of what once was threatened to pull you under. But you pushed forward, carving out an identity that existed wholly apart from Edward. It was just you, your strengths, your vulnerabilities, your ambitions. And day by day, you found yourself growing stronger, more certain of the person you were becoming. The sunlight seemed brighter now, as though it had been waiting for you to see it again, casting its golden warmth on your newfound independence.

For the first time, you felt an unexpected gratitude for your gift, the ability to alter your features, to manipulate your skin so you could walk among the sunlit streets without fear. It had been a gateway to rediscovery, granting you months of exploring the beauty of the world in daylight. Greece, with its rich cultures and vibrant landscapes, had wrapped you in its embrace. Every conversation with locals, every taste of the country’s food, every moment spent immersed in the rhythm of its life added to the mosaic of who you were becoming.

Now, as you stood atop a hillside overlooking Athens, the city unfolded before you, bathed in the fiery hues of a setting sun. The Acropolis glowed like a beacon, its golden light a reminder of resilience and endurance. The chatter of voices and the distant laughter of strangers wove into the air, a symphony of life continuing to move forward. You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as a sense of clarity washed over you, filling every corner of your being.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you felt… whole. Whole enough to envision a future untainted by bitterness or fear. Whole enough to let the past remain in its place, as a lesson rather than a weight. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city into soft twilight, you opened your eyes, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

You were ready. The certainty settled over you like the calming weight of a long-forgotten melody. Ready to return to the Cullens, to confront the tangled web of emotions that bound you to them. You would try one last time to find your place within their family, a place where your presence wasn’t overshadowed by misunderstandings or silent tensions. If it didn’t work out? You could accept that, too. Life had shown you that paths diverged, and sometimes, forging a new one was the only way forward.

The idea of leaving wasn’t one of defeat but of choice. You had options now, ones that didn’t feel like a compromise. Maybe Rosalie and Emmett would join you, and together you could create something entirely your own, a coven built on shared dreams and chosen bonds. The thought wasn’t laced with bitterness but with possibility, the kind of freedom that came with knowing you could finally decide what your life would be.

As the sun dipped lower, its light casting the sky in gentle hues of lavender and gold, you allowed yourself a rare moment of stillness. The air was cool and comforting against your skin, carrying the faint hum of the city below. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you were truly at peace. The weight you’d carried for so long had lifted, replaced by the quiet hum of anticipation for whatever was to come.

Then, the shrill ring of your phone shattered the tranquility, the sound a discordant intrusion against the serene backdrop of the evening. Fishing it out of your pocket, you glanced at the screen, and a wry smirk tugged at your lips. How poetic, you thought. Thousands of miles from home, basking in a moment of clarity and newfound strength, only to be interrupted by the one person who had once left you in ruins.

Edward.

For a moment, you considered letting it ring out. But something, perhaps the raw edge of fate tugging at your chest, made you answer.

“Hello?” Your voice was steady, though your heart beat harder in your chest.

There was silence on the other end, heavy and trembling, before Edward spoke. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice low and fractured.

“What are you talking about?” you asked sharply, the sudden weight of his words clawing at your chest.

“Bella,” he whispered. “She’s… she’s dead.”

The world seemed to tilt, and you had to grip the edge of the table to steady yourself. “What do you mean, dead? What happened?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” he said, his words brittle and rushed. “I just needed to tell you, I’m going to the Volturi. It ends tonight.”

The breath left your lungs in a sharp exhale. “The Volturi?” you repeated, the name like ice on your tongue. “Edward, no. Don’t, ”

“There’s nothing left,” he interrupted, his voice breaking. “I’ve already failed her. I can’t, ”

“Stop,” you said firmly, your tone cutting through his spiral. “You don’t get to make this decision for the rest of us. For me. You’re giving up, Edward, and you’re not thinking about what that’ll do to us. To your family.”

“I have thought about it,” he said, softer now. “And I know… I know how much I’ve failed you, too. I treated you like you didn’t matter. Like your pain didn’t matter.” His voice cracked, and he exhaled shakily. “I should’ve treated you better. I should’ve loved you better.”

Your throat tightened, his words reaching places you had long thought numb. “Edward…”

“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he murmured, cutting you off. “But I’m sorry, for everything. For leaving you behind. For blaming you for things that were never your fault. You deserved so much more than what I gave you.”

The weight of his apology settled over you like a stone, both unexpected and crushing. “Edward, if you’re sorry, then prove it. Stay alive. Don’t do this.”

For a moment, there was silence, his hesitation palpable. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, “Goodbye.”

“Edward-”

The line went dead, and the silence on the other end rang louder than anything he could’ve said.

You lowered the phone slowly, your hands trembling. The room felt suffocating, and the only thing you knew was that you couldn’t let him do this. Not like this.

To Volterra.

[lovebillyhargrove]

Part 3 of 👑⚔️king Steven x knight William ⚔️👑

***

The king is shackled and thrown into a cold cell in a high tower. There are no windows, there is no fireplace, no torch or even a single candle and Steven is surrounded by infinite darkness.

He does not know how much time passes until one day — or night — the door opens, and Maxine, wearing a hooded cloak, rushes into the cell. She is holding a heavy key ring in her trembling fingers and unlocks the shackles on the king's wrists and ankles.

"We have to run."

The witch from the woods, the one who does not speak, is helping her. She has opened the doors downstairs using a magic spell, and sent heavy slumber upon the guards.

So the three of them flee and hide in the woods in the witch's house where people dare not go.

Maxine tells Steven her step brother's story.

"He was born a bastard son to a very powerful king of faraway lands. The King's name is Neil. He had this child with a beautiful peasant woman, and never wished to see him or have any connection to him from the day the little baby was born. Until eleven years old William had a very modest and simple, yet a happy childhood staying with his mother, working in the fields, in the woods and on the farm, until one day soldiers came and took him to Neil. The son and the mother got separated, and never saw each other again."

"I myself was a little baby at the time when my own mother married Neil out of need. Her husband — my father — had perished in the war against Neil who seized our kingdom without much effort."

"Neil is a ruthless king who is driven by an insatiable desire to conquer lands and other kingdoms. He seems strong like metal, however, he has a secret, his weak spot. It was rumored that he sold his soul to the devil and gained incredible power and countless troops, but was cursed in return."

"Since that time he has been unable to have children. So as it turned out, William was his only child."

"Upon coming to terms with his own infertility and having found no cure, Neil suddenly needed to get his son back, which he did. The boy's mother was banished from the kingdom, and no one knew where she went, and whether she was indeed allowed to leave. There were more rumors that Neil imprisoned her in the underworld, giving false promises to William to reunite him with his mother in return for his absolute obedience. The boy waited in vain, and then began to openly express his defiance and rebellion against Neil, causing unimaginable debauchery and starting multiple riots, and eventually he wandered away to distant lands, looking for his mother and collecting hardships and adventures. Hence the strange marks on his body — although I do not possess the exact knowledge of what they mean or how he got them."

"He found himself in your kingdom, King Steven, not by chance. William was searching for a way to the underworld, or the Upside Down, in the hopes to find his mother there. He indeed came across the passage, and fought an enormous dark monster, however, unsuccessfully, for he then was found in the forest, on the ground, defeated and bleeding. That was how William ended up on your land."

"All this time Neil did not rest, he wanted to bring his only son back. The news travel far, and it finally has reached him that William was staying in a small kingdom on the ocean shore."

"Neil found him and ordered him to return, but his son refused. Neil also ordered him to kill you and proclaim him the ruler. William refused again. Neil captured me and began to blackmail his son that if he did not obey, he would leave me to die in an unknown place. William then swore to help take over the kingdom in exchange for information on where Neil was holding me captive."

"It was the Upside Down again, and both of you saved me, but William was forced to assist his father. It seems as if Neil has this power over him, the calling of blood that my brother is trying so hard to resist .."

"But where is his mother?" Wonders king Steven

"No one knows, and Neil has been silent. William fought the evil spirits from the underworld and searched as much land up here and down there as he could, but failed to find her anywhere."

"So after he betrayed you, William rebelled against his father again, miserably weighed down and disgusted by his own treachery towards you. One night I overheard their conversation ~

"All the lands that are in my possession, even the underworld — I will leave it all to you! You will rule this earth and beyond!"

"I do not want anything from you, father, for you have conquered everything out of greed and vile pride, you have spilled blood of so many innocent people, you tore me away from my mother, you are not above blackmail and torture. You are the embodiment of evil, and I wish to be no part of it."

***

Neil, consumed by rage and helplessness, throws his only son into the Upside Down until he bends to his will.

Steven descends to the realm of darkness one more time, finds William and frees him, challenges Neil to a fight.

They cross swords, the noble king pierces Neil's chest, and a horde of demons flies out of his open wound. In an instant, Neil's whole body turns black, his soldiers everywhere disperse into inky dust, the earth opens up, and Neil is dragged underground by dark slithering snake-like vines.

..

Steven and William spend the night in each other's arms. However, the next morning the king discovers a letter on the white sheets

"My beloved Steven, my pretty king,

There is dark blood flowing in my veins. I can feel it, can sometimes see it coming through. You, my love, belong to the realm of light, with your boundless kindness, wisdom, valor and blinding beauty.

You cannot fathom, and you definitely should not even try to, how it feels to be the only son of a man whose greed and thirst for power had no sane limits. I am not worthy of your love, nor will I ever be.

Still, be sure of the following —

My love for you will remain in my heart, which is tainted with blackness, until my last breath. However, I cannot expose you to the dangers my feelings for you may entail.

Forgive me."

William has again set off into the blue, letting fate and chance guide his journey. Will the king wish to follow and bring his lover back, and if so, where should he look for him ..?

***

Part 4

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of the 10 Story Genres

by Blake Snyder

The 3 elements of a BUDDY LOVE story

An incomplete hero who is missing something physical, ethical, or spiritual; (s)he needs another to be whole.

A counterpart who makes that completion come about or has qualities the hero needs.

A complication, be it a misunderstanding, personal or ethical viewpoint, epic historical event, or the prudish disapproval of society.

DUDE WITH A PROBLEM

An innocent hero who is dragged into a mess without asking for it—or even aware of how he got involved.

A sudden event that thrusts our innocent(s) into the world of hurt—and it comes without warning.

A life or death battle is at stake—and the continued existence of an individual, family, group, or society is in question.

FOOL TRIUMPHANT

A fool whose innocence is his strength and whose gentle manner makes him likely to be ignored—by all but a jealous “Insider” who knows too well.

An establishment, the people or group a fool comes up against, either within his midst, or after being sent to a new place in which he does not fit—at first.

A transmutation in which the fool becomes someone or something new, often including a “name change” that’s taken on either by accident or as a disguise.

GOLDEN FLEECE

A road spanning oceans, time—or across the street—so long as it demarcates growth. It often includes a “Road Apple” that stops the trip cold.

A team or a buddy the hero needs to be guided along the way. Usually, it’s those who represent the things the hero doesn’t have: skill, experience, or attitude.

A prize that’s sought and is something primal: going home, securing a treasure, or re-gaining a birthright.

INSTITUTIONALIZED

Every story in this category is about a group—a family, an organization, or a business that is unique.

The story is a choice, the ongoing conflict pitting a “Brando” or “Naif” vs. the system’s “Company Man.”

Finally, a sacrifice must be made and you get three endings: join, burn it down… or commit “suicide.”

MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

A monster that is supernatural in its powers—even if its strength derives from insanity—and “evil” at its core.

A house, meaning an enclosed space that can include a family unit, an entire town, or even “the world.”

A sin. Someone is guilty of bringing the monster in the house… a transgression that can include ignorance.

OUT OF THE BOTTLE

A wish asked for by the hero or another, and the clearly seen need to be delivered from the ordinary.

A spell, which we must make logical by upholding “The Rules.”

A lesson: Be careful what you wish for! It’s the running theme in all OOTB’s. Life is good as it is.

RITES OF PASSAGE

A life problem: from puberty to midlife to death—these are the universal passages we all understand.

A wrong way to attack the mysterious problem, usually a diversion from confronting the pain.

A solution that involves acceptance of a hard truth the hero has been fighting, and the knowledge it’s the hero that must change, not the world around him.

SUPERHERO

The hero of your tale must have a special power—even if it’s just a mission to be great or do good.

The hero must be opposed by a nemesis of equal or greater force, who is the “self-made” version of the hero.

There must be a curse for the hero that he either surmounts or succumbs to as the price for who he is.

WHYDUNIT

The detective does not change, we do; yet he can be any kind of gumshoe—from pro to amateur to imaginary.

The secret of the case is so strong it overwhelms the worldly lures of money, sex, power, or fame. We gots to know! And so does the Whydunit hero.

Finally, the dark turn shows that in pursuit of the secret, the detective will break the rules, even his own — often ones he has relied on for years to keep him safe. The pull of the secret is too great.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References

[askganon]

I have a question. If a single gerudo male is born every 100 years, has there ever been an instance in which two gerudo males were alive at one time? Or is there some universal constant that waits for the passing of the current to birth the next?

There is a great misconception to this rule, no doubt made through poor Hylian translation.

There can ever be only one male born to the Gerudo. Be it curse or gift, our people may ever only have one trueborn male living at a time. Some consider it a passage of spirit that shifts from one King to the next, taking with it the knowledge and experience of the past to someday create a King wiser than any other.

If it helps your understanding of this concept, there is ever only one embodiment of the Goddess' champion at any given era, is there not?

It is the same for Gerudo.

[callsign-cacti]

Bet on it

Finn x F.Reader 5.3k words

Summary: A missed meeting, a drugstore bag with a fake pregnancy test, a forgetful Kenny Roper, and intimate knowledge about a bet made by the STU baseball team. What could go wrong?

Rating: Mature: drug use, drinking, future chapters will be 18+.

Warnings: Mentions of faking a pregnancy for a prank/ revenge. If this triggers you, please don't read!

Part Two

You had made it a point to never step foot in either of the South Texas University Baseball houses. For any reason, be it for work or, other recreational purposes. However, here you stand, hand seconds away from banging on the front door of the house.

The neighbors probably thought that you were yet another scorned lover, come to beg for yet another piece of the baseball boys. Yet that couldn't be any farther from the truth.

Taking a moment, you recall all the anger from early as you had sat in the library, waiting for Kenny Roper to show up. And he never did.

As the minutes turned into an hour, and your anger continued to grow with the passage of time, you became more and more sure that today was the day. You had been holding onto this little nugget of information for when one of them truly pissed you off, and you knew that the bunch of idiots, would in fact, do something dumb enough to warrant this.

Kenny Roper was just the poor soul that pushed you over the edge.

So you felt no remorse as you banged on the door, not hesitating to throw it open, as you knew the dumbasses never locked it. You bit your lip as some of the boys yelped, all turning to see who was storming in. As soon as you crossed the threshold, you were assaulted with the stench of stale beer, weed, burnt food and B.O.

Wrinkling your nose, you scanned the room, taking in about half the team lounged about the living room. And then you found Roper, tucked behind McReynolds. Looks like he wasn't so dumb after all, if he immediately knew that you were here for him.

Finn recovered first, "Well look who it is, I thought you had taken a solem vow to never step foot in this cursed house!"

"Shut the fuck up Finn!" You snapped, eyes never leaving Roper. "Roper, where the hell have you been?"

As Roper pales, the rest of them start snickering.

"Actually, I don't give a shit where you have been, 'cause I don't want to hear your dumbass excuse! Upstairs, now!" You barked, knowing it would be easier to compose yourself in front of Roper then it would be with half the team watching you. And lord knows you would need some composure for what you were about to pull off.

As Roper silently led you to his bedroom, passing a door with a sign that read, Fornication. Under. Consent. of King, you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Behind you, the boys began to whoop, Plumber was even dumb enough to shout, "Get it Rope!"

At that, you whirled, ripping the sign off the door and chucking it at Plums head, promptly shutting him up.

As Roper closed the door behind him, you heard shuffling coming from downstairs, the boys being as subtle as a pack of elephants in their snooping.

"I cannot believe that you didn't fucking show up Roper!" You yelled at him, beginning to pace back and forth. "I literally rearranged my whole schedule for you, and you don't even have the gall to show up! This class is quite literally the only thing that is keeping your ass off the bench!" You're screeching now, knowing that you need to be loud enough for the entire house to hear.

"Listen, I'm sorry I didn't show, but practice ran late, and then coach wanted to talk to me after. By the time I finished at the field, I figured that..."

"You figured what?" You bit out. No need to fake your anger for this part. You knew that the baseball boys felt entitled due to the treatment they recieved from students and professors alike, but this was on another level.

"You just figured that since you were a little late it would be okay to make me sit for an hour waiting on you? That since your on the goddamned team I would do the entire thing for you? That I would bend over backwards for you, yet again!"

"Just calm down!" He tries to placate, rising up off of his bed, hands outstreched in front of him as if you're a wounded animal that he's trying not to scare. You can practically hear the collective intake of breath from his teammates.

You're not sure if even Brumley is dumb enough to tell a woman to calm down when she's this mad.

"Calm down, you want me to fucking calm down?" You hiss at him, tone dangerously low. The realization that he is well and truly fucked washes over him, his face going pale, limbs tensing. Now he's the one taking a step back as you advance on him. Eventually, his legs hit the bed, leaving him to fall back onto it.

"How in the ever loving fuck am I supposed to calm down when I am stuck with your dumbass for the considerable future. When you can't even show up for a meeting for a class that would keep you on the team. Now that I know for sure that I can't trust you as far as I can throw you!"

Throughout your little speech, you had been gripping the bag tightly, using it as an extension of your hand as you waved it around. Now, you brought it up to your chest as you lowered your voice, Ropers eyes squinting as he tried to figure out it's contents.

"How am I supposed to calm down, when I just took this!" And with that, you fling the bag towards him. He just barely manages to catch it, holding it slightly away from his body as if it was going to bite him.

Cautiously, he opened it, squinting as he reaches down to pull it out. It's barely out of the bag before it's being dropped on the floor as if it's poisionous.

"What the hell is that" Fear has edged into his voice as he finally looks at you.

"You know exactly what it is!" Crossing your arms, you glare at him, not giving him an inch.

"But it's not mine right?"

"Well do you see anyone else in here with us dipshit?" You spat, pinching the inside of your elbow, desperatly trying to keep the laughter that was clawing it's way up your throat down.

"But, we've never... we didn't... did we?" He's reached back down to tenatively pick up the pregnancy test. He looks at you, then back at the test, then back at you, then shakes his head, as if trying to wake himself from a dream.

"You're shitting me Roper. You mean, you don't even fucking remember sleeping with me?" Your voice is dangerously high at this point, and your hoping that it will pass as you trying not to cry instead of you trying not to laugh. In the other room, something crashed, and you heard the whisper yelling at whoever had knocked it over, but your eyes never left Roper.

“I can’t believe this!” You screeched, throwing your hands up into the air.

“How the hell am I supposed to trust you with a baby if you can’t even remember the simplest fucking thing like a meeting, or the night that you fucking impregnated me!”

And with that, you threw the door open, not at all surprised to see the guys strewn about the hallway, desperately trying to look as if they hadn't been eavesdropping, and failing miserably.

You rushed down the stairs and flew through the back door, barely holding yourself together. It was only once you were outside that you allowed the laughter to escape.

This was the part of the plan that had taken you the longest to decide on. You knew that the money would come out very quickly, but did you want to let Roper stew in what was surely a full on crisis?

As tempting as it was, you also didn't want the rumor that you were pregnant getting around, let alone with Kenny fucking Ropers baby.

So, as soon as you composed yourself, which took a couple minutes, as the look on Kenny Ropers face was not something that you would be forgetting any time soon, you let yourself back into the house, went to the fridge, pulled out a beer and popped the top of.

Unfortunalty, you wouldn't get the full amount today, as only half the team was here, but you had the time to collect, and a pocket full of blackmail material.

Reaching into your bag, you pulled your camera out, and began to head for the stairs.

Once you got within eye sight, you began taking pictures. Finn was collecting the money, McRenyolds was sitting next to Roper on the bed, who was still clutching the pregnancy test in his hand. Plum and Dale were both on the ground laughing, and Coma was pulling out his wallet and counting bills.

As Coma put the bills in Finns hand, Plum collected himself enough to pull himself up off the floor.

"I mean, really dude, how the fuck did you forget sleeping with her?"

"Yeah, especially with that much money on the line." Coma chimed in, reluctantly placing his bills in Finns hand.

"I mean,first of all, she's hot as fuck..."

You raise your camera again as you speak and began to snap away.

"Well thanks Plum!" You say, a grin spread wide across your face. Most of the heads in the room, except for Roper and Plum snap towards you, and you beam as you capture the pure fear and confusion as it flits across their faces.

Plum, bless his heart, just continues on. "I mean, you guys literally told me about this bet on the first day of practice!" And just as the guys begin to violently shush him, he connects the dots on his own, his head whipping towards you.

Once you get a picture of his face, you lower the camera, tucking it into your bag as you take another sip of your beer. They all watch as you walk across the room towards Finn, taking the money from his hand and putting the beer in it's place.

Once you make sure it's all there, you shove it into your bag, and take your beer back from Finn.

Brumley, the dumbass, is the first one to break the silence.

"I don't think your supposed to drink if your pregnant. It's bad for the baby!" He exclaimes, nodding at the beer in your hand.

Rolling your eyes, you look around the room. You can see it in there faces who has figured it out, Finn, Dale and McRenyolds being the only ones who have figured it out. The rest are still looking between you and Roper in confusion.

"I'm not pregnant dickheads!" You hiss. "I mean, you think I'd touch him with a ten foot pole? Not fucking likely!"

When you don't get a response from anyone, you take one last drink from your can before shoving it back into Finns hand.

"Well, this has been fun, Roper, I'll see you Friday for our presentation!" And with that, you head for the stairs, pausing to look back over your shoulder. "And I expect to see you with the rest of my money. I know the whole team was in on it!"

And you left as pandemonium broke out upstairs.

-

They found you the next day in the dining hall at lunch. Heather, your roommate, had literally just walked out for her class, and you remained behind, having a few more minutes before you needed to leave for class.

Opening your book, you pulled out your pens as you lifted a fry off your plate, only to have your fry snatched from your hand as you watched someone else slide your book out from in front of you.

You looked up to see Finn munching on your fry as Dale closes your book. You smirk as Roper and McRenyolds pull out chairs in front of you, and flinch as the chair Nesbit is dragging over squeals on the tile floor.

They have you completely surrounded.

"Hello boys," You smirk, picking up another fry. "Come to give me the rest of my money?" Popping the rest of the fry into your mouth, you summon a smug smirk as you lord your win over the boys.

Finn chuckles as he throws his arm around the back of your chair.

"We'll give you the money."

'Perfect," You interrupt him, holding out your hand.

"If, you tell us who squealed to you about the bet." McRenyolds finishes for him as Finn high fiving you before reaching to steal yet another one of your fries.

"Nice try, a reporter never squeals on her sources!" Batting Dales hand away as he reaches for your plate.

"Come on, you owe me!" Roper states, leaning across the table to take your drink. You scrunch your nose as he puts it back down in front of you, and reach over the table push it back towards him.

"You can have it, I have no interest in catching whatever diseases you may carry!" Beside you, both Finn and Dale chuckle, and you lean back to cross your arms so that you can effectively death glare at Roper.

"And I owe you, owe you for what exactly?" You let all traces of humor drain from your tone.

"Umm, for yesterday?" Roper offers up weakly, well aware that he just fucked up.

"Oh, I owe you for completely rearranging my schedule to fit around yours, only for you to stand me up and leave me to do all the work on a project worth thirty percent of our grade. Oh, and lets not forget about the little bet that you started with the entire baseball team about who could sleep with me first. I owe you for that?"

"Well, I didn't fucking start it... W..." McRenyolds kicked him under the table, promptly shutting him up.

"What he means to say, is that he is truly and deeply sorry, that he regrets all of his actions. And that we would all truly appreciate it if you could, just this one time, fudge your morals a little bit, and tell us who ratted on us!" Finn proclaimed, as Roper nodded along with him.

"In fact, I think we all owe her an apology!" Finn stated, a grin stretching across his face.

"Y/n, I am very, very sorry about the bet! It was very wrong of us, and we will never do it again!"

"Your damn right you won't!" You mutter rolling your eyes at Finn. Dale and McRenyolds scoff at him, as Nesbit smothers "Asskisser" in a very fake cough.

“C’mon guys, you gotta be better then that, y’all gotta butter her up. Right now, she’s fifty bucks richer and still riding the high of Ropers embarrassment!” Finn chastises.

“She already took our money!” Dale whines. “C’mon, don’t you wanna be a good friend and tell us who squealed?”

You snort at this, throwing a fry from your plate at him. He catches it and winks as he throws it into his mouth.

"It's cute that you think we're friends!"

Now, Nes chimes in. “It was obviously someone who was least likely to win that squealed!”

“So, you!” Finn says, popping another fry into his mouth.

“Guys,  it was probably someone who already graduated. Figured they would sabotage the bet because they didn’t win.” Roper adds, looking at you with suspicion.

“I mean, statistically speaking, I’m the one who would win.” Finn says, tightening his arm around you. “Right honeybunch!”

This sends the guys into an uproar so loud they don't notice your low hum.

“Why the fuck do you think you would win!”

“Bullshit”

“Shut the hell up Finn!”

“Tell him he’s wrong!”

You scoff. “As if I’d touch any of you with a 10 foot pole. I’m very content not having any STDs thank you very much!”

“I mean, look at the rest of the guys she slept with…” Finn starts, before your turning to look at him.

“Keeping tabs on me Finnegan?”

And he doesn’t even hesitate. “Course I am. Gotta see who floats your boat, so I can imitate them, and subsequently win the bet.”

Rolling your eyes, you shove him off you. “You’re all disgusting!”

And as the rest of the guys begin to protest, you snatch your book off of Dales lap, shoving it into your bag, and ignoring Finns eyes on you as you walk away.

-

Your not even the least bit surprised when Finn finds you the next day, even though your tucked away in your little corner of the library.

“Ok, I know you’re the type of person who appreciates the whole, no bullshit thing,” which Finn and the team had learned the hard way when they had all attempted to flirt with you on your first team interview after a game last year.

Your response, listing off all of the simple mistakes they had made, and insinuating that they were all very, very small because of those dumbass mistakes.

That was the night the bet was born.

“So I’m just gonna come right out and say it. You’re a liar. A hypocrite, if the shoe fits.” You narrow your eyes as he finishes his statement with a flourish, bringing that stupid pipe to his lips. Leaning forward, you snatch it from his hands, throwing it down onto the table.

“You can’t smoke in the fucking library dipshit. And also, how dare you call me a liar. You don't know jack shit."

“But you don’t deny being one?” Finn was smart, you would give him that. It was a damn shame that he wasted it all on beer, baseball and pussy.

“And why would I lie Finn? Isn’t being with one of the baseball boys the goal? From what I’ve heard, I’m supposed to shout it from the rooftops, maybe even get it tattooed on my forehead. I slept with one of the baseball boys!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that’s way too long to fit on your forehead. It would probably be better on your lower back, you know, like a tramp stamp!”He grins as he says it, leaning back into his chair, propping his feet up on the table, and crossing his arms behind his head. You try to ignore the way it makes his biceps look, and you definitely don’t notice the way it makes the veins on his forearms stand out.

“Did you come here for a reason Finn, or do you just find enjoyment in bugging me?" You snap at him, looking back down at your paper.

“Well, I clearly came for the pleasure of your company! And also, to… sate my curiosity, if you will.”

“Well, you asked your question, and I gave you an answer, now you can leave me alone so I can work on my paper!” It was a clear dismissal, but he didn’t move a fucking inch, continuing to stare. You kept your eyes on the paper, your hand moving to write down shitty sentences out of pure spite. You were definitely going to have to rewrite part of this paper.

“You know, I can go away real easy for the low price of just two words, a name is all it takes sweetheart!”

“I told you Finn, I have never slept with anyone on the baseball team, ever. Now leave me alone!”

“See sweetheart, the thing is I don’t believe you when you say that. You hesitated for too long yesterday, and quite frankly, we are all good looking guys. Well… most of us. And you cannot tell me that watching us play doesn’t get you all hot and bothered!”

“I have literally never been less turned on then I am when I am watching y’alls games.” You deadpanned. Which was a lie of course. He wasn’t wrong. The team had some very good looking guys, and those pants did wonders for their asses.

“Sweetheart, please, you can’t bullshit the bullshitter!” Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention back to your work, hoping that maybe if you stopped giving him your attention, then he would go away. He was silent for a few seconds, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stand, only for him to pull out the chair your bag was in, drop it to the floor, and seat himself.

“Look, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way…”

“Shut the fuck up Finn, we aren’t in one of your stupid spy thrillers!”

“Please!” He begs, so loud that a few other students turn to look your way. The attention doesn’t seem to phase Finn, although you should have known that it wouldn’t. If anything the new eyes just egg him on.

“Why do you even want to know so bad huh? The bets over, no one won, it doesn’t matter!” You spat.

 A part of you debated on just telling him. He was as hard headed as you were, and the likelihood of him giving up was slim to none. There was always the option of just giving him the name of one of the seniors that had graduated, no harm no foul, but this was also Finn. If he found out that you had lied, then it was just going to make things worse.

You could revisit the idea of telling their coach. The probability of any of the players getting benched was slim to none, but you did have a little bit of pull, as you were the one writing half the articles the scouts were reading. You would never actually write untrue things about the guys and their game, for several reasons, but they didn’t need to know that.

You were jolted out of your thoughts by Finns snapping by your ears, flinching at the loud sound.

“How am I supposed to make my argument if you’re not even listening to me?” He pouted, leaning back in his seat once he was sure he had your attention.

“I don’t know Finn, maybe you could take the goddamned hint and leave me alone so I could get some work done?”

“I’m just saying, you had to find out from someone, and the team has been sworn to secrecy to never tell! The only thing I can think of was if someone was pussy..." He trailed off, remembering who he was talking too as he snapped his mouth shut.

“So you just wanna know who blabbed. This has nothing to do with me?” You innocently ask, batting your eyelids at him.

“Mm, exactly. See, you’re a smart girl, I knew you would…”

You lean forward, gesturing for him to come closer. Trailing your hand up his arm before cupping it around his ear as you leaned in to whisper a name.

"Walt Finnegan."

And that shuts him right up, allowing you to quickly shuffle your papers together and gather your bag, leaving a shocked Walt Finnegan left behind.

-

After Finn found you that morning in the library, Dale cornered you as you were coming out of class, demanding to know who told you. Then it was McRenyolds, who had shoved a girl off of him, before marching up to you, spouting some bullshit about the sancitity of secret keeping on the team, and how, as captain, he needed to know and some other crap.

The next day, you saw Nez coming out of the cafeteria, and you had to put up with his badgering the entire fifteen minute walk to class. The class that you shared with Coma. And you might as well have skipped it, seeing as you spent the entirety of the fifty five minutes shoving the notes from him off of your desk.

After class, you met up with Heather on the green, practically collapsing onto the blanket she had laid out.

"Rough day?" She asked, a smirk fully gracing her face as she took in her misery.

"Their tenacity is surprising. They have been bugging me all day!" You whine. "It almost makes it not worth it. Almost!"

After you explain your day to her, the two of you lay on the green in silence for a few minutes, before she begins packing up. She still has one more class to attend before she's released for the weekend. Once you confirm your plans for later, she is off.

Flopping back down onto the blanket, you pull out your book, letting out a content sigh.

It’s the first time in days that you aren’t doing homework, or writing articles, or being assaulted by the entire baseball team, or stressing about all three. Your laid out in one of your favorite corners of the green, sun shining down on you as you open your book.

You get five minutes of peace and quiet before Finn sits down next to you, effectively ruining your alone time.

“No!” You shout, the frustration in your tone clear. “No, not right now Finn. This is the first time in days where I haven’t been busy. I've been alone for like, five freaking minutes and…”

"Well, I could give you some peace and quiet if you just tell me the truth!" He says, that signature shit eating smile of his firmly in place. When you stay quiet, he nods. "That's what I thought!"

And then he surprises you, shifting so his back is against the tree next to your blanket, and lifts your legs, pulling them onto his lap. Without another glance at you, he pulls out his own book before opening it to the dog eared page.

Quickly, you snatch your legs back, moving to nail him in the leg, but he's faster then you, wrapping your ankle in a steel grip.

"Ah ah ah, you want peace and quiet don't you?" Then he's gently placing your legs back in his lap.

You gape at him, not quite comprehending what was happening, or what angle he was trying to play. But his focus never strayed from the page.

Now you were torn, if you said something, he would probably start in on you, and you were too tired to really fight him on this today.

Maybe you should just leave it alone, and not look a gift horse in the mouth. You really didn’t want to get up and go inside, and if he was being quiet, then who were you to protest. It also didn’t hurt that he looked really, really good with his dumb fluffy hair and stupid tight shirt that strained across his biceps.

Your decision was made for you as his hand begins sliding up your calf, kneading at the muscles there. You're barely able to catch the moan that threatens to escape.

Suddenly, your assaulted with visions of running your hands through that hair, finding out if it was really as soft as it had always looked invaded your mind, nails raking down that toned back…

“I can feel your staring!” He teased, breaking you out of your trance, and made you snap your attention back down to your book in an attempt to hide the blush that heated your face.

And you tried to focus on your book, you really did. Finn didn’t seem to have any problems paying attention to his. At least, that’s what you told yourself in an attempt to explain why his hand was crawling up your leg. His fingers moving higher as the patterns he was tracing got larger.

Yes, that was it. He was just distracted, and he didn’t realize what he was doing. And he also didn’t realize that you were making absolutely no effort to stop him.

But when you looked up from your book, you found his eyes on yours, a smug smile plastered on his face as he trailed his fingers dangerously high on your inner thigh.

“So, we’ve slept together huh?”

You hum, refusing to break eye contact with him. “Shame you don’t remember, although, with your performance, I’m not surprised you blocked it out.” You had fully intended for the comment to be biting enough to get him to back off. However, your voice came out unexpectedly breathy, undercutting the snark of your words.

A smirk grows on his face as he shifts his weight, bringing his face closer to yours so that he’s whispering right in your ear, his fingers dangerously high close to where your thighs meet.

“I know that’s a lie sweets. You wanna know how I know it’s a lie?”

You know you should push him off you. Finn was a fuck boy, and more then that, right now he was motivated, not to sleep with you, but to get some answers. But instead, you found yourself nodding, the sensible part of your brain having left the second his fingers made contact with you.

“There’s a few reasons. One, you could quite literally cut the tension between us with a knife, but somehow, your managing to keep your hands off me, which means I’ve yet to work my magic on you!”

Your moving to swat Finn away, the moment ruined by the return of Walt FInnegan to his natural state, a cocky asshole. But one again, he's moving too fast for you to comprehend, swinging your legs off of his lap and leaning over so that he's hovering above you, faces inches away from the other.

“Besides sweets, if we fucked, there’s no way in hell I would forget that.”

And then he’s standing, brushing off his jeans and winking before walking away.

You sit in shock for a second, watching as he fades into the throngs of people milling about campus.

Finn won that round, you can admit to that. But there’s no way he’s winning the war. Gathering your things, you plot the entire way back to your room, practically throwing the door open, grinning manically when you see Heather beat you back.

“Get up! Change of plans, we’re going out tonight!”

-

I still don't get why you won't just sleep with him!" Heather whines are she puts the finishing touches on your hair. With a flourish, she spins your around to the mirror, and you smile at what you see there.

"Thanks babe, your a godsend!" She just winks at you before moving to start on her own makeup.

Your original plan had been to stay in and do a movie night, but after Finns stunt earlier, you weren't content to let him have the upper hand for long.

So now, the two of you were getting ready for the Sound Machine, knowing that was the baseball boys party of choice when they weren't throwing their own or out of town.

And, to top it all off, James, a smarmy asshole from your English class had told you he would be there tonight. Which made him the perfect unknowing accomplice in your little game with Finn.

In the back of your head, you knew that you were walking a fine line, especially with Finn. When you had chosen to play that little prank with Roper, you severely underestimated the boys need to know who had told you.

And you never thought that Finn would take this much interest in getting to the bottom of it.

Although now, you were beginning to question if you would have done anything differently.

Your snapped out of your thoughts when Heather emerges from the bathroom, still ranting about the baseball boys.

"At this point Heath, it's a principle thing. I can't go sleeping with the athletes! I would lose all my credibility. Also, I have spent the last three years of my life insulting their very manhood. It would be hypocritical of me to fold now."

"And Walt Finnegan has spent the last three years panting after your ass babes!"

"Oh has he now, is this before or after he's stuck his tongue down three quarters of this school's female population?" You spit back at her.

Walt Finnegan didn't want you. He wanted to win the bet to rub it in his friends faces. He wanted you because he felt like you were unattainable.

And most importantly, he couldn't have wanted you that bad, because he had already had you, and he had forgotten about it.

[blueiscoool]

Discover the Hidden History of Tomb Robbing in Ancient Egypt

Criminals plundered the riches of Egyptian pyramids and underground burials, often within a few years or, in some cases, within a few hours of occupants’ interment.

On November 4, 1922, workers led by British archaeologist Howard Carter noticed a single stair peeking out from beneath the shifting Egyptian sand. Within three weeks, Carter and his team had excavated enough limestone debris and soil to reveal a stairwell that led to the antechamber of an ancient tomb.

After five long years of searching, Carter had found the tomb of Tutankhamun, deep beneath the Valley of the Kings, a site west of the Nile River. Boring a tiny hole in the second door to the antechamber, the archaeologist peered through, using the light of a single candle to survey a small room crammed with a motley mix of furniture, gilded animal heads and dismantled chariots, as well as other priceless treasures last seen more than 3,000 years prior.

The 18th Dynasty ruler’s tomb was the single most consequential discovery of Egyptian antiquities to date; its importance lay not just in the treasures hidden inside, but in the fact that the burial had somehow survived the robbers who had emptied out nearly every other ancient Egyptian tomb. Only a few royal graves rival Tutankhamun’s in splendor. Chief among them is the intact tomb of Psusennes I, known as the Silver Pharaoh because of the silver coffin that housed his mummy.

The silver coffin of Psusennes I.

In an ancient society with a stark separation between the rich and the poor, tomb robbing was ubiquitous. Nobles literally buried their wealth while living alongside people who often didn’t have enough food to feed their families. Plundering burials was a shadow economy driven by criminals who often had inside knowledge of the tombs. It’s likely that many looters either helped build the structures themselves or paid off someone involved in the tombs’ construction, says Betsy M. Bryan, an emeritus Egyptologist at Johns Hopkins University.

Some grave robbers were stonecutters and craftsmen who left gaps in tombs’ walls or knew which bedrock was soft enough to tunnel through to reach the treasures housed within. Others schemed to evade or pay off security left to guard the tombs. These thieves were well connected, calculating and decidedly precise in their criminal endeavors, Bryan says.

“Evidence from the Old, Middle and New Kingdom[s] shows that tomb robbers could be remarkably patient and work over lengthy time periods to create tunnels into tombs that they thought would be rich [with treasures],” she says.

Aboveground structures like the Step Pyramid of Djoser were natural targets for tomb robbers.

Looting happened consistently throughout the history of ancient Egypt, but it was most prevalent during the First and Second Intermediate Periods, which followed the Old and Middle Kingdoms, respectively. Without a strong ruler in place, power became decentralized, and the state had less money to protect its graves. The end of the New Kingdom also ushered in a period of corruption and uncertainty that resulted in widespread tomb robbing.

Officials took a range of steps to prevent tomb robbing, like carving curses on doors to scare would-be looters away. Some tombs, like the pyramid complex of Djoser, were filled with debris to block passage to the burial chambers. During the New Kingdom (circa 1550 to 1070 B.C.E.), sovereigns were buried underground instead of in aboveground pyramids. Workers tasked with building these hidden tombs lived in Deir el-Medina, a village near the Valley of the Kings. Though the isolated, close-knit nature of the community was intended to lower the likelihood of theft, it ultimately had the opposite effect, encouraging looting by the very people assigned to protect the dead.

Workers tasked with sealing tombs had the best access to the treasures hidden within. They were often the last ones out, so no one was the wiser if they ransacked the tombs they’d been hired to protect, says Aidan Dodson, an Egyptologist at the University of Bristol in England. Sometimes, the burials would appear untouched, but once the coffin was opened, the golden mask that once adorned the pharaoh’s face would be missing.

Ruins of Deir el-Medina, a village occupied by the workers who built the tombs in the Valley of the Kings.

In other cases, when a mummy was unwrapped, the jewelry that had been placed inside was gone, stolen by the undertakers who’d prepared the dead for burial, Dodson says. He adds, “Resin was used in embalming, and there would be places on the body where there was an impression of a piece of jewelry that was no longer there.”

When the tomb of Nefermaat, an ancient Egyptian prince, was uncovered in 1871 at Meidum, archaeologists at first thought it was intact, sealed up tight for 4,000 years. But once inside the burial chamber, the scene was chaotic. “Everything was smashed to pieces,” Dodson says. “It had been robbed [and] the mummy broken.”

After a heist, ancient tomb robbers moved on to the next phase of the crime: trafficking their stolen goods in exchange for payment. This, too, required forethought. Getting caught bartering the mask of a pharaoh, for example, would have been cause for execution by impalement on a stake. To avoid this fate, criminals went after treasures that couldn’t be traced, like gold and other precious metals that could be melted down without buyers knowing their origin. In some cases, robbers would steal highly valuable perfumed oils to sell on the international market. Thieves also burned gilded furniture and statues to remove the gold that once adorned them, Dodson says.

Papyrus Mayer B, a legal document detailing the trials of tomb robbers during Egypt's 20th Dynasty.

Historical evidence of tomb robbing comes primarily from a set of papyri detailing trials that took place in Thebes during the New Kingdom, specifically the 20th Dynasty, which spanned 1189 to 1077 B.C.E. The legal documents provide a window into the individuals who carried out the robberies directly, who knowingly fenced looted treasures or who ferried thieves across the Nile to sell their sacred finds, Bryan says.

“We took our copper tools and forced a way into the pyramid of this king through its innermost part,” said a mason named Amenpanufer in a confession dated to around 1110 B.C.E. After stripping the royal mummies of their gold, amulets and jewels, Amenpanufer and his fellow thieves “set fire to their coffins [and] stole their furniture.” The robbers then divided the tomb’s spoils among themselves.

The papyri point to a time when the state was in turmoil, says Salima Ikram, an Egyptologist at the American University in Cairo. Rampant tomb looting coincided with a period of unrest, famine, outside attacks and constant transitions in power.

“In the 20th Dynasty when we have a lot of royal tomb robbery, the state couldn’t provide, and that’s why people were taking matters into their own hands,” says Ikram.

Tutankhamun's tomb was one of the few royal Egyptian burials left largely untouched by ancient looters.

Still, tomb robbing wasn’t confined to times of unrest. Even Tutankhamun, who ruled during the 18th Dynasty (approximately 1550 to 1292 B.C.E.), when Egyptian civilization was at its peak, was the victim of theft. Inside the antechamber of the king’s tomb, Carter’s team found bags of abandoned loot. According to Dodson, the thieves appeared to have been caught in the act and forced to leave their ill-gotten goods behind.

Tomb robbing was one of the worst crimes an ancient Egyptian could commit, as tombs were considered sacred vehicles that provided passage to the afterlife. “Elite society was geared toward eternal life,” says Maria Golia, author of A Short History of Tomb-Raiding: The Epic Hunt for Egypt’s Treasures. Nobles were mummified and packed in a tomb with their belongings, all of them necessities, because “the afterlife was viewed as an extension of their current life,” Golia explains.

The white limestone sarcophagus of Nefermaat, whose tomb was looted by robbers.

Destruction of a tomb was, in a sense, a form of murder—a fact reflected in the brutality of documented punishments, Ikram says. Some accused criminals had their hands cut off, while others were impaled, a form of execution where a stake was inserted into the anus, perforating the body all the way up to the torso.

No matter the punishment, noble tombs remained ripe for theft throughout ancient Egypt’s 3,000-year history—and beyond. After the civilization fell into decline, thievery gave way to treasure hunting, with residents of the region no longer revering Egyptian religion or fearing the curses of the dead, says Dodson. Stealing from tombs was hardly considered a crime anymore. By the late 19th century, seizing such riches was a government-sanctioned practice, with archaeologists excavating tombs in the name of science.

In an ancient world marked by haves and have-nots, loot tucked inside pyramids and buried underground presented an opportunity for an irresistible crime, especially as the once-great Egyptian empire lost power. What was formerly sacred was now a means for feeding a family, Golia says.

Plunderers' loot found in King Tut's tomb.

“This was a system built on burying money, even entire households, underground,” she says, “and while the architects only had one shot at building an impenetrable tomb, the robbers had all the time in the world to figure out how to get in.”

By Sarah Novak.

[winebearcat]

Original short story

Under the cut because I hate being perceived, but I've been bullied into posting this.

Words: 1,133 | Rated: M | Pairing: F/F

Eloen swivelled her head in a slow pan, studying the towering bookcases. They groaned with age and burden, looming overhead like long-forgotten sentinels.

“Guardians of knowledge,” Senior Cleric Aresath used to drone in his holier-than-thou disposition. She rolled her eyes as his reedy voice pinged inside her skull, swatting it away to drink in her surroundings.

Candles dotted the Grand Library, burning feverishly low and casting odd shadows across the book spines. Enough to muddle the sleep-deprived mind, preying on those scratching and scribbling against the burn of midnight oil. Rumours were rampant here, passed through whispering lips as often as furtive kisses, breathing life into a single half-truth: the library was haunted. 

It stood silent, blanketed in a suffocating hush whilst Eloen navigated the byzantine maze of bookcases. Searching, as always, for Sehre. She slipped into the nook where they first stole a kiss, tucked between timeworn tomes and dripping pillar candles. Eloen wondered how many books still contained her renegade doodles. 

Kings skewered by quills. Temples cleansed with fire. E + S scrawled inside a margin. 

Eloen idly traced a finger down a dust-caked spine. Canticle of Transfigurations. She pulled the tome out and flipped through it, scanning for her artwork. For their initials, the only written confirmation of what they share. What they are. Two fragile halves of a tentative whole, sealed between brittle pages of a long-forgotten tome. Safely tucked away for eternity, immune to the passage of time. 

She thumbed and flicked, searching, as always, for Sehre. When the pages turned up blank, she shut it with a sigh, slotting it back into place. Fated to fade away into obscurity, as with the rest of this tomb. 

“Guardians of knowledge” her arse. 

“There you are,” Eloen heard that familiar hush. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Eloen whirled around. Sehre appeared before her, robed in funereal black and softly smiling. Her dark hair was flecked with salt and pepper. “My grey Lady,” Eloen always teased, even though Sehre was a young lady. “Stress,” she’d quip back. “Or perhaps my father.”

They bore no love for their fathers. It was one of the truths they first bonded over. A maxim that shaped the hate inside Eloen, but somehow spared Sehre. 

“Me too,” Eloen whispered, her throat tightening. It mildly jarred her, but she couldn’t place why. Sehre approached with an outstretched palm, her eyes sparkling in the low candlelight.

“Dance with me?” Sehre murmured. Eloen nodded earnestly, as if she could ever deny her.

Eloen’s hand moulded so perfectly against Sehre’s that she wondered how far Father’s cruelty extended. Well beyond the curse of time, and everything it took from them. Her heart clenched when their fingers threaded, stitched back together like a wound that never fully healed.

“It’s so good to see you,” Eloen blurted out. A soft melody began to tinkle, honey-sweet, beyond the edge of vision. Sehre smiled warmly, bright eyes swelling with a sea of emotion. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she repeated. Eloen swallowed thickly and glanced at their joined hands, made in His image yet far from blessed. The library’s hush was suffocating. It constricted her throat. Her lungs. But Eloen didn’t care what He thought. She only cared what Sehre thought. 

Their eyes met again, and Sehre placed her hand on the small of Eloen’s back. She pulled her closer, until their noses brushed. It earned a soft smile and an even softer laugh as Eloen slid fingers over her shoulder, slotting back into place. The lump in her throat tightened when she searched Sehre’s face, drinking in every detail, desperate to commit her to memory: 

The black flecks which dotted her eyes, ocean-blue and just as expansive. The softness of her skin, radiating warmth like a forge. The dark inkwell of hair, cascading down her back like broad quill strokes.

Sehre led Eloen by the arm. They took one step, then two, gliding across the aisle together before Sehre slowly twirled her. Bookcases were swallowed up by the earth, the library melting away, until only Eloen and Sehre remained. After one rotation, Sehre spun back into view, and they were pressed together again. Candlelight glimmered in the reflection of her too-blue eyes, swimming with unspoken thoughts. Eloen noted a trace of sadness and ached to kiss her. To draw it from her lips as if it were poison. For in the way that Sehre was spared from hatred, she was not spared from melancholy. 

Eloen closed the space between them and captured her mouth in a kiss. The room came to a halt as she drank down Sehre’s surprise. Her lips were soft, a cooling balm for the ache in her chest, and she cherished the way Sehre gently lifted a hand to her neck. Eloen melted into her, warm and so achingly familiar, safely tucked away together in their own timeless tome. 

An age passed, perhaps two, before Sehre finally broke the kiss. Eloen blinked her into focus, exhaling when she lightly fingered the amulet resting below her collarbone.

“I can’t believe you still have this old thing,” Sehre murmured, appearing slightly dazed. The pendant was worn, burnished from a lifetime of contact. Oh, how Eloen loved to trace its shape, committing the feel of it to memory.

“I always will,” Eloen promised, as easily as breathing. The amulet had been a permanent fixture since Sehre crawled into her bunk, strung it around her neck and claimed her one fateful night. 

Without warning, Eloen heard a tome slam shut. Thick and heavy, like the knot in her throat. She felt it tighten, ice spiking through her veins when their dance slowed. Sehre flinched when the melody veered off-note, her eyes misting over for reasons unnamed. 

“What’s wrong?” Eloen whispered, searching her face for answers. Her own eyes pricked hotly, feeling cold coil in her gut as they came to a stop. Something began to worm its way through her unconscious mind, struggling to breach the surface of understanding. 

“Father is here,” Sehre murmured, her expression heartbroken, and everything inside Eloen shattered.

“No. Please don’t go,” Eloen’s voice cracked. Her knuckles whitened, clinging onto Sehre even as she felt her throat slowly constrict. Felt the melody warp into corruption, marching upside down. Backwards.

“You know I can’t stay, love,” Sehre smiled sadly. 

The pressure began to burn, squeezing the air from her windpipe. Eloen gasped in agony and clawed at the amulet, sharply twisted into a ligature. She dug her fingers beneath the chain, biting into her skin like a noose. The edges of her vision dimmed when Sehre ripped the amulet from her throat, and all the air rushed back into Eloen’s lungs. 

“Sehre,” she gasped, collapsing as darkness closed in. “Tell me you’re at peace.”

Only silence followed.

[olrinarts]

Ref Sheet and Background: Narinder

long post ahoy! (i'm serious. do not click that read more unless you wanna scroll for a while, it's even longer than Esriaal's)

A note about AUs: All of my AUs can be considered to be within the same ‘universe-cloud’, for lack of a better word ('multiverse' has frustrating associations, alas. curse you mcu, lmao.) That doesn’t make them directly linked or in any way affect another AU, unless explicitly said to (see: constancy must transpose and chimes of bone in the at the root series.) Otherwise, each is a standalone AU, either diverging directly from the Base Lamb and Base Narinder’s story, or in some way reflecting/echoing it (see: ashes ashes, the yuri rock god AU.) Any completely unrelated AU to this universe-cloud will have it mentioned that it’s not connected.

Name/Titles: The One Who Waits, the One Below, Narinder Base Age: 86 (age he was Crowned, equivalent to around mid-30s developmentally) Gender: He/him Race: Cat, infernal

Background:

Narinder was born as the middle son of a common infernal cat, which were once as plentiful as their cousin race, the black cats. His family were farmers in a time when the Crowns were a relatively new development, a century or two after the first god was crowned. He was about as unremarkable a cat as can be imagined at the time, and could have been anyone. That was why both the Crown of Death and the kernel of what was someday meant to be the Crown of Life chose him: neither had any use for someone special and remarkable, who’d always be apart from the people around them by nature. If he was to be remarkable, it would be by what he accomplished.

A Crown can’t sit on two heads, of course, and normally a head can’t really wear two Crowns. As the Ivory Crown wasn’t crafted, but needed to be ‘grown’ due to being the Crown of Life, both the Red and Ivory Crown were able to coexist. Ivory was essentially slumbering in the unaware Narinder’s soul until its time came to wake up. He was chosen young, not even past his first century – infernal cats lived just as long as black cats, who can live over a millennia or more if they’re smart about it, though they reach adulthood at the same age as other cats (think Forneus still being around a thousand years after Narinder was cast down.) The Crowns made their choice in one of Narinder’s family fields, having sat down from harvesting rye with his scythe to rest beneath the shade of a beech tree. About as humble a beginning for a god as imaginable.

Narinder didn’t aspire to humility, however, let alone as the god of Death, so he built his cult quickly. It was a pretty compelling message, altogether – if everything ends in death, you might as well worship what’s coming, and having the favour of the god of death meant an easier passage through the river of souls to the afterlife. He was already beginning to chafe against the idea of the One Who Waits and the inherent stagnation, however, as well as other limitations. He particularly disliked how souls sacrificed to other gods didn’t come to him in death, as well as other practices that cut lives short needlessly, such as child sacrifice. He was fine with sacrifice in general, that was just how things worked, but there had to be some guardrails, because it was starting to damage mortal trust in all of the Crowned Gods’ care and guidance.

Despite common assumptions in the many millennia to come, it wasn’t War who first raised their hand against another god – it was Narinder, thoroughly pissed off about another god using mass sacrifices to taunt him with the souls that were stolen from him. After that god fell to his scythe, it became clear that the time of peaceful coexistence among the Crowned Gods was growing strained, to put it mildly.

That was when the god of Knowledge went to him, proposing an alliance: Narinder would join their pantheon as their brother, and the souls sacrificed in Shamura and Kallamar’s names would pass into his hands, same as the sacrifices in his own name. He was more than fine with that, feeling a kinship with both Shamura and Kallamar, and so their combined pantheon grew stronger, gaining first Heket and eventually Leshy, who was the last god to ever be crowned. War was eventually inevitable, becoming one of Shamura’s domains when they took on the role of general in a war of gods, and when the dust settled, only the five Bishops remained in the lands. They divided the lands between themselves, with one land to four of the Bishops and unconditional welcome for Narinder in each (as Death ‘belongs’ everywhere), and for a very long time, the Bishops remained at peace.

The longer it went on - the longer Narinder was locked as the One Who Waits - the more restless he became. Shamura, who he was closest to, pitied him for it. They were concerned about allowing the restlessness to continue to grow unchecked, unsure what a Crowned God rejecting his domain’s nature might do to the faith, and so they encouraged him to pursue knowledge, distracting his restlessness with curiosity. That was their first mistake, for all that they were Knowledge from the start:‌ they assumed his curiosity would distract from his appetite for change, that it was the lesser drive between curiosity and restlessness. They were wrong.

The more Narinder sought to know, the closer he became in nature to the mortals, to the Narinder he’d been when he was Crowned; to learn is to change. He grew to sympathise with the natural mortal instinct to fear the inevitable, the cage of death that no one could escape, including Death himself. It grew from sympathy to kinship as time passed – not in the same way the Bishops were kin, but in the sense of a leader rather than a ruler. Part of the group, not apart from it.

Finally, the idea that was to be his downfall occurred to him: if the mortal souls were his in death, then weren’t their souls his while they still lived? And if they were his, living and dead, then wasn’t it his decision whether they died at all – or even had to stay dead?

He was so proud when he first succeeded at resurrecting a mortal that the first person he told was Shamura, because of course it was. They were the one who’d let him grow in the first place, and for the first time since almost the beginning, he felt like he could breathe.

Shamura panicked. Internally, where he couldn’t see it, but they knew they were looking at something that was going to overturn all of their careful plans and comfortable position as the leader of the Bishops, and so they began to put new plans in motion.

Narinder’s growing discontent over the millennia had soured his relationships with his siblings, growing even further apart as he grew closer to the mortals. Other than Shamura, he was mainly friendly with Leshy, but Leshy had no patience or interest in schemes other than the chaos it could cause. Kallamar had long been terrified of him, of the power of Death in the hands of a god growing more bitter by the century. And Narinder and Heket had never gotten along all that well – a mutual dislike born from natures that were entirely too similar.

Hoping to buy themselves time, the other Bishops began to keep souls from him, unmaking them for extra power instead of letting them pass on, especially as Narinder’s new gospel began to spread. By the time he realised this and confronted his siblings, enraged by the betrayal of the ancient deal, Shamura was ready. They gave him one chance to forsake the heresy he’d been preaching, and the Bishops would return to the deal. He rejected the offer, far too angry to even consider it, and if he had, he would have rejected it anyway. They were the ones who’d betrayed him first.

When he refused to forsake his new power, Shamura and the other Bishops cast him Below in chains. Shamura was the only one who knew that it would take Godly matter to chain Death, so they chose to allow him to maim the other Bishops and themself as they do in canon, ensuring the others would only blame him for what had happened. As he was cast down, Shamura cast down the two kittens that would grow to be Aym and Baal with him as well.

What followed was a thousand years of plotting and planning, taking vessel after vessel, because the Bishops foolishly thought he had no power over Death in chains, and no longer unmade the souls they sacrificed in their own names (doing so grants more power, but it’s also much more taxing and fairly gruesome, so it damages their faith base.) Some vessels worked better than others, but Narinder was the One Who Waits, and that had guaranteed his patience could be both furious and eternal at the same time. He would be free, no matter how long it took, no matter how many tries. There would come a day where he finally had the soul he needed, and he wouldn’t find them by doing nothing. So long as he had the Red Crown, he was still Death, and he wasn’t helpless.

Eventually, a prophecy was made:‌ that from the sheep led to slaughter would rise a sacrificial lamb who would be his liberator. He’d been patient, and this was his reward. It took another few decades, which itself inspired a slow, simmering anger over the fate of the sheep; even nearly a thousand years of bitterness and plans for revenge hadn’t withered that old Narinder, and he could only grit his teeth as his siblings committed a genocide that grew crueller by the year. The idea that an entire race was doomed just to spite him was infuriating. It was an unfated prophecy – whoever was the last sheep standing would be his – and so he couldn’t even know what soul he should plan for. This is where the diverging AUs begin.

It did ultimately come to pass, the Sacrificial Lamb’s soul landing in his hands, and he knew the brave little thing had defied his siblings’ hunters for over a decade since the last other sheep died. When he put them back into a living body, things didn’t connect quite right in their head, but they still looked up at him with such fearlessness that all of his anger and hope turned to sentiment. (Diverging AU: untitled politific, where they don’t lose their memory, though he’s not aware of that.)

Instead of just commanding them, he made it an offer (not one they could refuse, but still, even phrasing it differently is a hell of a concession from a god.) He chose to tell them of the sacrifice at the end, again from that sense of sentiment, but mostly because he could tell they weren’t just going to agree to be his vessel, they were doing it wholeheartedly.

From there the events of the game progressed, over the span of around one hundred and twenty years. He saw them as often as possible, after a death or a crusade, and kept them Below to spend time with them for as long as was feasible. As the decades wore on, he grew increasingly unhappy at the knowledge that he was going to be the one to unmake them, and told himself it was just a mild regret over it all, because acknowledging how much he’d come to dread his own freedom was more dangerous than just about any other possible reaction.

One of two things then happens, after the demise of Shamura: either the Lamb fights Narinder and wins (primary AU: ‘constancy must transpose’, resulting in Narinder with the Ivory Crown) or the sacrifice is successfully carried out (diverging AU: ‘chimes of bone’, where Narinder keeps the Red Crown.)

‘Base’ Narinder The above is almost always true in its entirety from fic to fic, though weight might be given to some events over others, or his emotional responses might be different and explored from there. Exceptions are made for reflection AUs (such as ashes ashes, which takes place in a world where the Bishops were never crowned in the first place.) If a reflection AU is different enough, such as a different world setting entirely, then specific things are adjusted or find equivalents, but there’s always strong parallels, and the basic facts of Narinder’s identity are unchanged.

There’s no story to go along with the Base Narinder after the end game on purpose. The closest to a ‘base’ canon for him is the world of the comic fittings, as that one is largely nondescript about the actual way Narinder and the Lamb/Esriaal came to be in the position of Narinder as a more-or-less mortal as part of the cult and Esriaal as the Red Crown’s bearer. It focusses almost exclusively on the culture of the sheep (and some of Narinder’s base backstory, as well.)

[edgeray]

hii edge! is it possible if i request an arlecchino/reader with beauty & the beast au :0? thank you so much in advance aaaaaa i love your writing so much it always makes my day^^

To Break a Curse

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Hi anon! Of course, here's going to be my reminder that if you request from me again as an anon, give yourself a name/emoji :). So I technically have already made a beauty and beast au (here is the link), but I suppose I could just rewrite the concept. The original au did differ a lot from the ‘disney’ version so for this one, so for this one, I will actually try to align this more with the disney version. Slightly dark because I'm not going to have talking kettles and candlesticks in here. Will be assuming gn! reader for this. Also I'm glad that you enjoy my works and bit sorry for the delay ^^ I am so sorry the ending is shitty at the end I am deadass about to fall asleep, I was this close 🤏 to falling asleep. I was typing with my eyes close lol. It's like 3:30AM for me so I'm gonna hit the hay. Maybe I should stop writing these at 12AM lol.  Content warnings / info - mean arle at the start, semi-graphic violence, prolly forgetting something but I'm tired, 2.7k words 

You've heard of the rumored forsaken prince, everyone in your village has. People rarely mention her by name, opting to call the cursed prince ‘the Beast,’ based on her animal-like claws and her temperament–just as vicious as a feral beast. The castle which she alone resides in sits on the outskirts of the forest next to your village. Every villager warns you to never trespass into the Beast's territory, unless you wished to never return. However, you've never believed in the existence of the Beast and her castle--after all, you've gone to the forests numerous times and have never encountered her. Perhaps this was just a way to scare off children from getting lost. 

Today, you learned how wrong you were. Venturing into the forest to forage for your dinner, you had accidentally delved too deep into the forest, now lost. Night approached soon as you searched for an escape or a shelter, but your search was unsuccessful.

Trudging through the forest, you heave for breath, your feet aching from traversing the rough terrain of the forest, not helped by the uncomfortable shoes you chose to wear. You thought that the foraging wouldn't take long but you found a large patch of mushrooms that led you deeper into the forest than you intended. You gaze up at the sky, it being pitch black with only the moonlight and the stars guiding you through. 

The shadows produced by the trees unnerve you, your imagination and paranoia warping them into abstract monsters stalking you. You know that there is nothing in the forest that can hurt you, unless the rare bear, but the knowledge didn't soothe you any more. You feel something hit your forehead–something light and small… and wet. It takes a couple more droplets before you realize it’s now downpouring. You bite your lip out of frustration, wrapping your arms around yourself to store as much body heat to yourself. Your footsteps speed up and you look more frantically, until you see something imposing in the distance. It's hard to make out in the fog, but it seems like the outline of some sort of building. 

You run towards it, only to be faced with a wall. You follow along it until you reach a gate, and behind the gate, you can vaguely make out a structure larger and more obscene than anything you've ever seen before; it looks nothing like the village establishments. If anything, it dwarfs your entire village as a whole, likely massive enough to fit your village inside based on the height alone. At least this would provide you shelter from the rain and cold, is the only consideration you make before pushing open the gates and rushing down the stone path. 

You nearly trip over the stone passage and as you arrive at the entrance, you soon realize it’s a castle. Its uncanny shape now makes some sense, but from then on lack of light through the windows, it seems like no one lives here. You press on, entering the castle. You’re thankful you're no longer being pelted by the rain and then you're immediately struck with awe from the decor and grandiose of the interior. Although the castle is unlit, you're still able to make out some details of the room you enter. Admiring the spiral staircase and the magnificent pillars, a thought strikes you. Why does no one inhabit the castle? 

Abruptly, there is the sound of something shuffling and it makes your marveling halt. Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach and fear clenches onto you tightly as the incessant terror of not being as alone as you though plagues you. Spinning around, you search for the origins of the sound only to scare yourself when you accidentally kick against a piece of furniture. You yelp out, before silencing yourself when you cognize it was nothing. 

And then a thud. And another, coming from behind you. Paralysis enraptures your body and before you have the time to breathe, a heavy weight crashes into you, making you tumble into the ground. You let out a scream, turning around to view what just struck you, and two glowing red orbs stare back at you. You gasp wildly, trying to scramble away when your throat is suddenly tightened and you're forced against the ground. It feels like claws are just barely brushing against your neck, threatening to puncture into you if you so much as breathe. A whimper escapes you and a whispered plea escapes you as you lock your eyes on the pair of red. 

“P-please…” 

A deep, resounding voice responds to you, causing shivers down your body. “What are you doing in my home?”

Tears well in your eyes and you try your best to speak as clearly as possible. “I-I'm sorry. I didn't k-know! I'll go, p-please let me go!” You beg, your hands raise to pry off the hand over your throat but a feral growl stops you. 

“Do you know whose home you intruded into?” 

You shake your head. The grip around your neck intensifies for a few moments.

“Speak.”

“N-no…” 

“This is my castle, Prince Arlecchino's. Though, the villagers like to call me something else… what was it, ‘the Beast?’”

You suck in an audible breath as your eyes grow wide. This is the Beast? The Beast is real? Then are the rumors of people disappearing in the castle true as well? What will happen to you? Your mind goes into a frenzy, with all the wonderings of what the Beast would do to you.

“P-please don't kill m-me…”

“Kill you? No,” the Beast answers coldly. The hold on your throat slackens and the Beast’s hand slips away. “I won't kill you. But you've trespassed my home. And for that, you will remain here, for the rest of your life.” 

“W-what? B-but,” you breath is caught when you feel a tug on your arm pulling you up to your feet, the same claws that pressed against your neck digs shallowly into your arm, making you wince. 

“This is your punishment,” the Beast says, its red pupils glaring down at you coldly. You gulp, but accept your fate. The Beast could easily kill you with one swipe of her hand. 

“Follow,” it instructs, and you do, trailing behind the Beast as it navigates the dark surroundings effortlessly, a testament to how long it's been here. You trip over another piece of furniture, making you stumble onto the ground. 

“I'm sorry–” you stammer out an apology immediately.

“Be quiet,” gruffed the Beast. You scramble to get up but feel yourself hoisted up, by the Beast presumably. You yelp from the sudden position, now carried in a bridal style–its hold is surprisingly gentle and its claws don't prick you.

“Where are you taking me?” You inquire, clutching onto the Beast’s shoulder–which for some reason shocks you that it’s firm just like any other human, although you know that the Beast is a human–when it goes up the staircase. 

“A guest chamber.”

“A guest chamber?” 

“Would you prefer the dungeon?”

“No… thank you… Prince Arlecchino.”

The Beast pauses its movements, halting in place. 

Your thoughts flood with anxiety, wondering if this would trigger a violent reaction from the Beast. “Did I offend you? I’m sorry, I really am.” 

“No. It's just been a long while since someone referred to me from my title.” The Beast continues walking, unaware of how its–her–words shattered your mindset. 

That's right, how could you forget? ‘The Beast’ is still a human, cursed or not. Perhaps Prince Arlecchino deserved being inflicted by a curse, but you could not imagine yourself with the fate instilled on the forsaken prince, nor being singularly called ‘the Beast’ by every waking person. It's dehumanizing and awfully isolating, and it makes you question how long it has been since she's been called that, how long it has been since she has been seen as a human. 

It makes your heart ache. 

You count the flight of stairs that she goes up, and then for the first time, you see orange light coming from one of the rooms at the end of a corridor–an open fire likely. As the Prince walks closer to the room, you're able to make out more details; it's a bedroom, but more apparently, you can finally see her. You tilt your head up, and you expectedly, yet unexpectedly at once, you view a very princely face: pale, flawless skin framed by snow white hair and ebony strands, and sharp jaw. Prince Arlecchino glances down at you, sharp cross-shaped pupils burrowing into you. Her expression seems curious of yours. 

“You do look like a prince…” you think out loud absentmindedly, your face flushing as you realize your verbalization. 

The Prince says nothing, thankfully, and doesn't note your fluster. You look away from her face and glance at her hands. Like you've heard from the villagers, they are black, as if dipped in ink and her nails are red claws. Though what the villagers have yet to mention was the markings on her forearm, which are, admittedly, entrancing. She finally sets you down once she enters her chamber, which is obviously well-lived in. 

Taking a nearby candle holder and a few logs of wood set nearby the hearth the Prince silently exits her room to go into the room next to hers. You follow her into the room, this one obviously not used but still has a lot of furniture. Using the logs and the candlestick, she ignites the hearth and what you assume is going to be your room fills with heat and light. 

“This is your room from now on. Do not ask for me for the rest of the night,” she gruffs, and closes the door behind her. Her footsteps go away towards the direction of her bedroom. 

You blink, reality setting in. You’re still in your wet clothes, but you can't do much but strip and wrap yourself in dry sheets. You do exactly that, before sinking into the bed. It's like how you imagine sinking into a cloud to be–you fall to slumber in the manner of minutes. 

— 

You do not see her until the next morning, when the sun finally peaks out and you're able to see where you walk. Exiting your room, you note that she's not in her chamber, and you wander the castle. A whiff of something metallic combined with a musk catches your attention and you travel down the stairs until you reach the ground floor. You spot a figure crouched over something, and when you near the sight more, you discover the Prince hunched over a deer carcass. A sickening rip makes you cringe as a limb is torn off from the body. 

“P-prince?” You ask hesitantly. The Prince turns, a calm expression over her face. Only a bit of blood smears her lips. 

“Yes?” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Eating. It is also for you.” 

You stew in silence long enough for the Prince to turn back and resume. “Prince Arlecchino, how long have you been surviving like this?” 

“Since I was cursed.” 

Your heart aches again. “It is raw.”

“Indeed.” 

“It cannot be good for you.”

“It is all I have.” 

It is a sad sight. You think that ‘the Beast’ fits her the best here, like a starved animal instead of a human trying to live. 

“Prince Arlecchino, if you allow me, I can improve your eating experience. It would be healthier for you and it would be more appealing to eat.” 

The Prince perks up her head, glancing back at you.

That day, the Prince learns of the wonders of cooked venison. And perhaps, you've never seen a brighter, warmer light than the one that glints in the Prince's at her first taste. 

—

“What is it that you're reading?” 

Arlecchino glances up from her book. “It is a romance novel.”

“I didn't think that you'd be interested in such things, Prince.” 

“You grow curious about things you do not have.” 

You frown and contemplate. It seems like… she's always wanted company. “Prince, may I ask you why you chose to isolate yourself here?”

The Prince remains quiet for several moments before she responds, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet. “The villagers do not accept my appearance.”

“Because of your curse?”

“Yes. They’re afraid of me. Of my eyes, of my hands. Of my strength.” 

“Have you not tried undoing the curse?”

She bitterly laughs. “There is nothing that breaks the curse. It is impossible.”

You narrow your eyes. “There must be something. There's no such thing as an unbreakable curse.”

“You are right. However, the conditions to break this one is… unobtainable.”

“What is it?”

 The Prince's gaze shifts from you to the stack of books that pile by her bedside. You recognize some of the titles from your village library–they were all in the romance category. You never realize until now that the Prince looks at them with a hopeless longing. “To be loved and to love, is what it is in simple terms.”

There is that heartache again. 

You shake your head, trying to any more painful thoughts circling around the Prince. “If you truly gave up on breaking your curse, you would not still be alive, would you?”

“I will not entertain this thought,” is all she says, but you know her answer already. 

You sigh. “Can I at least… read with you?”

The Prince tilts her head and pauses. A clawed hand grasps onto yours, and you're pulled into her lap. The steady heartbeat of Arlecchino's can be felt from the contact. 

— 

It takes several weeks for you to figure that the Prince does not enforce her punishment. You have escaped out of the castle before, if only to find more things to forage. She has seen you exit out of the castle but she does not chase you or force you to return back. Although you’d like to see the village again, you're also not sure if you do want to go back–the castle is quite comfortable and you’ve had enough of petty village squabbles. You wonder why it is that she doesn't stop you, why she was so forceful of it at the beginning. 

You recall the discussion regarding her curse. She had given up on finding a way to break her curse, however, she had always sought out company. Perhaps she had the punishment to force you to stay… to enjoy a company she has been able to for years. Now, Arlecchino has given up on you being a potential cure to her curse. It must be why she's no longer hesitant to let you go.  

But she is wrong. In those weeks you spend with her, you've learned much more about ‘the Beast.’ You've learned that she is kind in a quiet, observant manner. She's hunted for you, lit your fireplace, made your clothes. She cares for nature, appreciates its beauty and intricacy unlike anyone else you know. And she is romantic, some of the village men could not compare to her when she's read so many books. 

One day, a rose is left on your bed, no doubt collected on your bed. 

That night, you approach her room.

“Prince Arlecchino?”

“Yes?”

“The rose… thank you for it.” 

The Prince remains in silence, observing you with adoration in her eyes despite her bone chilling features. “You’re welcome.”

“Roses are often used as a way to confess,” you say. You know that she knows already, given the amount of books she read. “Is this what I think it is?”

Prince Arlecchino nods. Tentatively, she takes your cheek in her hand and cups it, her claws gently brushing over your skin. “Yes. I think I am in love with you.”

A smile forms on your face and you lean in to press your foreheads against one another, creating an intimate air. “I love you too, my dear Prince.” 

The two of you lean against one another, your lips meeting each other and you close your eyes. The Prince places a hand behind your head, pushing you closer. You don't notice that her nails are no longer red, nor are they sharp. She doesn't notice either. 

The ink from her arms wash away, and with that ‘the Beast’ is swept away, stolen away by you. Prince Arlecchino stands in place of the missing ‘Beast.’