#they will meet again in the hall of their ancestors

[ghostlyboys]

And so, as Thorin passes a great sadness will wash over him, for he has lost his nephew, his kin. But a part of him holds strong knowing that kili will take up the throne.

For Thorin does not know that the last of the king's line has fallen and his sister must bury her sons, he will not know until they see each other again in the halls Mandos. And they will weep, as it is all they can do, at the sacrifice they made.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Could you write the scene where Ulf disrespects Jace? Reader, Jace's wife, arrives and, being a pacifist, asks Ulf to show respect in the halls of Dragonstone. She reminds him that, as a dragonseed, he should honor his ancestors' palace. However, Ulf, being arrogant and unaware, mistakes Reader for a maid rather than Crowned Princess. When Ulf moves to lay his hand on her, Jace intervenes, saying, "You dare lay a hand on your future Queen?"

Request: can i request a fic with jace where she’s a targ and ulf maybe just being himself disrespects her and jace is fed up

Small blurb because why dragging something just to make it longer?

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Ulf returned from the training yard after spending hours learning commands. High Valyrian did not flow easily on his commoner tongue, and he was looking for wine to drown his frustration into. 

His eyes looked around for a servant, and spotted you walking by. 

 ''Oy, fetch me more wine, girl,’’ Ulf commanded. 

Thinking his words were not addressed to you, you continued your path heading down the corridor to your chamber to report to Rhaenyra on your meeting with your father at Harrenhal. She had sent Ser Alfred a fortnight ago, but the man was slow on his horse so she sent you. The Greens were making moves and she needed to know what Daemon was up to quickly.

''I spoke to you!'' Ulf added, coming up to you and grabbing your arm without using force, simply meaning to stop you.

You turned, appalled that this man had grabbed you — a princess of the realm. 

‘’Get your hand off me!’’ 

Your hand reached toward the dagger on your hip, instinctively prepared to defend yourself. You assumed he was some sort of intruder  — mayhaps someone hired by the Greens —, but the way he continued asking about wine let you suspect that he was mistaking you for a servant. Did he not know who you were? Were your silver hair not telling enough of your title? 

Before you could scream or call for guards, Jacaerys was coming in through the corridor and walked in on the exchange. His whole body tensed and his dark eyes saw red when he saw Ulf with his betrothed.

‘’You dare lay a hand on your future Queen?’’ the prince said firmly, meeting the bastard's defiant glare as he quickened his pace to get to you. 

Realizing his mistake, Ulf immediately let you go, but Jacaerys was not finished, anger rising in his chest. He was so tired of the older man constantly showing disrespect in the ancestral home of House Targaryen. Calling him ‘boy’ and touching his hair saying they were ‘as dark as they say’, putting his feet on the painted table, his lack of table manners at supper. He may never have been taught the manners of court, but claiming a dragon didn’t give him permission to forget civility and manners. 

Jacaerys pushed Ulf away with a force that made the older bastard stumble on his feet. You did not know your betrothed had that strength in him. It made you feel something insde. 

‘’I’ll have an apology from you to the princess immediately," the prince demanded, his voice firm and authoritative. 

Ulf gulped and apologized, the boy before him small but somehow threatening. 

‘’Disrespect her or touch my betrothed again,’’ Jacaerys added, his eyes burning with anger, ‘’and I swear I'll have you hanged and your body fed to the dogs in the streets.’’

—

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[amsgrey]

he just sounds like that

Kaz Brekker x Fem!reader (established relationship)

synopsis: Arrogance has no place on a job, but you let it lower your guard. You pay the price, but Kaz helps bring you back.

I kind of like merging Book/Show Kaz and trying to keep accurate to his mannerisms and humour etc so hopefully this is good. I came about this idea after thinking about this scene from TLOU and how Kaz most definitely had an asshole voice. Also, I will probably make a few parts/drabbles about Kaz x Inferni Reader, because I love Kaz no apologies.

Warnings: Mentions of Slavery, reader reliving her time as a slave (briefly), Mentions of scars of wrists from slavery chains etc, A fumbley understanding of the technology of the time and inferni powers (it's been so long since I read the books)

Getting split from the other crows was distressing, but there was nothing you could do about that now. You and Kaz just had to keep going, trying to work your way back to the rendezvous point.

"Tell me again why you thought this would work," You hissed to Kaz, who had been leading you in a circle for what felt like forever.

Kaz gave you an irritated glare, "It did work."

You scoffed, "Yeah, that's why we're lost in this saints forsaken mansion."

Kaz let out an exasperated sigh, "Are you done?"

You and Kaz had known each other for years, the entire time you'd known each other you bantered like this. Kaz would act all irritated and stern, but you knew he silently liked the way you could relieve tension and make even him crack a smile. As the only two Crows born and raised in the farmlands of Kerch, you shared a different connection. You had found each other before The Barrel knew Kaz as the force he was now. Kaz had saved you from Slavers and convinced you to join the Dregs, helping you find a life without fear.

Since then, you followed him through everything, which at this current moment, meant even through the merchant's maze of a mansion. Nina, Matthias and Wylan were somewhere outside, waiting for you, Kaz, Inej and Jesper to get what you were after and meet them. You wondered if they would be growing impatient yet, you were late, which almost never happened on a job with Kaz.

The job had started off as most others, breaking in was always the easy part. You had been privy to Kaz's plans, watching him study a map of the mansion for weeks before he committed to the job. He knew the place like the back of his hand, but he didn't know the extent of the new security measures the merch had introduced.

You and Jesper dawdled behind Inej and Kaz as they led the group through the halls. Occasionally Jesper would pause at a painting or display piece and make comments about its ugliness or stupidity.

The last painting he'd criticized was of an older man, dressed in a bright blue kefta with red embroidery. Jesper had caught your sleeve and pointed it out to you, "Looks like the merch has inferni ancestor."

You had screwed your nose up at the portrait, "I thought he was Kaelish?"

"He is," Kaz said, already at the end of the hall with Inej. He was waiting for the two of you to catch up, like a boy calling his dogs home.

Walking through the mansion felt surreal, mostly because you hadn't been to many places with such decadent displays of wealth. The four of you could move through the hallways unnoticed because the Merch and his family were out at the theatre - or whatever it was rich people did in Ketterdam on Sunday Nights. He had brought most of his guards and men with him, leaving the halls silent and unpatrolled. Kaz had called him an arrogant fool, to declare his mansion impenetrable and then take all his men out to prove it. There was no place able to keep out Dirtyhands, especially not when he had his crows by his side.

Thinking back on it you realized how you all had been too arrogant, thinking this job was in and out, easy. You'd let your guard down - something Kaz warned you to never do in this city - and now you were paying the price.

Everything went wrong when you and Kaz finally found what you were looking for - the merch's family jewel, a sapphire embedded in rich Kealish gold. You had easily broken through the fabrikator-made lock, it might have been made by a Grisha but it couldn't hold up against a Grisha. Especially not one who could melt metal with the same ease as cutting pastry. Kaz had reached for the jewels, as soon as he lifted it off the display the room filled with an ominous hum. Like the sound of a machine slowly whirring to life.

Kaz had pocketed the jewels, grabbing your forearm and tugging you along behind him as he went for the door Jesper and Inej were guarding. Before you could make it metal bars slid down over the doorway. You had tried to use your small science to melt the metal, even Jesper tried to budge it, but nothing worked. Kaz ordered Inej and Jesper to find their own way out as alarms chimed, directing you back through the room to another exit.

You had followed behind him willingly, knowing he knew the way around the mansion. You'd been irritated to learn how wrong you were, Kaz knew the layout of the mansion but the Merch had updated the floorplan. Clearly, another Fabrikator addition to hinder thieves.

"Wait," Kaz held up his hand and you barrelled straight into his back at the sudden halt, "Do you hear that?"

Footsteps.

"Back," Kaz whispered, ushering you back the way you had come.

You got to the end of the hall before you heard more bodies approaching, you were surrounded. Immediately you went to the window, trying to pull at the latch and open it. It didn't work, but you could see light dancing on the tree line.

"Kaz," You called, "Look."

You both squinted into the dark, trying to distinguish who it was in the woods. You saw the glint of steel, like someone was spinning a revolver.

"It's Jesper."

The footsteps were getting louder, there was no way you and Kaz could get out of this on your own.

"Step back," You struck your flint, the sparks allowing you to create a ball of flame. You concentrated it as small as it would allow, pressing your palms against the window until cracks started forming. After a few more seconds the pane shattered, sending the shards falling to the ground below. You were on the second floor, even if you wanted to jump there was no way you and Kaz would be able to land safely. You settled for sending up a burst of flames, Jesper and the others would be on the lookout for it, your SOS symbol.

"Stop!" Someone shouted and all hell broke loose.

You and Kaz fought well side by side, you both knew each other's moves, working in tandem to take down opponents. It looked like you might win for a little while, then a woman rounded the corner with her hands pressed together. Heartrender, you realized it too late.

You were woken suddenly, like your heart was all of a sudden coming back to life. You gasped and spluttered, lungs burning. Your hands were bound above your head, separated by a thick metal rod so that you couldn't summon. Already you could feel the ache in your shoulders, hanging from your arms was something you had been used to when you were a slave. Now, you had to fight back the panic that tried to grip your heart.

You struggled to find your footing for a moment, but eventually managed to stand up enough to take the strain off of your wrists.

Kaz.

Where was Kaz?

"Look, Brekker. Your girls fine."

You squinted to find where the voice was coming from, finding the source across the room. Kaz was standing opposite a burly man nearly a foot taller than him. Kaz's face was bloody and bruised, but he had murder in his eyes. You could see it, feel it, all the way across the room. You realized it wasn't just Kaz and the merchant; the other crows were there too. Inej held a blade against the heartrenders throat from earlier, who had both her hands held far apart to show her cooperation. Jesper was not too far away, his pistols in hand as he stared down a man who stood in between you and him.

What did I miss?

"No harm was done," The merchant continued, his voice thick with a Kaelish accent, "What do you say we part ways, unharmed."

Kaz's face didn't change, "Sure."

The Merchant frowned, a glimpse of fear breaking through his resolve, "I don't like your tone, boy."

"He always sounds like that," Jesper joked, glancing at you.

"He has an asshole voice," You agreed. Not two nights ago you and Jesper had been saying the same thing to Matthias at the Slat. You and Jesper enjoyed teasing the Fjerdan, especially regarding Kaz and his 'demjin' ways.

Kaz looked amused, he had the Merchant in the palm of his hand. "Go. Before I change my mind."

The Merchant almost tripped as he ran away, not even stopping for his Heartrender and right-hand man who followed behind him just as quick.

With the immediate threat gone, you felt your resolve begin to crumble. You had to get out of these chains. They would rub your wrists every time you moved, bringing you straight back to your past.

"Stop moving," An older woman had warned you, "It hurts less."

She was probably right, but you were too terrified to listen. Hours ago you were playing on your family's farm, but now you were chained to the roof in a dark, damp cellar. The chains were rusted and coarse, they rubbed the skin around your wrists raw, leaving cuts and grazes everywhere they pressed.

You were only eight, by far the youngest of all the slaves in the cellar. The chains they used to bind you didn't have cuffs, the slavers had just looped the links around your wrists and locked them tight. All you felt was the pain and the fear. All of this because you were Grisha? You only just learned of your power as an Inferni, how could you be worth anything?

The older woman tried to console you, doing her best to quell your tears and sobs, but even she knew the horrors that awaited you. The horrors you would spend years fighting to escape.

"Y/N," Kaz's voice was soft, he stood in front of you, supporting your weight as Jesper worked on freeing your hands from the chains. "Stay here."

You knew he was trying, you could see his own emotions clawing at him. It was one of the things that bound you and Kaz together, the demons of your past. You understood what it was like to fear touch and he understood what it was like to be betrayed. You helped each other, through the flashbacks and nightmares. You two didn't have anyone else, so you fought to have each other.

When Jesper finally broke through the chains, you lurched forward unexpectedly. Kaz held you tighter, trying to keep you upright even with his bad leg. You stood up, holding your hands out to balance yourself.

'I'm okay," You lied, trying to avoid Jesper and Inej's worried glances, "We should get out of here."

Back at the Slat, you sat staring at your cup of cocoa. Nina had made it for you as her way of trying to help, she could hear that your heartbeat hadn't stopped racing since leaving the job.

Jesper and Wylan had offered you gentle conversation, but you couldn't hold it for long. You had claimed you were tired, bidding your friends goodnight and climbing the stairs to your room. You didn't stop at your floor. Your feet carried you further up the steep stairs, stopping when you reached the attic which Kaz had converted into his own room. You didn't have to knock, you just opened the door and announced yourself.

Behind closed doors, Kaz was less concerned about keeping up his Dirtyhands persona. He smiled ever so slightly as you sat on his bed. A few months ago you had forced him to rearrange his room so that you could see him working while you lounged on his bed. You often ended up like this, watching him work after long days and taking comfort in each other's presence.

This time, Kaz wasn't concerned with his papers, he just looked at you, waiting for you to talk. You had talked Kaz through his own episodes many times, you never pushed him or asked him to move quicker than he was ready. For the first time, Kaz wanted to offer you the same comfort, but he wasn't sure if he could.

You were rubbing your wrists, stuck in your own memories of your time chained.

Kaz slowly joined you, giving you time to pull away. You glanced over at him, watching him as he slowly removed his gloves.

"Kaz-"

Kaz shook his head to silence you, continuing what he was doing. He placed his gloves neatly on the bedside table, turning to you. He reached out slowly and you let him. He gently pried your fingers away from your wrist, taking your hands in his own. He turned your palms up, his fingers slowly ghosting over the scars on your skin.

Kaz could feel the warmth of your skin through his fingertips. It helped him fight off the flashbacks, the warmth reminding him you were safe, healthy, alive.

Kaz's fingers traced over a scar on your right thumb. You couldn't help the small sigh that escaped your lips.

Kaz's head snapped up to look at you, fear filling his eyes.

"I'm okay," You meant it this time. The flashbacks were gone, locked in the vault in the back of your mind.

Kaz could tell that you meant it, see the anxiety leave your face. He drew his hands back, reaching for his gloves again. You smiled at him as he slipped his hands back into them, the leather bringing him the comfort he needed.

Kaz offered you a quiet apology.

"Kaz," You couldn't help the adoring smile on your face, "It's okay."

You knew Kaz could handle contact more when his gloves were on, so you gently took his hand. Kaz watched as you copied his movements from earlier, gently opening up his fingers. You slowly raised his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm.

"I love you," You said, "Gloves and all."

Kaz smiled, a genuine smile that you only saw in the safety of these four walls.

He let out a quiet reply, "I love you too."

[kiame-sama]

Who wants to meet my TWST AU Hades Shroud? Too bad, I decided for you. (I know I said I'd do Azul next, but I just got smacked with inspiration, so here he is. Technically, if I was going by TWST cannon, his name would be Pluto as they use the Roman Pantheon names instead of the Greek Pantheon via the titans hating Jupiter)

Hades is about 50ft (15.24m) tall in his regular form, his limbs are similar to Idia's in that his limbs are long and gangly compared to the rest of his body. In his 'small' form, he is around 10ft (304.8cm). He is over 5000 years old and has seen ages go by from his home, the Isle of Woe. As King of the Shinigami, many souls pass through his halls and it is his job to ensure all dead are lain to rest. Shinigami do not die of old age as they were never really living, but they can be killed and usually their soul does not remain after their actual death.

His face is stained by the tears he has shed for his lost humans, forever marked by his own sorrow and heartbreak. He did love Humans and all of their intelligence. Humans were never pets to the ancient Shinigami, they were smart and plucky and had beautiful hearts. Every Human that died, on or off of the Isle, returned to Hades. Those that passed peacefully were happy to see their friend and benefactor again on their way to rest. Most did not pass peacefully. Most returned broken and screaming souls, tortured and tormented by their last moments to the point of insanity, only able to scream and sob even when reunited with Hades.

His shawl was formed out of his sorrow and the grief he felt every time another Human soul came back to him broken. He has not fully removed the shawl since the death of the last Human in Twisted Wonderland. It is said every sparkle and star seen in his wings, shawl, and tear-stains are all meant to represent a Human soul. He has thousands on his figure and he remembers the name of each one. The larger stars are the Humans he remembers most fondly, the smaller stars are Humans he didn't get to form very close bonds with as they left or died before he could truly bond with them. Usually it covers his entire body and can be pulled up as a hood over his head, but he tied it up for the first time in centuries for his meeting with this new Human of Night Raven College.

His heart was shattered when his Humans died and he has been in true deep mourning for 500 years, hence why his tears have permanently stained his face. Of all the Great Seven, only Maleficent comes close to how much he respected and loved Humans. Others loved Humans, sure, but few respected them the way the God of Death did. The sheer will of Humans to defy death and live in a world they did not really belong in truly spoke to the Shinigami in ways he never expected. He will fight and give up his own ancient life to save this last Human the same wailing and terrified death almost every other suffered from.

He does hope this new Human will allow him to study their womb to try and make an artificial womb to bring more Humans back to Twisted Wonderland. He has a fairly large store of Human eggs and sperm he has never been able to grow into full Humans, so the research he could do on this Last Human could help him bring Humans back from extinction. If the Human is willing, the best way for him to research the creation of a Human and carrying it to term would be best done by implanting a frozen embryo into the Human and letting it grow to term. He would never do such a thing unless the Human was absolutely certain and willing in this research.

Ortho is the baby of the Shroud family and Hades absolutely adores Ortho. He feels partially responsible for Ortho's injuries and has done what he can to aid Idia in making new limbs for Ortho. The entire Shroud family calls Hades 'Papa Hades' as he is their ancestor and he is the eldest of the family. Even his Humans called him Papa Hades. It would likely begin to heal some deeply broken part of his heart to hear this Last Human call him by that title as well. If they ever do call him Papa Hades, he will pledge everything he has left in him to their protection and safety.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance. 

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan? 

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route. 

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily. 

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift. 

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them. 

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground. 

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum. 

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging. 

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist. 

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint. 

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back. 

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you. 

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame. 

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it. 

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze. 

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again. 

He must be really curious about you. 

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”  

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

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If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! <3

Chapter 2

[livelaughlovesubs]

Do you still accept a request? If yes. Then can you make an angsty one with Leviathan from WHB. Like Levi just actually threatens MC the whole time, so what would he react if MC really dying and almost die in the same way he's been threatens MC with.

Hey dear, sorry it took a while cuz I’ve been busy but here it is! Hope you like it (some of it was inspired by his bloodshed card)

Levi x reader (?)

Warning: angst, one sided crush, you die (wow)

Btw I didn’t proofread this. Sorry

[—] How dare you [———]…?

.

.

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“You, why are you here.” A sinister voice echoed through the huge halls. The pitch was deep and filled with menace, it got louder with each passing second. “Ask your subordinates, they were worried about you.” You replied. Soon the owner of that voice appeared, facing you with a nonchalant expression. It was dead silent, before you felt something tightening around your neck and pulling you into the air. “U-ugh, fuck!” A rope wrapped around your neck, tight enough for your air to be snapped off. You looked him dead in the eyes, it was always unpleasant meeting him. The male did a motion with his fingers, then the mysterious rope disappeared back to the ceiling. Your body hit the ground, loud pants and gasps followed.

It was awful how he seemed to do whatever he wanted, even if it was at the cost of another’s comfort. While you were slowly getting back onto your feet, leviathan smirked at you. His face showed a neutral expression with a hint of satisfaction flashing across his features. You wanted to hit him, but that would end in another near death experience so you ignored him. After standing up and fixing your attire, you turned around and said, “they want you to take a break. Do what you want I don’t care.” Levi glared at you when you started to walk away, “where do you think you are going?” Instead of stopping and answering him, you acted like you didn’t hear him and continued. You just wanted to get out of this suffocating situation as soon as possible.

The rope from before attacked you again, cutting off your air once more, “gaHhh..!” A chocked out groan left you, your throat hurt from all this bullshit. “I didn’t say you could leave did I?” It sounded like he was mocking you. Dear ancestor, fuck you. This was the second time already, in what, ten minutes? When you escaped the noose again you clenched your fists, mumbling under your breath, “one day you are going to be the death of me.” This time, he didn’t stop you again and let you disappear behind the doors. A gentle smile creeped onto his lips.

You despised him. Sure, the devils were all weird and unique but he was more than that. He was unreasonable and violent, not to mention arrogant. Just the thought that you had to stay in this god forsaken country for another week made your blood boil. Foras and a maid were coming to your direction, the female devil was pushing a cart decorated with various dishes. “How’s his majesty leviathan?” The pink haired male asked as soon as he noticed you. “As unbearable as ever.” You didn’t understand how or why they were this loyal to him, he didn’t hypnotise them did he? Foras obviously noticed your frustrated expression and asked you about it. “What could it be other than your king. Sigh I’ll leave first.” This wasn’t good for your health, being angry all the time.

After that encounter you made your way back to your bedroom, and the two devils went into Levi’s office. They placed down the plates, before their king came and sat down at the table. He chewed on his food, while foras was standing behind him. “Your majesty leviathan,” he began, “pardon my insolence, but may I know what you think of that human?” “They are Solomon’s descendant, there’s nothing else worth mentioning.” Levi responded with a serious expression. “I see.”

Even though hades wasn’t your favourite place, you couldn’t deny that there were nice things about it too. It was also very fun to mix in with the population and observe the habits of devils. The most eye catching part about them must be the noose they all wear. Each nation does have their own unique laws. “I wonder why they all wear a noose, is it their fashion?” You asked yourself, when suddenly someone answered you, “it’s to honour his majesty leviathan! This is a Symbole of our trust and loyalty!” Quickly you turned around, about to raise your fist to punch whoever was behind you. The sun shone onto his skin in a picture perfect way, it made his golden locks shine even more than normally.

“Barbatos?” “Oh did I surprise you? I saw you walking around so I came closer!” He smiled brightly, barbatos stood out a lot at the palace, because everyone was so gloomy while he was… dazzling, in a good and bad way. “Anyway, to answer your question, we all wear a noose for his majesty.” The man said. “So that he can chock you whenever?” You remarked, finding that purpose rather questionable. “Haha! That’s a nice touch, but it’s actually so that we are prepared for his majesty leviathans death.” “Prepared? What do you mean?” Barbatos grinned at you as he answered you once again, “if he dies, then we will die with him by hanging. All of us.”

Your eyes widened at that statement. Their loyalty was greater than what you initially thought. “All of them? Did Levi want this?” “No, it was what we agreed on when we decided to follow him.” Barbatos looked a little sad now, as if he was remembering the old days. “…his majesty leviathan is more than what meets the eye. There must be a reason after all why we follow him.” A small child ran past you, he also wore a noose. “Even children.” You whispered under your breath. This was unreasonable and crazy, to think all these people would die for him. It felt like a stone dropped onto your heart, weighting down on it.

You still didn’t like him. No questions asked. But you felt something else too, some form of respect or admiration. He alone had to shoulder the lives of so many people, it was a burden you would never take upon yourself. Those thoughts of understanding and pity for him were washed away as soon as you entered the palace. A noose like the ones you saw on the streets wrapped around your neck, strangling you. “Arghh! Fuck!” You cursed him in your mind, did he see you as a stress ball of some sort?

“You. how dare you leave without a notice.” The blond haired devil threatened, his gaze switched to barbatos who was standing beside you. In the blink of an eye, he was also hanging from the ceiling. Though compared to you, he seemed to enjoy it. “Ah-..! Your- majesty leviathan..!” “Silence, hang.” Barbatos’ red rope tightened again, any more and it would snap his neck in half. You struggled yourself, slowly feeling nauseous and dizzy when he still didn’t grant you permission to breath. “You-”

Before Levi could finish his sentence, the huge window behind him crashed down. The glass shattered and flew everywhere, Levi raised his arm to protect himself. One of the bigger glass shards cut through the rope by which you were hanging, coincidentally helping you escape. “Hah-haa..! Hah..” you gasped, desperately trying to fill your lungs with air. The noose was still around your neck, but you were in too much panic to get rid of the knot. Barbatos cut through his rope when he saw the window breaking. Foras and glasyalabolas stormed into the hall second after, along with other devils.

Angels. You heard one of them mumble. “Angels..?” Your mind was still dizzy from the lack of oxygen, with great difficulties you stood up. “Kill all the devils you can see! And that human too!” One of the white winged creatures yelled. Moments after a fight broke out, the two races were fighting and killing each other. Some of the demons died, and so did some of the angels. You stumbled a little, it was still difficult to breath with how tight the noose was, so you grabbed a glass shard laying on the ground and tried to cut it. Hurting your hand in the process. “Ugh.. bloody hell! The fuck is this?!” Somehow the rope didn’t want to be cut, the shard was covered in your blood before you made any progress.

Everything was happening so fast, you weren’t able to take in all the information yet. Your heart was pounding, working to its utmost to provide your body with the much needed oxygen. What should I do, what should I do? You asked yourself. Looking around to see if you could find a weapon. Maybe throw the shards after them? But what is you miss? Fuck fuck fuck. This is just the worst. Damn this brand of yours, this stupid thing Gabriel left you with.

Levi and the others were killing one angel after another, bloody feathers flew around the hall. Suddenly you saw an angel sneaking up to Levi, without thinking about it, you ran towards the creature, pushing it away. This action shocked the male. He kept a calm but furious face the entire time, but now he had a shocked expression. “What are you doing?! Get out of my way, I can handle it myself.” Wow, so much for a thanks. You were still panting, running like that with limited air was too much. “You are useless in this battle, go hide in that room, I’ll clear the way.” He shouted at you, well, he wasn’t wrong, you really couldn’t do anything. Even if it left a bitter taste admitting it.

Just as you got up and prepared to run, one of the angels grabbed the end of the noose and flew into the air. Once again you were being tossed around like some toy. “Ugh!!” Levi reached out to you, but instead you kicked him away. “You! Why did you do that you dumbass!” He took a few steps back, and a sword landed right in front of him. “Don’t you- dare die! I don’t like you Levi, but if you die, I’ll fucking hate you. I’ll curse your soul! Ughh!!” You didn’t get to talk much when an angel with a scar interrupted you, “Tsk, you annoying pest!” He was the one who threw the blade. Afterwards he screamed to his colleague, “kill that human! They have the brand of sir Gabriel!” And with that, you were hanging from the ceiling. The angel who carried you whispered, “please don’t struggle too much.. I’m not that strong.” What a dumbass, as if you’d listen. You trashed around as much as you could, the high was scaring you but angels were scarier.

Now everyone was panicking. The devils because you were on the verge of dying, the angels cuz they were losing their numbers, and you because your consciousness was fading away. Is this the end? Really? Dying in a dishonourable way like this? Suddenly you saw black, only darkness was before your eyes. Haha.. to think you will die while protecting that asshole. Fate truly is unpredictable.

“Save [——] first!” “How [———] you!” “[———] y/n!!” Seems like the battle wasn’t over yet, but you could really understand anything they were saying. Only bits of their conversation was reaching you. You wanted to yell it to him, though it was impossible in your condition. Instead of shouting you whispered with your last breath, “Levi, don’t you dare die, I’ll strangle you if you do.” “Hmm?” Your enemy listened to your words, getting distracted by them for a bit. During that short vulnerable moment, Levi attacked his wings, causing him to crash to the ground. “You worthless insect..” Foras called out to Levi right before he could kill that angel, saying, “your majesty! Solomon’s descendant.. they are dead.”

He froze. What. Dead? You humans really are weak, so breakable and weak. Dead. Dead, just to save him, again. “You! What were their last words?!” Those words were directed to the half dead thing on the ground. The devil turned his head around and stepped onto his half dead corpse. With how much blood he lost, it was only a matter of time before he finally dies. “You better open your mouth, it’s a warning.” Levi demanded, ready to heal and then torture him. “…don’t die- hu.. or they will strangle you.” That angel murmured in his last breath, then he got stabbed by glasyalabolas. The expression on Levi’s face was indescribable. Shock, anger and grief all mixed together until it was a perfect blend. What he experienced in that moment was something worse than when he escaped heaven. Once again he wasn’t strong enough to protect anyone. Once again he still needed others, who are weaker, to sacrifice their lives for him. He didn’t change, nothing changed, not in all these centuries. Was this perhaps his fate as a king? Hah… if only he wasn’t born ‘special’. It’s suffocating.

Barbatos was the one to break the silence first, clearly worried for his king, “your majesty-” “and that because of the noose?” The devil with the deer horns talked to himself while leaving his subjects in confusion. “They died, by my hands.” He said sternly. “Because of me, again. Again again again. How often does fate want to repeat itself?” This time Foras opened his mouth first, “it isn’t your fault, your majesty-” horror washed over his attendants as tentacles and an ominous aura emerged from leviathan, was the palace going to break again was what they thought, but that idea quickly vanished when Levi turned around. “It feels like I just escaped that place yesterday. When I still wasn’t ‘leviathan’, but devil number 89. Ah. My eyes hurt.” It was the first time they saw their dear king cry.

[da-birb-writes-sometimes]

Of Truths & Dreams; Malleus Draconia

Dreams can tell you a lot about a person. Their wants, their fears. But sometimes they can tell you the truth, and sometimes it isn't pretty.

Supporting Characters; Lilia Vanrouge & Malenoa Draconia

Content; Soulmate AU (I call them soul matches), gender-neutral reader, can be read as familial, platonic, or romantic, Chapter 7 spoilers, canon divergence, hurt/comfort

Content Warnings; Chapter 7 spoilers, overblot stuff, swearing

Word Count; 5 K

Don't put my work into AI, I will hunt you for sport.

Prologue & Lilia's Story | Sebek's Story

Malleus was born into this world alone. His mother, dead, and his father, missing. It was a miracle that he even hatched, as Draconia eggs required love to hatch. And his grandmother was ridden with grief, over losing her only child. It was no wonder why he was delayed by several centuries. And despite everything, he hatched. But despite his hatching, the love and adoration that people gave him, he was alone. Malleus didn’t feel loved, not in the way that mattered.

His subjects, his guards, his teachers, even his own grandmother loved the idea of him. And he was raised away from the outside world, within the dark halls of Briar Castle. Malleus was an idea, and the hope for the future rather than his own person. It was a lot for a child to handle. So, of course, he would sneak out when he thought no one was looking. The guards would realize rather quickly that the sole heir to Briar Valley, their most treasured royal, was missing. But Malleus didn’t care.

“Good evening,” he greeted the raven gargoyle that was at the westernmost turret of the outside wall. Malleus looked in the direction that the raven did, looking out into the moors. A dense fog had rolled in, covering everything in a white haze. “Do you ever wonder what’s out there?”

He knew that the stone wouldn’t answer him, but he asked anyways. “Grandmother tells me stories you know,” he sighed, taking a seat in one of the carved-out alcoves in the ancient stone. “That Briar Valley will one day be mine to keep. But I cannot rule without a soul match.”

Soul matches were quintessential for the Draconias, after all, it was their own ancestor the Thorn Fairy, who had gifted the fae the blessing. But Malleus had yet to find any trace of them in his dreams. Typically, members of his family were born with their soul match already in their dreams, but Malleus had yet to meet them, his dreams still being black and white, and no blurry stranger to speak of in sight. It was distressing, and he heard the whispered concerns of his grandmother when she thought he was in bed.

And those whispers played in his head. “Is there something the matter with me?” All the young prince got for an answer though was the distant cawing of ravens, and the approaching sounds of footsteps. “Did I do something wrong?”

It felt like he did something wrong. Why else would the Thorn Fairy withhold his birthright to a soul match? Why would she punish him? Had he already not been punished enough?

“So that’s where you were hiding,” the familiar voice of Lilia pulled Malleus from his thoughts. “Come now, young prince, you can’t hide away forever.” Lilia offered his hand for the young boy to take. 

Malleus looked at his outstretched hand to his face, and placed his hand in Lilia’s. “Did I upset everyone again?” His voice was quiet as the two of them walked hand and hand down the uneven steps of the turret’s staircase.

Lilia hummed, “Upset? No. Worry? A little bit.” He was used to barking out orders in the battlefield, not looking after children, let alone one so precious to the Valley. But Lilia felt that he needed to, for both his Queen, and the late princess. He had a duty to keep, an oath that he lived by; to protect the royal line.

Malleus frowned, giving the moors a final look before he and his keeper descended into the heart of the castle. “I just wanted to find them.”

“And you will,” Lilia gave the prince a practised smile, as it was still something he was getting used to. “It may just take some time is all.”

“But mother and grandmother both were born with their soul matches already in their dreams. Why is mine not with me now?” Malleus was starting to spit a bit of fire, clearly becoming upset with his own frustration. “Why must they keep me waiting?”

Lilia took a knee, and gently placed his hands on Malleus’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. “Good things come to those who wait. It must mean that the Thorn Fairy is taking her time in finding the best match for you.” Lilia’s eyes searched Malleus’s and he propped himself back up. “So since it is taking a while, they must be very special.”

Malleus was still upset, but that put him at ease. Good things come to those who wait. So the longer he had to wait, the better his soul match should be, and that put his turbulent mind at ease… for now.

…

…

Malleus was standing in the thick fog of the moors. And it was deathly silent, not even the crickets or the throaty calls of frogs filled in the silent din. “Another dream,” he sighed to himself. 

Of course it was a dream, which was obvious due to everything being in various shades of grey, white, and black, but also because he wasn’t allowed past the castle’s outer walls without someone else accompanying him.

“Why have you brought me here,” Malleus quietly asked the fog.

It is said that the Thorn Fairy lived in the moors, that she protected the moors. She put up an impenetrable wall of thorns, to protect her people from those who wished to destroy them. But the moors remained silent, and barren of colour or life. Malleus hummed to himself the lullaby that his grandmother sang to him while he was still a baby, and still in his egg. He has heard this song over the centuries as he lay dormant. Permanently etched into the deepest recesses of his mind. The lullaby was crafted solely for the fae to learn of soul matches.

Malleus stopped humming. He hadn’t met them yet, so it didn’t feel right to hum the original lyrics. “I’ll know you. I will walk with you once upon a dream,” he sang slowly, walking to nowhere in particular, the fog moving gently with his movements. “I’ll know you, that look in your eyes will be so a familiar a gleam.” 

He started dancing by himself, making the fog swirl around him. “And I know it’s true that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I’ll know you, I know what you’ll do.” Malleus made one large twirl, and all the emotions he had were summoned as fire, setting the dry grass of the moors ablaze, yet he was untouched as his dream was slowly being reduced to ashes.

“You’ll love me at once,” he whispered quietly, “the way you did once upon a dream.” Smoke filled the air, and where there was once light, white fog, there was now heavy, black smoke.

It was simply a dream though, nothing more. But dreams reveal truths, even if we don’t want to confront them.

…

…

…

Malleus had missed the entrance ceremony… again, at least Lilia was all over it, but it still rubbed Malleus in all of the wrong ways. But was it really his fault? He had never received an invitation… due to his electronics acting up again due to his own magic, so maybe it was his fault. Maybe next year! … Oh right, he would be a fourth year and not studying within the confines of Night Raven College, so in actuality, there was no next year.

At least there was a familiar face that was new to the dorm, and Sebek was overjoyed and followed Malleus dutifully. But that didn’t really change his own inner turmoil; he is next in line to be king, and yet he wasn’t able to attend something as simple as an annual recurring event? It troubled him, even as he was preparing himself for bed, adjusting his custom pillow just so.

I just wish I were invited? A proper letter. He mused in his own head, before finding himself back in the moors. It was always the moors. By this point he had traversed the entirety of it, and seen everything it had to offer, all of its little secrets. Not hard when he’s had nearly a century of time to do so.

He started humming his version of the lullaby, as he mindlessly floated along a path that he had made with his own footsteps, well trodden. Good things come to those who wait. That’s what he’s told himself, night after night. That’s what he told himself every morning when he woke up. He was getting tired of waiting. He was supposed to have been born with his soul match already in his dreams, but no one had ever appeared in Malleus’s dreams. He was always alone in the moors, with not even animals to keep him company. He was not only isolated in his waking world, the real world, but he was also isolated in his dreams.

Malleus was all alone, he had been alone for a while. Yes, he may have guards, and loyal servants, but above all else, they saw him as their next king, not Malleus; they didn’t see him for him. So maybe it was fitting that he didn’t have a soul match either. Maybe the Thorn Fairy wanted him alone.

Right as those feelings surfaced though, his dream changed. Malleus was very much still in the moors, but the silence was gone. The soft chirping of crickets filled the void. There was life, and it was all at once. The fog was still there, but Malleus could also see the faint lights of fireflies, glowing softly. This, this was new, and he didn’t know what to make of it. The once still moor was now gently rustling, breathing.

In front of him, the fog became dense, and a figure slowly emerged from it, looking around in a confused state. But they then turned their full attention to Malleus, and everything became saturated in violet.

Good things come to those who wait. They were here, they were finally here. Malleus was finally not alone.

“It is a pleasure to finally meet you,” he greeted with a slight bow of his head. He did not know who they were, did not know of their upbringing or social status, but none of that mattered. They were his soul match, which usurped everything else. 

He watched curiously as his words floated in front of him, a harsh, neon green. His soul match did the same, watching as the words faded away.

“Uh, nice to meet you too?” Their words, your words, floated in front of Malleus, the same shade of green as his. “Who are you? Where am I?”

Malleus hummed, intrigued by their reaction. Perhaps they were not taught of soul match bonds, which would be understandable, as not all families knew of the bonds the Thorn Fairy had gifted them. “I will explain all in time, for now though, let us walk together, and enjoy this moment. Shall we?”

He extended his hand, waiting for you to take it, but right as your hands were about to meet, your form turned back into mist, leaving Malleus alone yet again in his dream. “Hmm, they must have woken up suddenly… perhaps tomorrow night then…” He murmured to himself, and continued down his footpath, watching the fireflies blink in the distance.

…

…

That was a weird ass dream, and you were kinda thankful that Grim had rudely woken you up. Kinda being the key word. And you couldn’t really get back to sleep, instead just staring up at the decaying ceiling above you, just wishing that you could go back to sleep. But what was up with the formal-speaking stranger? Why were you in some sort of swamp? Why was everything purple? And why were your words floating in front of you and a bright ass neon green? It was only your first night too… maybe this was just your brain coming up with weird scenarios to distract you from the weirdness you experience while awake? Maybe some inter-dimensional travel side effects? Like some form of jet lag that messed with your dreams? Sure, let’s pin it on that.

“Ughhhh, I hate it here,” you groaned. It would be a few hours before classes even began, so you had plenty of time for utter boredom, how fun. At least you had borrowed some books from the library, a mix of general information — since that ‘headmage’ hadn’t given you a proper welcome or a lowdown on how this world functioned — and just some interesting looking cover. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Sure, but when the book was a deep violet leather-bound book, with green metallic filigree? How could you not be curious about it? It was stunning.

“Of Truths and Dreams,” you whispered to yourself, that was the title of the book, the font in the style of calligraphy from medieval texts. How old was it? Were you actually allowed to touch it, let alone read it? It looked like it belonged in a museum.

You carefully undid the metal clasp, in the shape of a dragon’s claw. Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. And you began reading.

Dreams can reveal much about a person; their wants, their fears, their memories. Dreams also hold power, and such power has been bestowed to the Draconia family. And this power comes from our ancestor, the Thorn Fairy.

You snapped the book shut. This wasn’t just a book, it was a diary. You shouldn’t be reading this… but this was a chance to learn more about this world. Learn about it from… You open up the diary again, and find the owner’s name written in the same calligraphy as the title. Maleficia Draconia. 

-

As with all fae, our family too is blessed with soul matches who enter our dreams as we sleep. Our family is different though, as we are born with them already in our minds; our dreams tinted in a colour that represents both of us. They are of utmost importance to us. Without them, we cannot rule. They may become an advisor, a confidant, and in some cases, a lover. That is for both parties to decide though, we cannot use our power or status to influence their decision, no matter how we feel about them, Malenoa. Do not let our draconic greed dictate the relationship. It surfaces as a song. I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream. I know you, that look in your eye is so familiar a gleam. And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom what they seem. But if I know you, I’ll know what you’ll do. You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream. Ignore that song, my love, for that is the greed speaking, and not the truth. Ignore it at all costs, for it will stain the heart…

The rest of the diary was left blank, the edges of the paper charred. Turning it back over, you noticed that the entire back of the book was blackened, blackened by fire. And even though you didn’t know who Maleficia was, she had helped you a great lot. Whatever that dream was, that was no ordinary stranger. They were your… soul match? Yeah, whatever that meant.

…

…

Malleus found himself walking outside of his old haunting grounds, Ramshackle dorm. He was surprised to find it now occupied, but his sadness had morphed into something far more pleasant. He had gained a friend. He had gained you.

“Good evening, Child of Man,” he greeted you, taking notice of the large yawn that escaped your mouth. “More tired than usual I see. You do not need to walk with me tonight if rest is what you need.”

Malleus meant well, in his own odd and formal way. “Eh, it’s nothing, Tsunotarou. I’ll get some shut eye in a bit,” you waved off his concern, and shot him a small smile.

He gave you back a tiny smile, remembering the last time that he gave someone a full smile, they were left scared, not happy. He didn’t want to scare you off. That’s why he let you decide on a nickname for him, that but also names hold power… but he trusted you, he just didn’t know how to bring it up. He didn’t want your friendship to change just because you found out he was the Malleus Draconia, but he also knew that you wouldn’t really care. You didn’t seem like the type to treat him any differently just because of his title. He didn’t want to risk it though.

So the two of you walked around the outskirts of Ramshackle, fireflies lighting the way. Something about them felt familiar though, and it wasn’t from just your nightly walks with your horned friend. You could have sworn you saw them in a dream… now wasn’t the time for that, now was the time to enjoy what time you could get with your friend.

“Hey, Tsunotarou,” you asked him, turning a bit so you faced him. “Do you have a soul match?”

Malleus’s pupils dilated outwards, becoming more rounded rather than harsh slits. “Yes I do, Child of Man. I am rather surprised that you know of the subject,” he breathed out. You really were full of surprises, weren’t you?

Surprised? “How so?”

Malleus hummed to himself, a melody that sounded familiar, but it evaded you. “The bonds of soul matches of fae are only known by fae, which is why I was caught by surprise of you knowing of the term. That is all.” Do you have one, Child of Man? But why does the thought make my tongue go bitter?

“Found it in a book in the library,” you mused. You mentally kicked yourself, you could have given it to him, he may know the family of the previous owner. Maybe you could go hunting for it the next time you found yourself in the cramped halls of the library. A rather large yawn escaped from you, and that was your, and Malleus’s, queue that it was time for you to head off to the land of dreams. “Any who, night, Tsunotarou! Sweet dreams!” You waved him goodbye as he vanished into a puff of fireflies, off into the night.

…

…

And they were both asleep again, but something felt off. Like there was something dark tainting the dream. It was a familiar sensation, one that made the hairs on your neck stand on end; blot. There was blot in the dream.

“Are you alright,” you asked your soul match, carefully watching their reaction.

They hummed, and turned to look at you curiously, green eyes practically glowing in the dark violet lighting, pupils relaxing from their tight slits into more relaxed ovals. “I am alright, just thinking is all,” their words floated in front of them, still the neon green they were in the beginning.

But the alarm bells were screaming in your head. Screaming at you that everything was definitely not alright. This, this was being calculated, being considered. “You just seem preoccupied… like your mind is elsewhere is all.”

They tilted their head, “I am right here with you.” Their words were blunt, as they typically were. “However,” the lighting darkened, being tainted with more hints of blot, “are you planning on going anywhere?” Are you planning on leaving me, like everyone else?

The words hang heavily in the air. It was no use lying to them, as it would only worsen the situation to lie. “Eventually I have to… I have to go back,” you said carefully, gauging their reaction.

Malleus’s pupils turned into slits again, but he remained calm on the outside. “Go back to what? Do you not like it here?” Do you not like me?

You looked around the bog, “That’s not the case. I have responsibilities back home. I need to go back. I’m …” Sorry. But the word didn’t come out of your mouth. What did you have to apologise for? It was not your fault that you came here, but why did it feel like it?

“I too have responsibilities,” Malleus said quietly, words barely visible. “You cannot go back.” All of the pleasantries were gone, this was a command. “You are staying here with me.”

The blot thickened. Could someone overblot in their dreams? And they started singing, and it was the tune that they’ve been humming since their first shared dream.

“I know you, that look in your eye is so familiar a gleam,” they cupped your face, looking softly into your eyes. “And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom all they seem. But if I know you, I know what you’ll do…” The violet lighting of the dream had turned almost black, the only lighting being the neon green words dancing around you. “You’ll love me at once, they way you did once-”

You shot up awake, heart beating so fast that you could feel and hear it. You didn’t need your soul match to finish the lyric, for you knew it already… for you had read it in that fire-charred diary. “… upon a dream,” you breathed out.

Your soul match is Malleus Draconia, Tsunotarou, and this was bad. The greed had taken over… alongside the blot. 

…

…

Malleus looked over the forms of his sleeping classmates, singing the lullaby again. He could see everybody’s dreams, except for yours, and it was equally as annoying as it was endearing. Of course his Child of Man would be filled with surprises. Malleus only wished that his soul match was here, for he wished to see their deepest desires, to see how they would be the hero of their own tale. But when he closed his eyes, and tried to teleport to their dreams, he saw nothing. It distressed him too, he knew they were asleep, but he couldn’t see anything.

“Where are you,” he chuckled darkly, a mix of anger but also fear. He should be able to see them, but he saw nothing, nothing except for the moors now engulfed in ink. Devoid of colour and life. 

Soul match bonds cannot break, at least not easily. Either they were no longer of this world — which they were not, Malleus could sense that much — or they were underneath a sleeping spell, a Draconia’s sleeping spell.

It meant that they were on the island. They have been so close this entire time. “Now, wherever could you be hiding,” Malleus sighed, looking into every single person’s dreams, looking for his soul match. Their dream should be tinted violet, singling them out to him. And as Malleus hopped from dream to dream, not once did he find the familiar colour. But they were here… he just couldn’t see them. He couldn’t see their dreams.

That left one option. There was only one person who he couldn’t see the dreams of. “You are full of surprises, aren’t you,” he floated over to your sleeping form, coming to sit next to you with a fond look in his eyes, “my dear Child of Man.” And he started humming that song of his, trying to pry into your mind, trying to get back into your dreams, where he could keep a diligent eye on you. “Looks like we have indeed met once upon a dream… that must be why your eyes are so familiar a gleam.”

…

“Yeah, this, this is beyond bad,” you muttered to yourself. You were back in the swamp, up to your chest in thick ink. The once pleasant dream was now, effectively, a trap; a giant glue trap if you will. 

A boom of thunder overhead underscored your statement and brilliant flashes of bright purple and green lightning provided the only light for you, everything else was shrouded in darkness caused by the blot. Caused by Malleus. But why, why did he overblot?

“They found a way for me to go back home.” Oh. You're leaving, and add onto that, Lilia coming out from nowhere and saying that he was also leaving because his magic had dried out… That’s why.

“TSUNOTAROU!” You yelled out into the swamp, but all you got as an answer was your own voice causing ripples in the ink. “TSUNOTAROU?!” You tried again. Nothing.

Names hold power, Child of Man, do remember that. You took in a deep breath, steeling yourself for when he manifested himself here. “MALLEUS DRACONIA?!”

A bolt of lightning hit a few metres in front of you, morphing into bright green fire, and then Malleus was standing in front of you, or rather, a part of him. “You called?”  He glided easily over the ink, and looked down at you, assessing you.

“What have you done, Malleus,” you refused to tilt your head upwards, instead looking up with your eyes, head remaining level.

Malleus knelt down in front of you, despite him being vastly stronger and of higher status, he still viewed you as his equal. “I did what needed to be done.” He said it so matter of factly, like it made perfect sense. “Now everyone will be happy.”

“You can’t force people to be happy,” you said back, looking into his eyes, searching for the Malleus you knew, searching for your friend. “That’s not for you to decide, Malleus.” 

Malleus just hummed at your comment, and he tried to change your dream to something more pleasant, but you remained stuck in the ink. Why can I not change it? I should be able to change it. “They deserve to be happy… You deserve to be happy. Do you not?”

I mean, yeah it would be nice, but I would rather it be because of something other than an overblot, but ya know how it is. “Yes, but not like this… Let me help you, Malleus.”

“I do not need help,” he hissed, tilting your chin up. “Let me make you happy.” 

The ink rose, and it was now up to your neck, and you were floating in it. You spared a quick glance down and saw a gentle lilac light shining down from the bottom. This may just be a crazy idea, but it was one worth taking.

You looked back into Malleus’s eyes. “Do you promise?”

Malleus smiled at you, “Of course I do.”

You grabbed him by the arm and pulled the both of you under the surface of the ink, making your eye towards the lilac light.

…

You crawled out of the ink and found yourself, and Malleus, on the outside walls of a grand castle, roses vining their way up the facade in full bloom. Everything was in a gentle lilac light, and fireflies glowed green despite it being daytime. It was idyllic, it was peaceful, the only thing out of place being the blot that dripped off Malleus. Yet it was contained to him, disappearing into a gentle puff of green sparkles when it hit the ground.

“How,” Malleus whispered, his words now a light green, no longer a harsh neon. “How are we here?”

You didn’t know, all you did was follow the light from the bottom of the inky depths. “Do you know this place?” You had no idea where you were, but you weren’t complaining, since you were no longer up to your neck in blot.

Malleus looked up, and there was the familiar raven gargoyle from his childhood. “This is my home,” he turned to look at you curiously. “How did you bring us here, Child of Man?”

“They didn’t,” a velvety voice said. And coming down the stairs was a woman, who looked like Malleus except older, looking like she was probably in her thirties. “I did, my love.”

She gracefully walked over, and cupped his face, looking over his features. And you could have sworn that you saw her absorb some of the blot. “You have grown into a fine young man. But you have let greed overshadow you.”

Malleus looked like he had seen a ghost, and he was frozen in place. “Mother?” His voice was quiet, barely even coming out. “But how?”

The woman, Malleus’s mother, hummed gently, combing her fingers through her son’s hair, slowly absorbing the blot from him. “You can thank them,” she turned to you and gave you a mischievous smile, “all thanks to your soul match.”

She turned back to her son, her face shifting into a more solemn expression. “My love, let me bestow a gift on you… but you won’t see me again. This is the last thing I can do for you. Let me do this though; for you and everyone you love.”

You can’t force people to be happy. 

Keep everyone you love close to you, guard them, hoard them.

You’re my friend, I’ll always be with you, even if we’re far apart!

You’ll love me at once-

This was wrong, and Malleus choked on his own blot. The greed, the dark parts of the dragon had won. “Please,” he coughed. 

His mother embraced him into a hug, “Spinning wheel of fate, undo this thread of darkness. As Queen of Briar, I shall bestow upon you this gift.” She placed a kiss on his forehead, and all of the blot was gone. “I love you,” she whispered, before her form vanished gently into green and lilac sparkles.

“I’m sorry,” the words floated over to you. Malleus looked tired, exhausted. How much magic had the blot taken from him? He opened his mouth again, but closed it, at a loss for words. “And I understand if… if you want nothing to do with me.”

From your times dealing with overblot, you knew this wasn’t his fault. Overblots are due to trauma, from bottling it all up until someone broke. “Why would I not want anything to do with you? I’m still friends with the others.”

Malleus looked into your eyes, but all he found was honesty… and love, love for a friend. A genuine love. 

You extended your hand, “So come on, Tsunotarou. Let’s move forward together.”

And he took your hand. The path forward was sure to be bumpy, but he knew that you would stick by his side, even after this.

Fin!

Author's Note; And this concludes the Soul Match AU! I know in my poll people voted for a fluffy ending, but uhhh, I was possessed by a vision. I might continue this AU for other characters in the future, but for now this is where I've leave it. Thank you for reading!

Tags; @xxoomiii @eynnwwyjth @twistwonderlanddevotee @savanaclaw1996 @krenenbaker

If you like my work, please check out my masterlist [there are 9 other Soul Match works btw]

[azu1as]

What do you think about tang bo vs tang gunak for cheongmyeong. With either tang bo time travelling/reincarnated to the future or tang gunak time travel to the past?

hello!! i am so so sorry this is super late 🥺 I've been rotating this ask in my head for two months because there's simply so many possibilities with this, I absolutely love love love it!

»—————————–✄

To say that Tang Zhan's twin brother was a bit of a recluse would be an understatement.

Despite being named after one of the most renowned members of the Tang Family, Tang Gunak's son took after the known worst traits of their great ancestor.

Tang Bo was as cold and uncaring as the earlier recounts of his namesake. But unlike their ancestor, his son wasn't interested in improving his martial arts. Rather, he seemed to content himself with staying indoors and building that strange shrine of his that appeared to be dedicated to the Plum Blossom Sword Saint.

Tang Gunak sighs tiredly. He could never get a straight answer from his son whenever he asked about his odd obsession with Mount Hua's hero. Through the years, he's learned to brush it off as another eccentricity of his son.

The one time he ordered Tang Pae and Tang Zhan to remove their brother's shrine, they both ended up needing immediate medical assistance because of how viciously Tang Bo had attacked them for 'desecrating' his altar.

He thinks it's such a shame that Tang Bo refuses to partake in his siblings' training, but despite his adamant refusal, his son's core is still one of the strongest among his siblings.

And one of the purest too, it suddenly comes to Tang Gunak's mind as he watches Chung Myung cheerfully chug down another bottle of alcohol.

It feels almost wrong how easy it was to compare Chung Myung's core with his son's despite them being on vastly different spectrums while having equally well-known namesakes from their respective family and sect.

On one end in the dark, there was Tang Bo who quietly cultivated his core as he whispered quiet mutterings to his altar and refused interactions with people unnecessarily. And on the other was Chung Myung, who was at the forefront of Mount Hua's rise.

It was admirable, truly.

Tang Gunak would say so as much if it weren't for the sudden killing intent he could feel directed at him.

Standing outside right in front of the window with no subtlety whatsoever was his son, Tang Bo. His face was pressed against the window panes and Tang Gunak only realized then how threatening of an aura his son could produce.

Chung Myung wiped the drips of alcohol away from his lips and cast Tang Bo an amused look, "Aren't you going to finally let him in?"

Tang Gunak would have if he didn't know that his son would begin to antagonize him the moment he's let into the room by monopolizing Chung Myung's attention and looking smug about it. It happened during their first meeting in the dining hall so Tang Gunak wouldn't be surprised if it happened all over again.

He would lean overly into Chung Myung's space and call him 'hyung' with an exaggerated tone despite being the older of the two. And much to everyone else's bafflement and discomfort, Chung Myung wordlessly let him.

While Tang Gunak was glad that his son finally deemed it alright to leave the confines of his room, he isn't sure if the change in obsession from the Plum Blossom Sword Saint to Mont Hua's Divine Dragon was a fair exchange.

Tang Gunak watches as Chung Myung makes his way to the window and leans against Tang Bo from the other side.

Tang Bo's face noticeably softens as his gaze shifts toward the younger man and it twists a strange part of Tang Gunak's stomach to watch the same thing happen to Chung Myung's face.

Said man taps against the glass pane, "Stop being so intense. You're freaking your dad out."

His son grumbles while tossing him another stink-eye—Tang Gunak has gotten his fair share of those this past week ever since these two struck up a sudden close friendship. His gaze turns petulant as he returns his attention to Chung Myung.

"What is it about me making friends that you hate so much," Chung Myung rolls his eyes in exasperation.

"My father doesn't want you to be 'just friends'."

Tang Gunak would be more offended by the vitriol in the way Tang Bo called him his father if he weren't distracted by the weird tone his son spoke the last phrase.

Tang Bo takes a look at the mutual confusion on Chung Myung and Tang Gunak's faces and isn't sure if he's thankful or annoyed that he's surrounded by painfully emotionally oblivious people.

Less competition but, at the same time, it's sometimes too embarrassing to watch the way Tang Gunak unconsciously acted around Chung Myung in private.

Tang Bo narrows his eyes. It's been more than a lifetime, surely his feelings will reach Chung Myung faster than his father's does. Right??

[writingsofwesteros]

#taking it all

Dark!Jace would condition his new bride into being his perfect docile wife. He wed her in a traditional Valyrian ceremony knowing just how much his uncle had wished to do so. Aemond was obsessed with emanating his Valyrian ancestors, and now, to have his betrothed taken away by a bastard and wed in that way - it only fueled his anger. During the ceremony, the girl would let a few tears escape, only to have Jace softly wipe them away concerned, as if he was not the cause. They have a small feast afterwards, and by the end of the night, Jace has his new wife sat in his lap. He kept her pliant with mulled wine, and now she drunkenly fingers his curls, her shyness dissipating. At one point she pulls her hand away only for Jace to grab it and return it to his hair.

Jace takes his new wife for a walk to help sober her up. For all his misdeeds against her, he does not wish to take her to bed forcefully - he is still a gentleman. He will ask to kiss her as they watch the tides, for which she only nods shyly. Jace fools himself into thinking she feels affection for him, rather than her succumbing to her circumstances. The pair would return to his chambers hand in hand and he helps her out of her gown, having refused her servants during her period of captivity. Jace wanted to be honourable - he really did - but as soon as he had her nude body in front of him again, but this time with his hands caressing her sides, he was unable to resist. That night, soft whimpers and groans are heard in his chambers and halls as the young heir to the throne pleases his new wife and takes her maidenhead, consummating their marriage no matter the religion. Exhausted, Jace pulls his wife into his chest as he lays on his back on the bed, bringing her arms around his form and hitching her leg onto his hips. He softly strokes her hair as he shares his hopes for their marriage. Jace truly wishes for a happy and fulfilling marriage, no matter the circumstances of how it originated.

Jace would 100% have her in his mothers old gowns until he got new ones made for her, and he would always find a way for her to be wearing items that signified her as belonging to him. The wedding ring of course, but she might wear his cloak pin or hair pins with his personal sigil. She would always be next to him in council meetings, never speaking, but standing in front. Jace would grip her hips as he rubbed circles into her skin to help calm him down, and council members would often catch sight of his chin resting on her shoulder as he watched the proceedings. They knew the lengths he had gone to in order to attain his bride, and it put the council members on edge, for the heir was much more dangerous and cunning than he looked.

Jace being so delicious!! He is moving into the power and arrogant feeling of being heir and now having the wife he desired for so long

They had such a long morning as she slept in his arms . Jace woke early and her soft weigh was welcomed as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Rhaenyra gifted her a selection of her old jewels as well that she now wears. Jace enjoys seeing her in red as his hands stroke up and down her sides..with no care of an audience

[nerdanel01]

Another great day to practice necromancy 💀. How do you do? 💚

So, we know that Emmrich, as an esteemed member of Mortalitasi, is expected to attend the gatherings of the Nevarran nobles from time to time or visit them in their estates. Has Emmrich ever met Lord Halkias then, I mean Agnes's father? Was Agnes present? If not, did he tell her about it afterwards?

Or maybe they've met during or after the events of The Veilguard? How would such a meeting play out, I wonder?

in short: badly! 3.5k+ below the cut

9:51 Dragon

Emmrich had been told the extravagant excess of Tevinter’s Altus class made the indulgence of the Nevarran nobility look quaint by comparison—but truthfully, it tested the bounds of his creativity to imagine exactly how that could be the case. 

At the Dietrich estate, the nobility glittered like a swarm of beetles, jewels dripping from fingers and ears and necks, women swanning in crystal-crusted dresses that gleamed from a distance like the most brilliant carapace. Two quintents had been booked, instead of the customary one, so that the music would continue ceaselessly when the first group of musicians took their rest. The wine flowed freely from two golden fountains at either side of the wide hall—both red and white. Flanking the walls were banquet tables piled high with food that looked almost too good to eat: butter and ice and sugar carved into elaborate shapes (the Necropolis; the Nevarran palace; the face of a revered Dietrich ancestor); pyramids of glacé fruit preserved at the peak of its freshness; flaky finger foods arrayed on plated towers. Indeed, it appeared that hardly anyone had touched it, preferring (if the general atmosphere of the room was any indication) to indulge in libations instead. 

Emmrich himself had avoided the wine. He had never been a wistful drunk, not really… but over the past year or so he had learned that even the slightest taste of alcohol was likely to turn him morose. 

And Johanna had dragged him here to be the opposite. It was a precarious time in Nevarra, with King Markus in such ill health, and still no clear heir to replace him. Already there were political machinations, assassinations and deals being cut to determine whom among the Nevarran nobility would be left sitting on that throne once King Markus passed, and who would wield the most influence over the country’s new regent. Worse, in recent years, the accusations that the Mortalitasi ruling by proxy through the weakened King had reached a fever pitch… not whispered as they used to be, but speculated out loud in the open. For his part, Emmrich could not say whether or not those rumors were true. That was the business of the priest-mages, not the Mourn Watch; and anyway, Emmrich had never been keen on politics. 

But, “You are charming,” Johanna had implored him, though Emmrich thought that was not quite accurate—he had, perhaps, been charming once upon a time, but he felt himself growing more and more into a bitter, withdrawn old man with each passing month. “The nobles adore you,” Johanna had continued—that, maybe, was still true. He had spent much of the past year in seclusion, and had not yet burned the bridges of amicability and influence he had so carefully built during his time as part of the Mourn Watch. Finally, the coup de grace, her plea: “Please do not make me attend Lady Dietrich’s party by myself.”

Emmrich wanted nothing to do with parties—it was difficult to imagine he would ever be light hearted and mirthful enough to enjoy the gaiety of such gatherings ever again—but he did love Johanna with a strong, brotherly affection that was difficult to deny. She had been patient with him, this past year, as he had crumbled into a shadow of his former self. For as long as she could, Johanna had shielded him from the social responsibilities of his role, giving him time to grieve Agnes’ absence and the smothering guilt he carried for having caused it. More than once in the past year, he had behaved in such a way that Johanna could have dismissed him from the Mourn Watch—it would have been entirely right of her to do so—but she had not. She had protected him. And it was so small a thing: one evening, swanning among the nobility, eating fine food and pretending to laugh at bad jokes. It would not be pleasant, certainly, but it would not be terrible. 

Or so Emmrich had thought. 

Lady Dietrich had cornered him; literally, had backed him into the corner of the room and now stood in front of him, gesturing in such a way that it was difficult to get past her. Her efforts to bed him, never particularly subtle to begin with, had become more overt and outlandish in the year since her husband had passed. Regrettably, by now, Emmrich was quite used to her flirtations; he knew how to make her feel heard without really listening, when to nod his head or smile for emphasis, when and how demure in the face of her more lascivious suggestions without offending her. He occupied her thusly now as his eyes scanned the room, wondering how Johanna was fairing.

His eyes locked first, however, on a man he had never seen before. That was odd. Emmrich had been part of Nevarran society by blood before he had ever become Mortalitasi; there was scarcely a family in the noble class with whom he had not been acquainted since childhood. And yet there he was, this old man standing beside the nearest fountain and filling a wide goblet to the brim with more wine, his wrinkled face ruddy with drink, cheeks looking all the more splotched and red in contrast with his white beard. 

Strangest of all was that—although Emmrich was quite sure he had never met the man before—there was something painfully familiar about him. 

“Forgive me, Lady Dietrich,” he interjected, interrupting her as she was telling him (rather too pointedly) that the extravagant decorations she had imported from Minrathous for the party extended even to the estate’s bedrooms, “That gentleman over there, beside the fountain. I do not think I have had the pleasure of meeting him before. Who is he?”

Lady Dietrich blinked in surprise—Emmrich rarely interrupted her, and when he did, it was often with far more grace (or “charm,” he supposed, to use Johanna’s words)—then turned to follow his gaze. When she saw the old man, her lips curled back in distaste. 

“That is Lord Halkias,” she answered disdainfully. “His estate is out west, you know. Far west, in the borderlands. Practically Orlais,” she intimated, her sense of superiority dripping from every word. 

Emmrich had not drank a sip of wine yet that evening; suddenly, he dearly wished he had. Now that he had the man’s name, the resemblance between Halkias and his daughter was undeniable: the arch of his nose, the v-shaped peak of his hairline over his brow. The deep, sensual bow of his upper lip. It was not in fact Lord Halkias who had been painfully familiar to him; it had been the ghost of Agnes, staring out of her father’s face. 

“His wife just passed,” Lady Dietrich continued, rattling off gossip; Emmrich barely heard her. “He accompanied her body to its final resting place in the Necropolis last week. Did you not know?”

He had not. He did not think for a minute that it was a coincidence. Johanna would have done everything in her power, no doubt, to prevent Emmrich from having anything to do with Lady Halkias’ last rites. 

Emmrich tried and failed to keep the bite from his voice when he replied: “He does not appear to be grieving the loss of his wife too terribly.”

Lady Dietrich shot him a glance, surprised at the uncharacteristic venom in his tone. She leaned closer, whispered to him conspiratorially, not bothering to hide her distaste: “He has extended his visit to the city. There is great speculation he has done so in order to hunt for a prospective bride—although he is kidding himself if he thinks to accomplish that aim in this household. None of these self-respecting families would marry a daughter into a family such as his.”

Emmrich was staring. He knew he was staring. He could not pull his eyes away. Could not help but think how much it must have pained Agnes, to grow up and see the resemblance to her father marked so plainly on her face—her father who had abused her mother, her father who had been anything but fatherly to Agnes herself. Who had made every effort, for his own personal gain, to see Agnes forced into a marriage that would ultimately serve him. That Lord Halkias had failed spectacularly in his aim to sell off his daughter like a common whore did not make it any less despicable. 

“Are you alright, dear? You’re looking rather pale.”

Lady Dietrich was looking up at him again, her watery blue eyes filled with uncharacteristic concern. Were Emmrich not so consumed by this feeling building inside of him (unnameable; ichorous; dark) he might have been touched. Instead, he made a hasty retreat. 

“Yes, Lady Dietrich, I'm alright—just feeling a bit peckish—if you’ll excuse me…”

And he slipped past her, making his way towards one of the banquet tables. But he had no interest in eating. His heart was racing, his pulse thundering in his ears. He held his fingertips to his temples, rubbing them gently, trying to slow his breathing. But it was impossible. The food, the drink, the luxury, the excess—and the memory, seared into his skull, of how Agnes’ father had reacted to her desertion. 

…because of course, though Emmrich had told Johanna emphatically and repeatedly that Agnes would prefer to die in the gutters of Nevarra City rather than return to her father’s estate, Johanna had sent guards to check it nevertheless. ‘Due diligence,’ Johanna had called it. 

Lord Halkias had called it a ‘grave insult.’

Among the many gems of hard, crystallized hatred that had made up the missive he sent back with the soldiers, Emmrich would never forget how he had concluded the message:

‘If that ill-conceived, misbegotten issue of mine had dared to come back here, I would have beaten her bloody and senseless for the disgrace she has brought upon our family and my own good name. Whatever was left of her afterwards I would have returned without delay to the Mortalitasi, happy to be rid of her and happy for whatever additional punishment you sought to bring to bear upon her for her betrayal and her cowardice. When you do find her, be harsh with her. Tranquility is too mild a punishment for that thankless slut.’

At the memory alone, Emmrich was clenching his fists so hard his nails threatened to draw blood. 

Food was not going to help him. Drink was likely not going to help him either, but at this point he was going to take his chances. Morose was not good company, but it was still preferable to murderous. Spinning on his heel, he let his feet carry him to the far fountain, opposite the fountain flowing with red wine that Lord Halkias was still lurking beside. Emmrich did not prefer white wine, but he also did not trust himself to secure a cup of red while fully resisting the urge to grab Lord Halkias by his white hair and hold him beneath the fountain’s surface, drowning him in the drink he was so besotted with. 

But as he stood with his back against the wall, taking polite sips from his goblet (resisting the urge to down the glass in one long swallow) Emmrich did not feel his mood mellowing. On the contrary. As usual, the drink summoned visions and phantoms, memories. How Agnes would side-step any questions he used to ask her about her childhood; the cursory answers she would give about her family, her step-siblings. The upheaval that followed her mother’s death; the trauma of learning exactly who and what her father really was; the fear and injustice and lovelessness of being kept under his roof. Her obsession with neatness, with cleanliness, with cleverness; the remnants of the impossible standards she had been held to in Halkias’ household, never good enough, never as good as her legitimately born siblings. The last argument they had before Agnes had left: “you are not my father,” the words spat with more hatred and vitriol than Agnes had ever used with him before. 

‘Indeed, I am nothing like her father,’ Emmrich thought to himself darkly, brooding over the rim of his goblet. ‘Unlike him, I loved her.’

And he should have told her that, then. Should never have tried to keep his love secret from Agnes, who had lived so much of her life starved of the love that her family should have given her, who had spent so many of her years feeling alone and was now alone again, for all Emmrich knew. 

Perhaps if she had a father who loved her, Emmrich would not have felt obligated in some way to step into that role himself. To guide her. To protect her, to watch out for her in a way that no one else ever had. To protect her even from himself, when Emmrich’s desires and feelings for her became anything but fatherly. Perhaps he could have been honest with her, then; perhaps she would not have had to leave. Perhaps she would still pass her days in the Necropolis, safe and loved and cherished by him. Perhaps….

But ‘perhaps’ meant nothing now. Agnes was gone, and more likely than not, Emmrich would never see her again. His fault. More than a year had passed since her departure, but time had not blunted the ache of her absence one bit. 

The ring Agnes had gifted him—the one he could not bear to wear on his fingers, that he could not endure the sight of any more than he could discard it—felt twice as heavy on the chain it hung on around his neck, resting beneath his shirt, close to his heart.

…and here was her father. Drunken, merry, undisturbed in the least by her disappearance. Worse than that, maybe. Gleeful that she was gone at last, that his bastard child, his eldest, his firstborn, had removed themselves from the picture and would never darken his doorway again. 

“You are charming,” Johanna had said, “the nobles adore you.” But over the past year, Emmrich had discovered he was much more than that. Capable of a darkness he had never quite acknowledged before he sank into it. He had been charming, upbeat, optimistic, inquisitive. Now, he knew he was also spiteful, prone to isolating himself from others—and, occasionally—inclined toward acts of great cruelty. 

The wine had loosened him up just enough that he no longer felt any inclination to resist those darker impulses. 

Emmrich tucked his right hand behind the small of his back, near to the wall where no one else could see it. Affecting a calm and collected demeanor, he sipped politely from his goblet as behind him, his fingers curled, wrist revolving, spinning the magic out of the Fade into the waking, shaping it into horrors. It had been so long since he had cast magic without the foci of a staff. The danger and thrill of it was exhilarating. 

No one else witnessed him, nor the curse, as it curled around the party-goers’ feet, slithering like an adder across the room towards Lord Halkias. Into it Emmrich poured all self-hatred, all his rage and his loneliness, all of his regret. Let Lord Halkias take a wife, if he so desired. She would never know a night of peace while she shared a bed with her husband. 

Johanna grabbed him by the shoulder so tightly and abruptly he nearly spilled the rest of his wine over the front of her gown. 

“What,” she hissed, low enough so that she would not be overheard, “do you think you are doing?”

“Nothing!” Emmrich answered, a little too loudly and perhaps too quickly. “I’m not doing anything.”

Emmrich could see her fighting to keep her face pleasant, just in case any of the other guests should look in their direction. But her nostrils were flaring, and the fixed grin on her face looked more like a grimace by the second. As a servant passed by them, Johanna plucked Emmrich’s wine goblet out of his hand and set it down upon the serving tray, the wine sloshing over the rim with the force of the impact. Then, with just as much authority and force, she steered him out of the main banquet hall, guiding him down the hallways of Lady Dietrich’s estate until she was satisfied they had found a corner where they would not be overheard. 

Then she turned on him. And Johanna may have been a full head shorter than Emmrich, and he may have loved her like she was his sister, but she was still utterly terrifying to him when she was furious. 

“I would not call hexing Lord Halkias nothing,” she said, her eyes shining with indignant rage. “Maker’s breath, Emmrich—the rumors about the Mortalitasi are bad enough already. Do you have to make it worse by putting a curse on one of the nobles in public? At a party?”

Emmrich folded his arms defensively over his chest. “It was a very light curse,” he lied through his teeth. This much, at least, was the truth: “He would not have even noticed it—not until he laid himself down to sleep tonight.” With a self-satisfied smirk, Emmrich could not help but add, “Or, well, until he tried to sleep. The night terrors would have kept him from true, restful sleep until the end of his days.”

Perhaps he should not have been so bold in public, that much was true. But Maker preserve him, he had been so close to succeeding, and it had felt so good. 

And he had expected Johanna—all command and spitfire—to argue back at him. Instead she just stared at him, stunned. 

Somehow, that was worse. 

“And do you think that is appropriate behavior from one of the most senior ranking Mortalitasi of the Mourn Watch Guard?”

Probably not. But sometimes, exceptions needed to be made. “I think it is entirely appropriate, given what a brute he is. You are aware, are you not, of how he violates his servants?”

Or at least, that he had violated one. Forced her into submission more than once under the hot countryside sun—

“Emmrich…” Johanna began, entirely too much pity in her voice. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is my fault. I should have known he would be here, after his wife’s final rites earlier this week—”

“—strange,” Emmrich interjected, “since as a senior ranking member of the Mourn Watch, I’d have thought I would have known about any recent interments—”

“Not strange, but calculated,” Johanna countered, the heat returning to her voice. “Brilliant, to keep it from you. Fucking prophetic of me, really, because I just knew you would not be able to act professionally about it, to get through it without pulling some shit like this.” She bared her clenched teeth, sucking an unsteady breath in to try and calm herself. 

“It is my fault,” Johanna repeated, at last. “I should not have asked you to come. So now I will correct my mistake. Emmrich, go home.”

“What?”

The night was yet young. He had not yet had a chance to greet each of the nobles properly, as was custom. If he left now, his absence would be noticed… not least of all by their host, Lady Dietrich herself—

“I said go home, Emmrich!” Johanna was not shouting—she would not raise her voice loud enough to be overheard—but she was close to it. “I’ll make an excuse for you.”

“I don’t need you to—!”

“Agnes is gone.” Johanna articulated each word carefully, brought them down in him like a hammer in an anvil. “You are not defending her from anyone. You are not protecting her from anyone. And as I suspect she is not likely to return, you are unlikely to have the chance to regale or impress her by recounting your clever ‘little’ curse in the future. Your judgment is compromised; I am, quite frankly, embarrassed for you. Go home,” Johanna repeated, turning him around and shoving him in the direction of the estate’s entrance, back towards the street and the city. “I will not repeat myself again. And you will not enjoy the consequences if I am forced to escort you.”

On the carriage ride back to the Necropolis (the city streets at night were too haunted with memory for him to walk) Emmrich found himself replaying the argument with Johanna in his head over and over again, incensed. She was wrong, he was certain of that much, no matter how well she thought she knew him. Emmrich was not a fool. He knew Lord Halkias posed no further danger to Agnes—that cursing him, as Emmrich had intended to do, was not something he had done to defend or impress her.

But that left him with the nagging question of why he had done it. Because he did know better, or should have, had he not still been deep in the throes of his grief. With Agnes gone, his position in the Mourn Watch mattered more to him than ever. The work was the only reliable distraction, the only thing that kept his head above the waters of despair. What had possessed him, to make him risk it with so little thought?

The answer, as it turned out, was worse than anything Johanna had accused him of. It was guilt.

Guilt that he had driven Agnes away. Guilt that he had not seen her love for what it was and returned it with every breath, with every beat of his heart. Guilt that there was no amount of self-hatred or debasement or shame that would bring her back; guilt that he would never get the chance to tell her how sorry he was. Guilt for whatever it was she now suffered in the world, shut out from the shelter of the Mourn Watch that had been all she had known for over twenty years.

He could not punish himself enough for having caused her departure. And so he had tried to turn at least some of that pain and punishment upon her father.

…but what was the greater sin? To have never loved her, as a father ought to love a daughter? Or, as Emmrich had, to have loved her deeply—to have blindly spurned her love—and sent her to wander the wide and dangerous world, feeling rejected and unloved and alone?

Johanna was right, of course. No curse would ever fix that mistake.

Nothing would.

[the-halloween-jack]

ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ － ｆｉｖｅ

PART FIVE OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader  The Vampire Diaries x SupernaturalMini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of violence. Words: 3,127k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part > A/N: I am so sorry this part took so long to come out.

Dusk set over Mystic Falls as Damon and Y/N made their way to the founder’s ball, the street lamps they passed under casting a golden hue against them. Y/N could feel her heart beating in her throat. Three times she had attempted to take a peek at Damon on the sly and three times he had already been looking her way. She did not know what scared her more; his lack of attention for the road ahead, or the fact he was seemingly staring at her. Y/N’s heart leapt as she discerned Damon’s hand lying open-palmed beside the handbrake, she knew he meant for her to grab it, but she could not force her suspicions out of her head. The calmness his presence brought her could only be short-lived. What if her unwilling intuition was right? What if he was a vampire? Once again, she thought back to the archives in the civil hall, one of the documents, dated 1864, had displayed both his and his brother's names.

Y/N swiftly quelled this concept, she was being ridiculous. Damon was a Salvatore, one of Mystic Fall's most cherished founding families, she had spied him with Liz Forbes working to eradicate vampires; she had known all this since the day she met him. 

But she also recalled her original assumption, from their first meeting at the grill; she had thought he was one of them. But no, he could not be.

For a town so engrossed with tradition and heritage, would it be so outrageous to assume he and his brother were named for their late ancestors? And besides, a hunter could not love a vampire; it would go against her very nature. Her very reason for existing.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat after this internal admission; love. She loved him. Warmth unfurled in her body like the first summer day after a most grim winter. She was in love with Damon Salvatore; everything about him. 

She loves his stupid jokes, his dark hair and crystal blue eyes, and the way he looks at her with them. She loves the things he says, and everything he does and every time they part she loves knowing she will see him again.

She took a quiet breath and placed her hand in his, fingers entwining. When she peeked at him once more his lips were turned into a smile that creased his eyes, and she realised abruptly that she also loved his smile; more than she had ever loved anything. No, she did not believe he was a vampire.

Y/N let her love for Damon settle into every alcove of her being, she felt it from her fingers to her toes. But most of all she felt this love proliferate in her heart. It was something she had been so sure she understood. She loved her brothers, and although it had always been harder to admit, she also loved her father. But this was different, it was all-consuming, so insufferably intense, yet despite all this; calming. She had never felt she belonged anywhere, never found her place in this world. And somehow, in this uncanny town that she had only planned to inhabit briefly, she had found a home in the comfort of Damon's presence. 

She could not believe, after everything she had been through and everything she had witnessed, through all her short-lived stays in unfortunate towns, that she would fall for someone so easily. For the longest time, she had held herself aloof from relationships; as though she was above them. Y/N understood that any bonds she formed would never amount to anything more than ephemeral, fleeting. But Y/N had also known falling in love with Damon would be as easy as the phrase proposed; as effortless as falling; and fallen she had. Her love for him was now as certain as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, and she did not want to believe it.

‘You know, I thought you’d never take the hint’ He said, smirking now, and brought her hand first to his lips and then to rest upon his knee. She felt a blush flood her cheeks and she was sure they glew vermillion. His affections had never been this blatant before.

‘I love how easy that is.’ He continued when she did not speak and with her most recent revelation fogging her thoughts, she realised suddenly that she had no notion of what he had meant.

‘How easy what is?’ Her breath came in quickly as she tried to function normally. To behave as though she had not just become aware of the certitude with which she loved the person sitting beside her. Though when his smile faltered, she knew she had failed, and she wanted nothing more than to see him smile again.

‘It’s easy to make you blush, it’s become a pastime of mine… something I’m very good at.’ He said this earnestly, though there was an air of jest to his comment. Her cheeks felt hot again, this time in embarrassment; after all, she did blush a lot. 

He removed his hand from hers leaving it feeling cold and vacant, and lifted it to her face, reposing the back of his fingers against her cheek. He stared ahead at the road, with one hand on the wheel and an expression seemingly far away, and just as she dared thought he would mutter something profound, he opened his mouth to whisper,

‘Exhibit A, you’re blushing again. I get it though… I’m charming.’  He turned to her again, his smirk returning, and this time Y/N smiled with him. He always had something stupid to say.

The rest of the drive to the venue had been silent, though Y/N's thoughts had never been more deafening. She loved him. She loved Damon. She ran away from home and fell in love with the first man she saw. Y/N suddenly felt sick. If Dean were here right now she knew she would never live this down, she supposed that would mean her brothers could never find out. They pulled into a car park.

‘Y/N, are you alright, you’ve been acting strange.’ Her performance had not been as foolproof as she had thought.

‘Yes, I’m fine, it’s just… I’ve never been to anything like this before.’ She was surprised with how natural the lie came across, she could tell Damon believed her. He rolled his eyes and grabbed her hand again.

‘You don’t have to worry, I won’t let you embarrass yourself.’  He lifted her hand to his lips and gave a sweet kiss, never breaking eye contact. Heat flooded into her cheeks for the umpteenth time that day and she wondered if she had gotten it all wrong, maybe this supposed love was nothing more than a school-girl crush; she was certainly acting like a school-girl. 

Damon let go, got out of the car, and began making his way to the passenger side. Y/N knew what he was doing and quickly rushed to get out of the car herself, despite everything that had happened and everything she realised about him, she was not going to let him dote on her; she was too proud. 

‘Won’t you let me be a gentleman for once?’ He groused in fake chagrin.

‘But Damon, that would be unlike you…’ She smiled easily like everything was right in the world.

‘Why must you always offend me?’ He admonished, as he linked his arms with hers. Y/N’s attention quickly shifted to the sound of music and chatter coming from the ornate Lockwood mansion. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes, only now becoming aware she had not lied before, Y/N was nervous; socialising had never come easy for her. 

‘Don’t worry Y/N, you’re fine.’ Damon used his free hand to lift her chin, and he smiled at her encouragingly,

‘If we stand around any longer, we’re going to be late.’

The ball was already in full swing as the unlikely couple, arms linked, made their way through the grand doors. Y/N gaped in awe at the opulent chandeliers and sweeping floral arrangements adorning the sumptuous room; she had never beheld anything like it. For a moment she allowed herself to ponder all the period dramas she had watched in dingy motel rooms depicting such scenes, standing in this grandiose setting made those childhood evenings seem a lifetime ago. 

The dulcet tone of one of Chopin’s many waltzes flowed from a piano standing in the corner of the makeshift ballroom and Y/N observed as gowns twirled in a beguiling amalgamation of colour, she shuddered at the thought of joining them; she would not be caught dead dancing. 

‘May I…’ Damon unlinked their arms to instead hold his hand up in an offer, he wanted to dance,

‘No… Absolutely not…’ Y/N gasped, ‘I need to have at least 20 more drinks in my system before I do something like that.’ 

‘Come on Y/N, you’re at a ball, live a little.’ Damon’s mouth turned into a lopsided grin, she assumed he was happy to discover something that unsettled her, her responding look was scathing.

‘I wasn’t kidding about the drinks.’ 

The Winchester grabbed his still outstretched hand and guided him to the bar she had spied opposite the dancefloor. Already placed upon an embellished silver platter sat countless glasses of champagne, she grabbed two, and turned toward her dark-haired date.

‘Champagne is crucial for a great evening’ She said mirthfully, handing him a glass, 

‘I suppose we better have some then’ Damon's voice turned grave, his change of tone startling her. She gazed up at him in shock, Damon looked over her shoulder, eyebrows furrowed; she followed his line of sight. A man had just walked into the building, he had dirty blond hair that sat in curls upon his forehead. She was bemused to realise she had never seen him before; was he new in town? 

Damon grabbed both their glasses, eyes lingering on the man and placed them back on the platter.

‘We’ll have some later… May I?’ Finally breaking his gaze, he held his hand out for her to grab, his tenseness unsettled her, she could tell he was making an effort to remain calm. She took his hand and together they walked past the make-shift ballroom and towards a hallway, Damon leading her away by the small of her back, but when the enigmatic man from moments earlier turned the corner behind them, his grasp shifted further around her waist,

‘Klaus… What a nice surprise.’ Y/N noticed the way Damon’s tone turned ever so slightly at the word ‘nice’, as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. She wondered who this man was, and why his presence had Damon tightening his grip on her waist, pulling her closer. She watched in trepidation as his stance became more guarding, shifting forward marginally so that he was now standing between them. Her stomach dropped, Damon was scared of this man, and that scared her.

‘My date… was just leaving, going to get us drinks.’ He lied easily, gesturing to the bar the way they had come, now letting go of her completely to instead stand between them.

‘Damon… I…’ Y/N started, 

‘I would like a bourbon, neat.’ He turned to face her fully, eyes pleading, she had never seen him this timid.

‘She can get drinks in a minute, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my name is Klaus Mikealson.’ 

Klaus held out his hand for her to take, and if Damon had not been acting so strange she would not have thought twice about taking it. He was perfectly charming. However, he also gave the impression that this introduction was not merely optional, so with a deep breath and one last look into Damon’s beseeching gaze, she connected her hand with his.

‘Y/N Walker.’ She said simply, not wanting to grant Klaus any more than this.

‘You look lovely this evening, Y/N.’ 

She felt his eyes look her up and down, measuring her and when his gaze promptly halted on her upper left arm dread washed over her being like a torrent. He lifted his hand once more, moving the fabric of her sleeve upward. The body tape she had carefully placed had seemingly come undone.

‘An interesting tattoo…’ He spoke his words inquisitively, though a divergence in his tone told the young Winchester that he knew exactly what it was. Klaus’s grip shifted to above her elbow as he turned to Damon, 

‘A hunter… you brought a hunter into our midst.’ Damon took a step back from him, a feeble attempt at getting closer to the girl, but it was redundant. After months of no detection, Y/N could hardly believe her cover could be thrown so easily, by something so negligible. Klaus quickly pulled Y/N towards him and placed his hand under her chin as if in a caress, but the seething look in his eyes told her it was anything but.

‘This isn’t personal, love, consider it housekeeping. I prefer to keep my town hunter-free.’ 

His other hand cut into her chest, like a hot knife through butter, a feat she did not believe possible. She looked down at her body, her stunning crimson gown growing a darker red beneath his hand and acknowledged what she had known from the moment he had seen her tattoo, Klaus was a vampire, and she was going to die. He had chastised Damon for bringing a hunter with him, and she could think of only one reason why. All along, her intuition had been right and she had deluded herself into thinking otherwise; all because she loved him. As she looked into the harrowed expression contorting his features, she considered for a moment that maybe he had loved her back; but none of it mattered now.

The taste of blood on her tongue was accompanied by the appearance of a searing white-hot pain now strewing through her chest. It was agony like she had never known. Pain she would not wish on her worst enemy. 

Y/N knew she could not survive this. Dark spots replaced all colour as her vision began to recede, and her knees collapsed beneath her. Before the world could fade completely the pressure of Klaus's hand disappeared, followed by a crash opposite them; she imagined Damon must have torn him from her, as she was now being held up by his shaking arms. She opened her eyes long enough to spy all her closest friends making their way towards them, the commotion must have caught their attention.

Their faces were grim but unsurprised, and she wondered dejectedly how many of them were in on this secret. How could she be so out of touch? To not suspect her own friends? They made their way straight to Klaus, to restrain him, she presumed.

The world blurred fast around her and for a fleeting moment, she let herself believe that this was the end. But with the feeling of a cool breeze shifting her hair, she realised she was being moved. Towering trees enwreathed her peripheral and her rapid breath turned to white vapour in the air. Damon, hands quivering, placed Y/N delicately on the damp forest floor as though she would break at the slightest touch.

‘No… Y/N…’ Damon winced, it was the most dreadful sound she had heard. He was hurting. She forced her eyes open to look at him and immediately wished she had not. 

Black veins appeared beneath the eyes she had come to adore, but they were no longer the pale blue shade she loved, the whites had turned red and inhumane. He lifted his wrist to his mouth which, to the young hunter's horror, had formed fangs and made a small gash. Y/N pressed her eyes shut again; she did not want to believe it. She felt Damon clutch onto her jaw, and despite forcing it open, his touch was benign, as though he worried she would disappear under his grasp. 

She tried to close her mouth, she understood what he was doing, but her attempt was futile; he was too strong.

‘Please Y/N… You need to drink this… Please. ’ He shook her shoulders in desperation and she felt her whole body moving with his disruption, the pain in her chest intensifying. She told herself the pain was a good thing, it meant she was alive. He forced her jaw wider trying to force down his blood; she was not cooperating. Sobs quaked in his chest as he persisted in his pleading,

‘Please Y/N, I’m trying to help… Please.’ His weeps were gut-wrenching, and despite everything she had learned, what she now knew about him, she still did not want to hear him hurt like this. She stopped struggling and let the awful, hot, liquid pass her lips. 

Her affliction receded and the relief was beyond anything she had ever experienced. The heavy state of stupor Y/N had just been under seemed to subside immediately. She lifted her hand to examine her chest and its stark bareness unsettled her; as though everything that had happened since she met Klaus had been nothing but a horrendous nightmare. But then she discerned that blood had defiled her stunning gown, beneath where his hand had been. Klaus had tried to take her heart, but no such wound was in sight; she felt sick.

Damon had healed her; he was a vampire.

‘Damon… you…’ She started but Damon grabbed her head and pulled her in for a desperate kiss, his tears mixing with the blood on her cheeks. All at once, the world fell away and the sole thing she cared about was the blue-eyed man before her. But all too soon, with a relieved exhale, he broke their kiss and placed his forehead against hers holding either side of her face tenderly.

‘You’re okay… you’re okay…’ The words were directed at Y/N but it sounded like he was reassuring himself, like he was trying to convince himself she was truly there.

‘I thought you were… I thought…’  He mumbled, she cut him off,

‘I’m fine Damon, I’m okay… I promise.’ She whispered.

It was at this moment that the full events of the day struck her. She recalled all her late father’s lessons, everything she had learnt from him to make her the hunter she is today. And despite all these lessons, and all his warnings, she loves Damon; she loves a vampire.

TAG LIST:

@venomsvl

@serenity-fujakante

@tonystarkwifey

@lively-potter

[linnoya-writes]

Zutara Childhood-Friends-to-Lovers Alter-Egos Forbidden-Romance AU (part I)

Their first kiss comes at the absolute worst time, with Katara and Zuko exchanging fruit under his late mother’s favorite tree in the palace gardens.  It comes with a disagreement between Fire Lord Iroh and Chieftain Hakoda of the WaterTribes.

A Southern tribesman and two of the palace guards are the ones who walk in on the teenagers’ awkward little kiss. 

The Southern tribesman coughs for attention; Zuko flinches and Katara jerks her head away.  Her cheeks are so flushed, Katara barely recognizes her father’s guard. Whatever he’s there for, it’s not good. 

“Lady Katara, I’ve been ordered to escort you back to the ship. We leave port tonight.”

Immediately, her world caves in. “W—What?”

“What’s going on?” Zuko can’t help but interject in that voice that is both regal and concerned.  As they stand up, Katara feels her frame staying close to his.

“I’m afraid I cannot disclose anything else, your highness,” the kinsman bows his head to Zuko respectfully, and the palace guards approach almost instinctively. “My orders are only to take our princess home.” 

The way he’s suddenly referring to her so possessively, and distantly, it makes her brows furrow.

“Kievel—“ it takes her a century to remember this man’s name, “There has to be some mistake.  Sokka and I still have a few more weeks here!”

“Let me talk to my uncle," Zuko rasps to her, "they should still be at the council meeting.” 

“Your highness, council has already adjourned," Kievel chimes in. "His lordship expects you and her highness Azula to meet him at the royal hall before any more news goes public.” 

Katara can see Zuko’s eyes widening into a confused, unexpected gold. This is bad, she thought, and yet her fingers instinctively searching for Zuko’s knuckles.

Staring at the guards, Katara and Zuko find their fingers entwining in the obscure folds of their robes. She can feel Zuko’s hand still holding some kind of fruit, the little shivers in his finger debating whether to let it drop to the ground, if it meant he could hold her hand just for that little moment. 

“Princess…” Kievel brought them back to the present. “…it’s time to go.”

They glance at each other, looking like they’d lived a glacial sixteen and fourteen years for a moment like this to happen… and yet here it was… so easily being taken away.  It wasn’t fair. 

The glistening of his eyes said exactly that, but the flaming gold said something else: I don't regret it. 

And Katara met him with her glimmering blue eyes.

Me neither.

As she stepped forward and their secret hands parted, Zuko instinctively let her grab hold of the fruit he’d kept curled in his hand. The last thing Katara saw was his serious face, sandwiched between his two guards.  He seemed so stern, regal and untouchable, but his eyes spoke of hope. 

Katara could only imagine that she would see him again, that whatever this premature separation was about would someday eventually fade.  She waited until making it to the dock to finally pull out the fruit from her robes.  It was a plum-- ripe and ready for eating-- the size of tiny goose-otter egg.

She smiled, keeping it in her robe pockets as a parting gift to take for her long journey back home… feeling like a part of her had still remained under the shade of that tree with her best friend.  It wasn’t until she saw Sokka at the dock that she learned the gravity of this separation; their countries were in a feud regarding the discovery of a remote island off the Fire Nation's archipelago, the Water Tribe proclaiming it an ancient burial site of their ancestors and arguing how this island should be deemed theirs. This feud has halted their their trade agreement, and they are willing to readdress it after a ten-year separation.

“TEN YEARS!?”

She as princess of the WaterTribe was forbidden to touch ground in the Fire Nation for ten years, and the idea of not seeing Zuko for that length of time…

“No— that can’t happen.” 

“Katara, it’s done.  It’s the law.” 

“Well, the law stinks!” 

Before she can even think of making her way back to the palace gate, the Watertribe guards hold her back with a Water-bending wall.  And in the distance, she could see a faint figure trying to wrestle his way past his own guards at the beacon point.

The way he'd been so athletic and agile as The Blue Spirit back when they were kids, Katara didn't have to guess who it was. 

His voice bellowed. “I said,' Let me through!'  You can’t do this— I- I HAVE to talk to her!” 

“Zuko!?”

She didn’t care if she referred to him so informally, or that her voice echoed through the entire capital, or that Sokka was grabbing her wrist and edging her back towards their ship. 

She could see his face softening as he saw her.

“Katara— I— I’m so sorry.” 

“No— it’s not your fault. This isn’t over, okay? I love you.” 

There was an abysmal wave gasps at the dock, and Katara didn’t care- she was only speaking to one person, anyway. Zuko was also taken aback, amazed as much as the others surrounding them by the sheer boldness his best friend had chosen to demonstrate.

His heart pounded in his chest, feeling that same boldness take root inside of him more and more.

Zuko breathed, and spoke out, “I love you too.”

And with those words, Katara could almost feel his warmth next to her, hands grazing… lips touching…

No, it wasn’t over. 

“I’ll see you,” he shouted, his hands gripping the rails of the beacon. 

“See you," came her reply. 

It’s what they’d always said to each other as young playmates in the palace, always on the day that Katara would have to to leave Zuko's side at the end of summer… but it felt different this time, because the tides had turned so monumentally. 

They could feel themselves becoming something else. 

When she finally boarded the ship, Katara could hear Sokka muttering that she was an idiot to say something like that out loud. 

Katara wasn’t listening. Instead, she was looking down at her hand, at her little plum. And as the ship set sail, she started to take little bites of the fruit... savoring the sweetness of it… thinking about the seed, and wondering if it was possible to raise a plum tree in the arctic tundras of the south. 

[curioushappenstance]

fic title: do you like my dress? it's got pockets [chapter 1]

[next chapter]

[ao3 link]

Summary: 9:19 Dragon – Varric Tethras loses his virginity to a pretty dwarf girl at the bar. 9:41 Dragon - The consequence walks through the gates of Skyhold. - In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all. - aka, the fic where varric has a daughter that he didn't know about until five minutes ago.

My father was not what I expected him to be.

What had I expected? I knew his name first from the books in the local library, then later from whispers in back alleys or drunken merchants.

So––a sleazy businessman? A corrupt merchant prince who’d sold his soul for sovereigns? He was a dwarf. He was a womaniser. He wrote books, and I wasn’t allowed to read them, but I would stare at his author’s portrait with an intense vigour in the middle of the night when mother was asleep.

Seeing my face in that man––the hooked nose that was flat against my face, the underbite that made my teeth ache, the red hair that mother made me cover––him, all him. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like looking like the man that mother sneered at when she heard his name, a name I was forbidden from uttering aloud.

Varric Tethras. A merchant prince, a famous author, a rogue with a crossbow that could take down the carta.

My father.

Skyhold was much too grand for a man like that. I sneered passing through the gates, accidentally offending the human woman who took our names. Was I staying long, she asked? I told her I was here to deliver a message, nothing more, and it was the truth, but really, I didn’t know how long I would be staying. There was nothing for me in Kirkwall. Mother was dead, and the dwarves who killed her were after me, too. If Tethras was safe here, why couldn’t I be?

Something kept him here. It wasn’t the goodness of his heart. Security, coin, business, an opportunity to cosy up to important people like the Inquisitor or the Lady Ambassador.

But that vision––that imagined man, sneering in the back of my mind, shaking a bag of coin in his palm––wasn’t what I saw when I climbed the stairs to the main hall.

He was older. Wrinkly around the eyes, rosacea flaring on his cheeks. Pay an artist enough and you could have them paint you however you liked, such as surrounded by scantily clad dwarven women, but this was… I didn’t know.

He hunched over a desk next to a roaring fireplace, scribbling fiercely on hastily torn parchment; his hands were stained in ink, and there was dirt under his nails, on his clothes, and in his hair. A muddy coat, which probably used to be hanging over the back of the chair, was splayed out on the stone tile.

He didn’t notice my shadowing presence. I was inclined to keep watching, in silence, until the sun set and he retired to bed.

What was that? Fear? My heart clenched at the sight of him, and I didn’t know why. What was so fearful about passing on a letter? I was a messenger, and he didn’t raise me; there was no reason for my throat to tighten, but it did.

I cleared my throat.

He looked up.

My hands shook as I held mother’s letter, but I held it nonetheless.

“Varric Tethras?” I asked, finding my voice weak.

“Yeah?”

If my voice was raspy, his was worse. It broke, and he winced, and licked his dry, cracked lips.

“I’m to deliver this message to you.” No. Too formal. Too distant. He was my father, whatever that meant, and he––he––

He had bloodshot eyes.

Ancestors, I had the worst timing.

I tried again.

“My mother,” I said, deciding that if I was going to do this, I would do it properly, “wrote you a letter before she died.”

It was actually many years ago. The parchment was old and torn by now, wrinkled then flattened again, stained with coffee and dried tears. Mother held onto it, and now here I was, her messenger after death. Her will forbade me from reading it. It felt wrong to give it to a stranger.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” He took it, and put it on his desk, unopened. “Thanks.”

I stifled a sudden flash of anger. “I think you should read it. Messere.”

The honorific was an afterthought. Perhaps it would endear him to me, I thought, if I pretended to respect him… but he flinched instead.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s very important,” I said, feeling quite sorry after all. He looked down at what he was writing, then at the unbroken wax seal of mother’s letter, and picked it up with a sigh.

The crack of the wax snapping in two was like the dam that floods the river.

It didn’t belong to him––it belonged to mother! I should’ve buried it with her, the secret dying when she did, and with her gone, I’d pretend to live a normal, happy dwarf life with a caste boy husband and a dozen dwarf children.

How many bastards did Tethras have running around Kirkwall? How many were unwanted daughters? My mother could not have been the only whore he fucked. She was not special, I was not unqiue, and she made sure I knew it in my heart, body, and soul.

And yet; a letter.

A letter that he could read, but I could not.

How was that fair?

The wax seal broke. He thumbed open the letter. My head was heavy and my arms weak, or I’d have snatched it from him, because if there was anyone in this world who deserved my mother, it would not be him––

“Varric…”

Both of our heads snapped up. A human woman in Inquisition armour hovered over the desk, her expression taut and her hands linked together.

I watched many emotions sequentially pass through Tethras’s eyes, until a mask fell over them, and he grinned. “Seeker?”

Seeker. Seeker?

He dropped the letter, folding it again and using it as a cover what what he’d been writing. That was all it was to him.

“Varric,” she said again. She was blushing, but not in the romance way; I knew delicate, flushed glances, and this was something else. She shifted her feet. “I have come to… express my condolences.”

Tethras’s grin turned into more of a grimace. “Ah. Well. That’s…”

“And to apologise, for how I have treated you.”

“Uh.” He gave a stinted thumbs up. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I should not have blamed you. You have been a good friend, Varric, and…” She paused. I didn’t realise why until I caught her eye––staring me down, like the templars in the streets at night. “You have company. I will come back later.”

He looked at me, surprised––had he already forgotten I was here?

Of course he had.

What a fool I was.

A Maker-damned fool, clinging to the end of a rope that severed when mother’s blood ran rivers through the grout between the stones. She was gone, and this man, just as much a stranger to me as he was to any bastard child, was not my family, and could never become one.

Knowing this, accepting it, feeling it in my heart and allowing it to sink into my bones, did not stop the bitter tears when I lifted my hood and turned away.

-

What had I expected?

He didn’t know me. What I knew of him was imagined from long nights of rumination, roaming the back alleys in the aftermath of one of mother’s rages.

I met the Champion that way, once. He was not the Champion then, only Hawke, if you knew his name at all. I didn’t, as a child of yet twelve, but I remembered his face, the glint in his eye and the kind smile as he draped a blanket over my shoulders and ushered me into the warmth of the tavern.

I remembered red hair like mine, catching the light of the candles, and being struck with a fear so deep that I fled back into the streets, the blanket cocooning me from the wind.

This was not unlike that night. Though the magicks of its walls kept the snow at bay, Skyhold was imbued in a bitter cold, a chill that ran deep. And here I was again, fleeing from the warmth and the light, back into the fog to freeze, fearing what might await me when I stopped to breathe.

I still had that blanket.

It had smelled of alcohol, and smoke, and sex, but a child knew nothing of these things, and it was softer than mother’s hand.

Most things were softer than mother’s hand.

Skyhold’s tavern bustled, and that was where my stout legs carried me, with my mind wandering. I stared at the plaque on the door as it came into focus, feeling again like that child of twelve, gazing at The Hanged Man and wondering what it meant.

“Hey, Varric!”

My breath snagged against my ribs. The woman laughed when I turned my head.

“You’re not Varric. Sorry!”

Another dwarf. Red-haired, like me, but a darker shade. She had a kind smile, a pretty voice, and freckles like constellations amidst the stars. Did she know him? Were they friends? Were they…

“Hey, you okay?”

I had been staring, and though her smile still lingered, she stepped close with concern. Her eyes crinkled in the corners, and I didn’t realise how near she was until her hand grazed my elbow and her breath tickled my jaw.

“You’re freezing! Here,” she guided me to the door, shoving it open with her boot, “let’s get you warm. Not really dressed for the mountains, are you?”

“I couldn’t afford much better,” I admitted quietly. It was a half-truth. Kirkwall’s weather was mild, if you excused hurricane season, and merchants didn’t sell clothes built for the snow. I had spent most of the journey on the back of a cart, huddled between a dozen elven refugees who took it upon themselves to keep the ‘shivering dwarf girl’ warm.

It was more than humans had ever done for me. It was no surprise, then, that a dwarf such as her, saw a dwarf such as me, and thought; I want to protect her.

“I’m alright.” I stopped walking. The bar was warm, rowdy, smoky with the stench of alcohol, and at any moment I felt like Tethras might burst through the door still ajar behind me. “I lost my way. Do you know who I talk to about boarding?”

“You weren’t assigned quarters?”

I knew should’ve stuck around at the gate.

“Harding!”

A booming voice echoed above the noise and the music. I couldn’t imagine the type of man who could make that noise––until I looked up, and my legs went numb.

Horns like a dragon’s, peering over the crowds and the tables; attached to them, a grinning grey head, teeth glinting. In Kirkwall, the roar of the oxmen, mother’s hand clutched over my mouth, the closet’s spider crawling up my leg.

“Save my seat!” Harding called, so close yet far and muffled, and guided me to a far table closest to the bar, where the crowd was thin. Her warm smile as she tapped the bar shielded the qunari from my sight.

A Tal-Vashoth. Nothing more.

Nothing more.

“Cabot,” she signalled the bartender, who barely looked at me, but when he did, it was with a passing concern, “something warm?”

I failed to stifle my temor. “Is there something special about me in particular, or do you buy drinks for every passing dwarf girl?”

She smiled. “Just the half-dead ones. No offense, you know, if that’s what you’re going for.”

“Not typically.” But I wasn’t surprised. “I’m fine, I was just… delivering a message.”

“Oh yeah? Long-lost lover?”

“No! No.”

I knew flirting when I saw it, and Harding––flushed in the cheeks and smelling faintly of alcohol––was batting her eyelashes. It was not the first time a stranger had dragged me from one end of a bar to another in search of a tryst or a public rut, it’s just––usually they were men. And human. And old.

Harding was none of these, and she wasn’t grinding against me yet, either. I took small victories where I could find them.

Cabot thunked down an appropriately-sized dwarven mug that sloshed with the force of it. It was steaming and smelled like chocolate.

It was rude to reject gifts. I used it to warm my hands.

“Your accent’s familiar,” Harding said. “Reminds me of–hmmm. Free Marches?”

“Kirkwall,” I affirmed.

“How funny!”

“Is it?”

“Mm, you remind me of a friend, that’s all.”

My throat tightened again. I sipped the hot drink to burn the knot away. “The one who you mistook me for?”

“Mmm-hm. Sorry.” She looked sheepish. “Just from the side, you know––”

I did know. There was a bitter reminder of it hidden in the bottom of my pack, sketch after sketch that I would compare to myself in the mirror. I could never get my face right, but I always knew his.

“Who is he?” I asked, against my better judgement. Harding leaned forward, and I regretted it immediately, but it was too late to take it back just as it was always too late for anything else.

But she laughed. “Varric? He writes books––I didn’t have much time for reading, as a farm girl in Ferelden, but––when we first met, he said… what was it?” She paused, then with a deep breath and her best gruff, grumbly voice, “ ‘You ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?’   I said; no, why? And he said, ‘Because you’d be Harding in Hightown!’ I didn’t get it, though.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“The Seeker thought so too.” Harding shrugged. “We struck a good rapport though. You look a lot like him!”

I sipped my drink. “How funny.”

“It is.”

And to her it was. To me––a roiling, boiling sensation in the pit of my stomach. The burn of my drink, the pain as it grazed my already scarred throat, not even that could distract me from it.

I felt sick.

“So––” She leaned back again, elbow against the bar, lightly tipsy. “You boated all the way from Kirkwall just for a message?”

“I suppose I did.”

“And you’re gonna go back to Kirkwall?”

I hesitated. “I suppose I will.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” After that––I didn’t know. It wouldn’t be safe there, but I didn’t want to stay here either. Either way, I wouldn’t miss mother’s funeral; I needed to be there when she was returned to the Stone.

Harding nodded, kohl smudged just below her eye where she’d rubbed at it. “I’ve never been to Kirkwall. I’ve heard it’s… well, in the words of Dorian Pavus, ‘a bit of a shithole’.”

I chuckled. “The understatement of the century. I grew up in Lowtown, which was…” No. Wait, what was I doing? About to spill my guts to this stranger, by virtue of our shared race? She was pretty, but nothing suggested trustworthy, and I knew enough about my kind to know you couldn’t trust a dwarf as far as you could throw one, which was not as far as most humans tend to think.

Harding looked lithe, though. I could probably pick her up.

I shook my head. “You know. Muddy.”

“Just like Ferelden, then,” she smiled. Then, before she could open her mouth again––

“Harding!” That booming voice. A deep growl that vibrated inside my skull, like a bug crawling into my ear. If I didn’t look, if I didn’t see, I could pretend it wasn’t–– “You joining us, or what?!”

“Just a minute!” She faced my again, sheepishly flustered. “I should go, or he’ll have me by the ear. Unless you wanna––”

One of the human men from the qunari’s table landed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The qunari’s horns shadowed him from far behind.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked. Harding grinned up at him. “She joining us?”

“No,” I said, too quickly.

“Shame. Lace and Rocky could use the competition.”

“Is Rocky…” I squinted, “a dwarf?” What kind of backwards, offensive to the point of non-offensive, ridiculous sort of nickname was that? The human chuckled.

“It’s not what you think. We all get nicknames. Part of the job. Lace, come on, Chief’s cracking open a new cask!”

“Didn’t you already burn through the last one?” She paused. “Literally?”

“Sacrifices had to be made.”

I stared incredulously between them. “You set your alcohol on fire?”

“Not me. Dalish did. With her––khm––bow.”

“...And I suppose Dalish is Dalish?”

“Well, yeah, she’s got the––tattoos, right?”

“That’s not a very creative nickname.” I was understanding ‘Rocky’ more now.

“Yeah, well, makes it easier for the Chief. Not like Varric’s. Half of his doesn’t even make sense.”

I couldn’t escape him. Varric this, Varric that. I turned away, suddenly bitter. The human dragged Harding away, and under his breath murmured to her, who’s she?

Damn, I forgot to ask, she said.

Most people did.

“Harding! Harding, hey have you seen––”

In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all.

“––red corset? Yeah, I was just––”

I downed the last of my drink.

“––thanks, I’ll catch up with––”

Some dreams were unattainable. I would never be the champion of anything; that was fine. But to beg and plead, my knees in the mud, for someone to want me for some reason other than pity…

“Isana?”

Why was that too much to ask?

A finger grazed my shoulder. I yelped like I was burned, and with my empty mug, snapped around and smashed it over their head.

One arm flung out to the bar, the other flew to catch a chair––I didn’t realise who it was until him, the chair, and several peoples’ drinks were askew on the tile floor, and a steady stream of blood began to soak his red hair.

I slammed my hands over my mouth.

No, no! I hadn’t meant to! Alive?! Yes, he was groaning and grasping at his skull, his gloves coming away red, the stone below him slowly stained––dying?! No, but breathing too fast, yes, and surrounding patrons rushed to him, closed in, panicked shouts that turned into whispers, whatever I’d done, it was bad.

Ancestors, I had truly done it now. Even if I hadn’t killed him––Maker fucking forbid––I had still lost him forever.

“Argh!” The qunari, high above the crowd, cut through it like butter, lumbering like one of the horned beasts I’d seen when coming up the mountainside, “Give the guy some air or you’ll trample him, fucks sake!”

I reached him when Harding did, and she helped him stand. With glazed eyes, blood caking his hair and streaming down the side of his face, Varric––he grinned at me.

“You… you hit hard, kid!”

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Wips on Wedsdays

He kiddos, it's actually my Wednesday so imma post a few wips. tagging @thequeenofthewinter @archangelsunited @kookaburra1701 @rhiannon1199 @viss-and-pinegar @saltymaplesyrup @rainpebble3 @throughtrialbyfire @rosette-dragonborn @mareenavee @snippetsrus @snowy-weather No pressure, this is all just for funs <3

We got art and a smidgen of writing:

Starting with a close-up of the tat details in the render I'm working on. This redo that isn't purely a redo is coming along well. Just gotta add three more tattoos and alllllllll of his scars. Full art and a writing snippet under the cut.

IDK I think it's going well so far ;) and a snippet from Sleepers Awake chapter 7

Teldryn hated tombs. He hated tombs, the undead, the fucking bleached ash that covered the floor after centuries of recycling the same old fucking urns! He hated the way the tombs would wind like a maze. These halls had turned him around to the point of utter confusion! Teldryn hated having to enter the halls of the Dunmeri dead. It creeped him out, to put it bluntly. He had complained about this assignment, of course. It was the last thing he expected when Cosades sent him to go meet with a Blades informant who studied over at the Balmora Mages Guild. The old sugar-tooth had been vague about what this might entail. Just telling him that the notes he got from his last mission weren’t fucking enough and he had to go bother some mage about a fucking myth! The Nerevarine, how fucking ridiculous! The expectation with these missions seemed to be something along the lines of ‘a favour for a favour’ and the mage he’d been sent to, an orc named Sham gra-Muzgob was asking one hell of a fucking favour! She was after the skull of some poor sod named Llevule Andrano. That meant he had to break into the Andrano Ancestral Tomb out on the Bitter Coast. Shit was pretty much a one-way ticket to an execution if he was caught. When he’d mentioned that, the woman merely replied- “Then don’t upset the natives when you do it.” Cosades had said this would be a ‘silly little errand’. How the fuck is desecrating the remains of a member of a fucking hugely influential family in House Redoran a silly little errand? Then there was the justification gra-Muzgob gave him for all of this shit. Something about his people’s death practices being primitive, superstitious nonsense. Teldryn had held his tongue as best as he could. The last thing he wanted was to be thrown in fucking Fort Moonmoth again. The shit they did there…he was glad they’d only pulled out his toenails. Teldryn sucked in a deep breath, trying his best to calm his nerves as he stepped into what he hoped was the chamber that this skull was being kept in. “Look for the one with the ritual markings,” he murmured under his breath as he pulled down the old, silk scarf he’d taken from Suran. A keepsake he allowed himself amongst the things of his that his mother managed to save after his grandfather had thrown most of his belongings into the fire. Llaro had really tried to erase his existence entirely. He wanted to shake the hand of the guy who killed the miserable old cunt! Teldryn tapped his fingers on the rough chitin of his pauldron as her scanned the small, sand-coloured room. Carved into the earth thousands of years ago, the clay walls were smooth and rounded around the edges. His eyes fell on what looked like a small altar at the lip of a pool of ashes. An enchanted chitin dagger and a skull with something carved into its forehead, Daedric runes by the looks of it. Red pigment coloured the thin grooves in the bone. It made him shudder as he knelt down by the altar and stared into Llevule Andrano’s hollow eye sockets. He wondered if he should say something before he went and just took the thing. He knew that there was some sermon that one would recite when they visited the dead. Something that eased the ancestor’s spirit of some shit like that. He had never actually listened to what was said in those sermons. Never listened to the shit spoken by the temple priests either. Honestly, he found it boring, preferring instead to disappear into his own head whenever they started to rattle on. Shit was way more entertaining…until his mind became the enemy of course. He longed for that simplicity. Shit was folly. Teldryn wracked his brain for something appropriate to say. Sure, he might not have cared much for the Tribunal’s teachings as a kid but fuck if he wasn’t bitterly fucking aware of how wrong this all seemed. Teldryn sighed as he took the skull into his shaking hands, opting to mutter a simple “Sorry,” to the spirit before he pulled his scarf from around his neck and wrapped the skull in it before he carefully placed it into his pack.

[alice-angel12x]

Wait.. you're telling me Epel and Death have history together?! (Well more like his ancestors-) BUT STILL

Is that why instead of being afraid when he first saw them he was impressed with their fighting abilities??

Now I need more interactions with them OR even better! Epel inviting Death to Harveston because come on! And maybe there is a legend of Death there? As the kind person who helped the small town grow and become what it is today!

Also sorry about all of this, Epel is my favourite character and your writing brings me so much joy so I'm very happy right now! :D

"You're inviting me? To what I may ask?" Y/n asked.

" I only got the news this morning too, granny is so unreasonable," Epel sighed. "There’s an annual festival in the Harveston this weekend."

"Let me take a guess. A festival in Harveston, at this time of Year... Moln Mountain’s Kelkkarotu I believe it's called," Y/n said with a slight uncertainty.

"Y-yeah how did you know?" Epel asked in surprise.

"I have been around for a very long time," Y/n answered simply.

Epel ended up inviting a few other some with great interest others, not so much. Sebek, Jade, and even Idia came along to the trip.

As soon as the cool air of Harveston hit Y/n's cold skin, a wave of memories and nostalgia washed over them. The once small town had become a thriving community.

As Epel explained the geography of the land and it's lands, and apple specialty, he noticed Y/n seemed to be off somewhere in their mind. Y/n looked on with a sense of familiarity.

Jade would question this, but Idia would reason that maybe Y/n would have come across the town before. Maybe a few times.

When Epel offered Y/n an apple fresh from harvest. They learned that Y/n Death does not Eat... Furthermore lacked organs to digest so there is no point in eating.

So Down the road to Epel's house they went. It was a beautiful cabin, fit to stand the cold weather of Harveston. Y/n hurried them don't, to get warm clothes on. Wouldn't want them to catch their death out here. Speaking of which.

"Inside the shed? Are you actually an indoor type?" Idia asked.

"No, I played outside almost every day. Even in harsh rain, I couldn’t stand still. So in those days, I’d prefer to play in the shed which it’s wider and has fewer things than in my room.  I played with the farming tools, and even made treasures and a secret base there," Epel reminisced. "  But there’s one time when I was in the shed and the snow falls down really bad… And the door of the shed was blocked by the piled snow and it couldn’t open."

" You, as a child, alone in that shed? You lack caution as a mere human," Sebek gasped.

"And even if I shouted or banged my hand on the door, nobody noticed. It kept getting colder, and I was getting hungry… it was so bad that time," Epel reminisced.

"Then how did you manage to get out of the shed?" Jade asked. Epel thought for a moment and smiled.

"Well need a bit more context for that story. Which we will find in the center of town," Epel said mysteriously.

"Oh, alright. Hold on to your mystery for now," Jade chuckled

So Epel leads the group to the center of town. to get to the hall and to meet his grandmother Malya.

When Epel and his grandma chatted, the others were completely lost on what they were saying. As the two talk in their native dialect. But Y/n was happy to translate for them.

As the boys choose the fabrics that would be used to make their plushie sled pullers. Grim being Grim got hungry again and wanted more sweet apples.

As he scanned for unattended food and saw a treasure trove of some. At the base of some state were the biggest, ripest, ruby-colored apples he had ever seen. He's never seen such perfect apples.

As Grim made a mad dash towards them, he suddenly slammed face-first into a shovel. Grim hissed and looked up to see an old man glaring down at him.

The old man began to scold the fire cat, catching the attention of the NRC boys, and Epel's grandmother. Y/n apologized on Grim's behalf.

The NRC boys were wondering why he was so angry. So Epel explained the significance of the statue.

"This is the state of Harveston's Founder. When our ancestors were in a hard place, the founder came across them and lead them here. Were they would teach and raise the orphans to survive here," Epel said.

The boys looked up at the Statue. It was of a familiar figure, in one hand they held a lantern above their head. Lighting the path in front of them, while in the other held a baby close to their chest. Behind the founder were three children huddled up close to them. One was looking behind in fear, the middle one simply hugged close, and the last one looked up at the found in awe.

What they noticed was that hand holding the lantern, looked like it was broken long ago.

"Oh, Epel. What happened to the statue's hand?" Jade asked.

"Yeah, did the hand used to hold the lantern? Cause the drilled-in hook looks strange," Idia added.

"Oh, that's was the founder's doing," grandma Malya laughed.

"The founder's...doing?" Sebek asked skeptically.

"Yes, even all these the founder's spirit has always been watching over us. We've noticed their spirit loves taking their lantern and putting it in places to signify their presence," The old man spoke. "And even before that the people of this town pick their best apple from their harvest. And place it at the base to pay respects."

"What a kind spirit," Y/n commented.

"Indeed, you could ask any local here and they would have a story to tell about their encounters. Even Epel, when was trapped in the shed when he was younger," Grandma Malya chuckled.

"Oh yeah, that story. Epel you never finished that story," Grim said.

"Oh yeah. When I was freezing, I suddenly felt this warmth. Not in the hypothermia kind of way, but like there was a small fire nearby. And I remember hearing someone," Epel explained.

"Heard someone?" Jade asked.

"Yeah, they were whispering encouragements and telling me I just needed one more push to open the door. And I did, with one of the tools I managed to free myself," Epel smiled.

"Ah yes, and when we finally found Epel. My son, Epel's father, saw something in the shed," Grandma Malya smiled. "It was the founder's lantern, once again in a place where it wasn't meant to be."

Soon Malya had to go make the sled Plushies, and Y/n opted to help her. While the boys looked up at the statue.

"hey, you know. This founder statute looks a lot like Y/n" the fire cat commented.

Epel's went wide and he looked at the statue to Y/n and repeated 2 more times.

"No...No... It... They can't be right?" Epel gasped.

___________________________________________________________

Part 2? Maybe. well, see.

[drchenquill]

Foliè - Chapter 24 (End)

Not so alone

As soon as these two words reached my ears, I was unstoppable. My eyes blazed and without even flinching, I pushed the man to the ground with my might. With a loud scream, his stupid face hit the wooden floor, splintering with the force. I felt my rage flowing through my blood like a river in a storm. The windows shattered, shards of glass flew through the hall and whirled around me like a beast waiting for its master to finally give the order to attack.

“You puny human. Do you dare to ignore my wishes?” I growled in an inhuman voice that seemed to come from all directions like the wind. The lady who had led him to us fell to her knees and began to pray to whatever god she thought would help.

“Tell me, mortal, who do you have before you?” I asked the man, who was slowly rising to his feet. His cloth had fallen from his mouth. Splinters of wood dug into his old skin. He managed to sit up on his knees. He didn't dare look at me, so I asked again, “Who do you have in front of you?” I punctuated my question with a shard of glass that narrowly missed his cheek.

“Please, forgive me, I was blind and didn't recognize you,” he pleaded. How simple people were. All I had to do was use a little force and make my eyes glow and everyone suddenly knew who I was again.

“Say my name. Scream it, because that will be the last thing you will say before I send you to your ancestors,” I threatened him. Now the tears rolled down. How pathetic.

“Little mouse.” came Cain's soft voice as he tried to step closer, which was almost impossible because of the flying glass shards. “We need him, he knows where the girl is. Killing him wouldn't be ideal.”

True.

With a disappointed sigh, I calmed the wind and let the shards of glass fall to the ground. Cain was unfortunately right. The pathetic man was important, at least until we had the girl. After that, I couldn't guarantee his safety.

“Bring. Her. To. Me.” I growled and within seconds, the man stumbled to his feet and shouted, ”Bring the prisoner here! Now!” His voice was shrill and frightened and I felt it send a slight shudder through me. I forgot how good it felt to be seen as a deity, yet I had to control myself. Maybe I'd kill him afterwards.

Loud cursing and more voices rang out as two men emerged from the back door, a wildly wriggling, cursing and spitting young woman under their arms. I exhaled with relief when I saw that she was not injured.

“There she is, master. The murderess, just as you ordered,” the man said in a shaky voice. The two men didn't bother to be gentle as they threw the girl at my feet. She seemed fine, no wounds, no scars, I didn't smell any blood either. Cain rushed ahead and helped her to her feet. The first words out of her mouth were, “Took your time, huh? Had a little coffee on the way over?” she said, but I could hear her voice shaking. “I was beginning to think you'd forgotten I existed.” “After you left so quickly, I figured you'd want us to forget about you,” Cain said. “Why the hell did you even come back here?” The girl looked down and whispered, “I didn't know where else to go.”

“Forgive my curiosity, master” the man suddenly spoke. Tilting my head, I looked at him curiously. “What is this girl to you that you wasted your precious time to come and get her?” This question was unexpected. What was she to me? I turned to her. Our eyes met quickly. She didn't look away, her hazel colored eyes didn't hesitate to meet my piercing gaze. But I didn't see any anger, or even hatred. I was sure that after all that, she felt at least a tinge towards me, but all I saw was a look that resembled a frightened animal expecting to be kicked for some reason. As if she expected me to hate her.

I turned to the man. “She's a puzzle piece that showed me who I really was."

Confusion was evident on their faces, but that was understandable, humans rarely understood the words of deities. But then my gaze wandered to her. Her astonished eyes were wide. I saw something flare up, something that made me feel warm.

I cleared my throat briefly. “Well then.” I started again when I realized that we had been here long enough. I wanted to go home, retreat to my temple and finally be able to breathe. “This will be my last appearance. I, Lyssa, deity of madness, will retire. My poison will no longer taint you, my rage will no longer haunt you. You will forget me and my deeds. Do we understand each other?” He fell to his knees in front of me: ”Yes! You are so gracious, master. We will never forget.”

“Spread the word, make sure all of humanity knows: Lyssa no longer exists.”

I felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted. My steps are gentler as I walk through the forest: my destination, my temple, my resting place, my refuge. Unfortunately, I had luggage with me.

“You never told us your name?” Cain asked the sullen girl who stuck to my side, but without touching me. As if she was looking for closeness but was afraid to ask for it.

“I don't have to.” she hissed at him. Cain laughed. “You hiss like a kitten, but unfortunately you're not as cute as one.” he commented and stepped to my other side. His big warm hand wrapped around mine as he leaned towards me and asked, “What do you think, little mouse, what shall we call her? How about 'runt'?” He was the only one laughing at his joke, but he didn't seem to mind. I glanced at the girl. She was indeed shorter than the two of us.

“I have a name! It's Lydia!”

She threw her arms around mine as she said, annoyed, “I wouldn't open my mouth so wide if I were you! I was in your head, I needed to see your disgusting thoughts.”

For the first time since I'd known him, Cain turned as red as a ripe tomato as he began to indignantly defend himself. In the midst of this loud back and forth, I stood, calm, smirking. Suddenly, I no longer felt the longing of my temple, for my home stood at my sides, squabbling like two toddlers. My home was warm, my home was them.

Apparently I wasn't so alone after all.

~~~~

Chapter 23.

Foliè tag list: @theink-stainedfolk, @frostedlemonwriter, @leahnardo-da-veggie, @rivenantiqnerd,

@thecomfywriter, @fablesandfragments

Thank you for reading and joining me on this little adventure. I hope you had just as much as I had!