#this is all so vivid in my mind palace

[monstrsball]

7 year old iwaizumi mikio is asked who he is rooting for in the upcoming japan - argentina match at the olympics and he says "i want both teams to win" because he can't decide. 25 year old miya atsumu blurts out "that's stupid" before he remembers that he's speaking to a 7 year old and almost makes mikio cry.se

[ekkkkey]

there will be games! (chapter II)

summary: Cassandra, a quiet and loyal wife to the much older Senator Tiberius, accidentally attracts the unsettling attention of Emperor Caracalla at a lavish feast hosted by Senator Thraex...

warnings: 18+ minors dni, noncon, dub-con, non-consensual drug use, when the emperor is a bit insane, mommy issues, daddy issues, every kind of issues—this little shit has them all (he’s so cute)

word count: 5k words

chapter I

«No woman could feel safe if her beauty or name aroused the emperor's curiosity.»

-Suetonius, The Twelve Caesars (Caligula, Chapter 36)

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She didn't want to get out of bed, didn't want to leave their room, all she wanted was to go home. Not to their new villa in Rome, not even to her husband's old house. Cassandra longed for her childhood home, with her father and sisters, where she could always be the little girl.

"You're an early bird today," Tiberius said, waking and stretching towards her.

Her heart skipped, her palms sweaty with worry.

"Those who apologize properly deserve forgiveness, don't they, little bird?" - another voice, deceptively tender but promising nothing good, echoed in her mind.

Cassandra wrapped herself tighter in the sheet, licking her lips, hiding her body from her husband, not wanting his touch.

"I slept poorly. And I don't feel well. When will we return home?"

Tiberius got up, his brief morning tenderness replaced by his usual sour mood.

"When the games end. Not before. I've got business."

Normally gentle and shy, she never argued with him, but this time, she tossed the sheet aside and jumped up, chasing after him, desperate to talk face-to-face. Her hands shook. She pictured herself – pale, nervous, dark circles under her eyes, hair a mess, more like a madwoman than a loving wife. Ashamed of her sudden anger, Cassandra covered up again.

"I feel awful, I'm nauseous, could it be a child, Tiberius?" she tried to elicit some sympathy, pressing her hand to her stomach.

She couldn't stand another moment in the palace.

"Tell me, wife, what troubles you so much?" - he took a step forward. She had never truly feared him, but suddenly realized that after yesterday, both he disgusted her and she feared him. It was his fault! Everything that happened to her was his fault!

"I'm really not well."

"And where better than the emperor's palace to find a good physician?"

Realizing her words were futile, she slumped back on the bed's edge, and Tiberius knelt in front of her, resting his cheek against her leg.

"The emperor," he began, "Emperor Caracalla, he's ill. His mind is rotting, just like his body, so you won't find better physicians here. Should I call someone for you?"

Cassandra couldn't breathe, pulling away from her husband, standing up in a daze, not caring about her nudity. Even when servants walked in, she didn't cover up, lost in dark thoughts.

Emperor Caracalla's mind was afflicted by a disease? What kind of disease? She knew nothing about medicine and couldn't even guess. Did this make him more dangerous, or was his nature already cruel and violent? His smirking face flashed in her mind, his mood swings, his smile turning to a sneer...

Cassandra flinched when someone touched her from behind. She quickly scolded herself.

"Stop, he won't burst into your chambers while you're with your husband!" - she repeated, but she didn't believe it, if he wanted, he'd take her right in front of Tiberius, and no one would stop him.

She spent the entire morning trying to comfort herself, but her anxiety only grew. First, Tiberius noticed the purple bite on her skin. She managed to excuse it, saying he'd had too much wine and hadn't been gentle with her in bed. He believed her.

She was horrified again when the slave girls began to dress her.

"This isn't my clothing!" - the fabrics were too vivid and fine, and they...they smelled of aromatic oils and powder.

"Not yours, true, but we'll be here for some time, and until your clothes arrive from the villa, you need something to wear, don't you?" her husband murmured, looking at her like a piece of art. "You can't just walk around naked, can you?"

She would have preferred to parade through the palace entirely naked rather than willingly wear the clothes and jewels Caracalla had sent her, fully aware of how pleased he would be. Yet, the problem was, her nude debut would have left him equally pleased.

The stands were louder than ever, and only when they entered the imperial box did she understand why. The Colosseum was flooded!

They were late due to her distraction and sluggishness; if she had her way, they wouldn't have come at all, but there she was, seated behind Lucilla once again.

Despite the excitement of the ship battles, the clanging of metal, her eyes kept falling on the red-haired head before her.

Neither emperor acknowledged their arrival, too absorbed in the spectacle, and while Geta later gave her husband a nod of recognition, Caracalla didn't even turn around. Anger simmered in her chest. For him, last night was nothing, but for her...For her, it had haunted her all night and morning. All her thoughts were trapped in those wretched, humiliating moments.

Why did he seem to have forgotten while she, cursedly, remembered every touch? Remembered his hands were soft and hot, his scent sweet, almost intoxicating... And, of course, she remembered the bitter humiliation from his words, from how he touched her, and that Emperor Geta had watched it all.

Cassandra pressed hard on her palm where the wound was healing, trying to push away the memories. She wouldn't let him occupy her mind as well.

Yet, she couldn't relax, pandemonium broke out in the box when the ships came too close and an arrow hit the column between the emperors' chairs. The last thing she heard before Tiberius pulled her out was Emperor Geta's piercing scream.

The palace was buzzing with unbearable noise, the feast meant for evening had transitioned into the day, though the servants were not fully prepared.

Cassandra stood by a column, wine cup in hand. Her husband had left her again, off with General Acacius. The emperors were nowhere to be seen, nor were most of the Senate.

"How many do you think will be executed today?" she heard a quiet female whisper.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the emperor ordered all the gladiators on the field to be gutted," another voice answered, "you know how he is, insatiable!" A burst of giggling followed, and Cassandra stopped listening, embarrassed by the direction of their conversation.

She understood that for many, winning the emperors’ favor was a dream. But for her? She was a married woman who had spent her youth cultivating a sense of duty, loyalty, and responsibility. Why, then, had the gods abandoned her? Faithful and devoted as she was, they had thrown her to their earthly incarnations to be torn apart.

"More wine, domina?" a slave girl dutifully refilled her goblet.

The girl was young, dark-skinned, and beautiful, with large, intelligent eyes. Cassandra noticed the gilded collar around her slender neck and suddenly felt an invisible, soft, and hot hand squeezing her own throat. In a rush, she took a large gulp, wincing at the bitter taste, then handed the cup back.

"No more, thank you," she said, licking her lips nervously, knowing she wouldn't find peace in this cacophony.

"Are you not well, domina?" the girl asked, worry in her voice.

"I just...I need some time alone," she muttered quickly, stepping away from the column, only to stagger and clutch her head. What was happening to her?

"Do you want me to take you somewhere quiet, domina? You can rest and come back later," the girl didn't wait for an answer, guiding her by the elbow out of the room. Such audacity from a slave was unheard of, but Cassandra was too rattled and her head was spinning.

"Where are we going?"

They navigated past the throne room into a small, almost secretive chamber. The ceiling wasn't as high, the columns much less grand, the lighting dim and gloomy, and in the center stood a white altar, adorned with gold. In her parents' home, next to her room, there was a similar one, much more modest, of course, but dear to her heart, where she had prayed to her late mother.

"Wait outside," the words were both a sentence for her and an order for the slave.

She wanted to scream. Of course, he was here. No one was to be trusted, even the slave's kindness was a trap—cruel and painful. Was she truly nothing more than a prisoner here, a powerless plaything to entertain the young emperor?

Every time she saw him, he seemed like a different person. He was dressed in black and gold, with a golden laurel crown and an earring. Gold, gold, gold! She despised its gleam, for in it, she saw him.

Huddled against the wall, she stood frozen, afraid to move. The emperor did seem different this time—melancholic and contemplative. His pale eyes were unusually clear and sober as they met hers.

"What did you tell your husband?" His voice was different too: calm, measured. That made it all the more terrifying. Cassandra couldn’t read his mood from his face.

"Nothing, Caesar," she whispered, afraid to speak louder, as if his calm depended on it.

Caracalla turned to the altar, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. She held her breath, watching the golden laurel shimmer in the torchlight.

"Come closer."

His tone was pensive, his light brows furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. The moment she stepped closer, the emperor’s gaze shifted to her. It slid from her neck, lower, along the colorful tunic she wore.

"My mother used to wear this," he said. To her surprise, his right hand was bare of rings as he brushed the fabric over her chest lightly, almost tenderly. His eyes stayed locked on hers.

Though still afraid, it felt different from yesterday. Worse.

Why had he forced her to come here? Why had he dressed her in the clothes of his dead mother? Cassandra cast a desperate glance at the door, but he noticed immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"She often came here," he continued, "prayed to the gods," his words were vague, her thoughts growing heavier, "do you pray often?"

"Yes, Emperor," she replied, though her mind was growing heavier, duller, as though lulled into a haze that numbed her fear.

"When was the last time?"

The conversation was bizarre, so unlike what had happened the night before. Feeling almost drunk, she answered without thinking, and that's when everything started to spiral.

"Today, when that arrow almost hit you," she said, breathing heavily, it was hot, like under the midday sun, "I prayed for the next one to hit."

Her tormented mind knew he would kill her now. That Caracalla would carry out his threats, destroy her and her family. But instead, he laughed.

Grinning, he patted her shoulder as if she’d told an excellent joke. Then the sharp pain of his hand striking her cheek brought her back to reality. He had slapped her! Tears welled in her eyes, her lips trembling, but she didn’t have time to cry. The emperor grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw painfully.

"You did drink it, didn't you? That wine they brought you?" Caracalla whispered, his voice low as he leaned closer, still holding her face. "Oh, you did! I can see it. Your dilated pupils, that empty stare, struggling to think straight, hard to control your tongue? I get it," in a mock tender gesture, he caressed the cheek he'd just slapped, "for those words, your pretty head should be on a spike outside the palace, shouldn't it? But you know the rules, if you apologize properly, I forgive."

With his thumb, he drew circles on her reddened cheek, moved to her lips, tracing their outline, forcing her to open her mouth by pressing down.

"You understand now, don’t you? The aphrodisiac in the wine you drank," he pushed his finger inside, making her lips encircle it, "I wanted to play differently, but..." his face twisted with anger, "everything went terribly wrong."

Her already rapid heartbeat quickened further, she whimpered helplessly, wanting to cry. He had made her take the drug and was now exploiting her helplessness, shamelessly tormenting her mouth.

"You should say thank you, shouldn’t you? Or did you enjoy last night more? Shall I call my brother?" he chuckled, once again reverting to his usual self.

Caracalla released her face but immediately pinned her against the altar, tilting his head up and gazing at her from beneath his lowered lashes, as if admiring her, smiling.

The torchlight reflected in his eyes, his tongue flicked between his red lips in anticipation. His hand caressed her shoulder, then he removed the pin holding the fabric.

"Did the old senator fail to notice that his dear little wife isn't really his anymore?" he sneered, his fingers trailing down to the mark he'd bitten into her skin the night before, pressing down, aiming to cause as much discomfort as possible. Caracalla's breath grew heavier, his eyes followed every flicker of emotion on her face, every slight movement she made.

"I told him it was his fault... that he drank too much..." The confession fell from her lips without thought, her mind too clouded to hold it back.

"Ah! How unfortunate, and once again, the Senate takes credit for the emperor's work! But you'll comfort me, won't you?" His lips were so close, she felt his hot, uneven breath, saw his pupils, as black as hers, the smeared shadows making his eyes feverishly gleam with madness. Her gaze only darted down to his lips for a moment... and he pressed against her, pulling her into a kiss.

His hands seize her waist, gripping and tormenting, not just her body but her very soul. If she could cry, she would, but there's no energy left, only his greedy, hot mouth. To her, a kiss was something far more intimate, far more sacred than carnal union, promising tenderness and love...And even that he steals from her, kissing her shamelessly, wetly, pressing so hard she feels his hardness against her thigh.

"Let's continue our lovely conversation," he pulls back, his mouth trailing down to her neck, kissing and biting, "tell me, did Tiberius ever get you this wet?" His hand slides between her legs, rubbing through the fabric. "Even once?"

"No," she whimpers, trying to close her legs.

"Keep acting innocent, and I'll call the Praetorians to keep your legs spread wide, is that what you want?" his rough whisper burns her ear, his earring brushing her lips.

Cassandra shook her head, public humiliation was something she couldn't handle.

"Good. Obedient and well-behaved, just as a respectable matron should be," he purrs, his hand lazily caressing, more relishing her embarrassment than her body, "if you want, you can call me your husband!"

His sharp laugh slices through the narrow room.

"Undress," he commanded, his laughter gone, "I'm not going to fuck you in my mother's clothes, am I?"

She thought after all the pain, the threats, the violence, he couldn't hurt her more, but each time, it still cuts deep. With trembling hands, she hurriedly sheds her tunic, then her undergarments, laying them out as treasures, while he watches. His gaze is fixed, nostrils flaring, Cassandra sees him stroking himself under his tunic. Her cheeks burn, her clouded mind finally grasps it - he's going to take her right here, in this holy place, before ancestors and gods. Her soul will be damned, even in death!

"Touch yourself, feel how wet you are," his voice is husky, breathless, "you should be grateful to me for that, shouldn't you? That's what I've been talking about."

Head bowed, she slides her fingers between her legs, horror dawning as she realizes he's right. But why? The drug? The notion that he aroused her with his aggressive kisses, his sharp bites, his lewd whispers, she dismisses in disgust. She didn't want him, she hated him!

Seeing her shock, Caracalla broke into a smile, fully aware of her thoughts. Abandoning his arousal, the emperor circled her nipple with his thumb, watching it harden under his touch.

"It's not surprising your husband doesn't stir your passions, look at yourself," his hand traces down her body, over her breasts, stomach, to her mound, pausing again between her legs, "you're more his daughter than his wife!"

His fingers gather her moisture, rubbing, making her despise her body's response.

"So, will you take your emperor?" he asks, not for permission but to keep the game going.

She can only nod, there's no other choice.

"Say it out loud," Caracalla whispers raggedly, pushing his fingers deep inside her. Now she understands why he took off his rings.

"Yes, Caesar, I'll take whatever you give me," with those words, the last vestiges of her pride are smashed, her genuine compassion and naivety destroyed.

He takes her with a sudden, harsh thrust, only to slow down to a lazy, almost indulgent rhythm. The air is stifling, hot; sweat drips down her thighs. The only sounds are the crackle of the torch, his ragged breathing, and the vulgar, wet slaps of skin meeting skin.

As if to disgrace her further, he grips the back of her neck, forcing her to look into his eyes as he picks up the pace again. Here he is—the protector and father of his people—bestowing his gifts. He's still clothed, no need to undress; the chain around his neck jingles with each movement, his crown slipping forward.

"Doesn’t this feel good, sweetling? Don’t you feel good?"

"Cassandra," she whispers, "my name is Cassandra."

He stops, looking at her with surprise, as if seeing her for the first time.

"Is it really that important for me to know your name, Cassandra?" he teases, playfully biting her earlobe. "Has the little wife fallen in love?"

How could he think that? Anger surges within her. Her attempt to claim some dignity crumbles! But her thoughts vanish as he thrusts into her sharply, fully, making her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders. It’s the first time she’s touched him willingly. Her simple gesture spurred him on even more, forcing a quiet whimper from her as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Next time your senator fucks you, think of me, little bird, understand?" his whisper turns into a moan. She's mesmerized by his parted red lips, his light lashes fluttering, his chest heaving. A few rough thrusts later, his grip on her waist loosens, and his seed floods within her.

He lets her go, adjusting his clothes, his breathing still heavy, but his gaze has changed. Having gotten what he wanted, Caracalla loses interest.

"If you're lucky, my seed will take root, and you'll give your husband an heir!" he chuckles, playfully flicking her nose as if she were a pet. "The wench will help you dress, don't forget, there’s a feast to attend!"

Caracalla leaves her, trembling, bare, and shattered. Tears finally come, and without strength, she slides down the wall, hugging herself. The worst is the sticky feeling between her thighs he left behind. If she were to conceive...

"Domina, you shouldn't sit like this, please stand, I'll help you," the slave girl who brought her here shows no emotion, no trace of sympathy in her eyes.

"Leave me!"

"Staying here is not an option, one must respect the dead," the girl nods at the inscription on the altar.

"Lucius Septimius Severus"

He had defiled her beside his father's ashes! Now, she lets her sobs escape freely.

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Hey! Thank you so much for the sweet feedback on the last chapter, I didn’t expect so many people to like my work, I’m really grateful! 💋 I promise the next chapter will be up faster (but it also depends on how this one does, your feedback means a lot to me and really inspires me).

[st4rg8te]

A Captured Dragon (BL)

Yandere! Half-brother X Crown Prince! Reader

[tw: graphic depiction(s) of violence, obsessive behaviour, betrayal, imprisonment, gaslighting, non-con kissing, incest!!!, teeny tiny bit of feminization]

✦✧✦✧

“You have done nothing to deserve that title. You were only lucky enough to be born the King’s son.”

A lot of things in life were beyond your control. 

But fate had been kind to you, gifting you a life that most could only dream of. Born into the royal family as their beloved Crown Prince, the world bent to your will from the very moment you drew your first breath. 

Spoiled, indulged, and never once tested by struggle—perhaps you were destined to fall from the start.

✦✧✦✧

✦✧✦✧

It’s getting harder to tell the days apart.

The world around you blurs into a cycle of sleepless nights. Your mind is a fog, heavy with the weight of guilt and fear. Each hour blends into the next, until time itself feels like a punishment.

The nightmares don’t help either.

Every time you close your eyes, they come—haunting, vivid dreams where blood stains the corridors and screams pierce the air. The sounds of blades slicing through flesh, of bodies collapsing onto blood-soaked floors, echo endlessly in your ears. It is relentless. 

You see the palace engulfed in flames, your servants and people—those you’ve known your entire life—crying out in terror as they are cut down by the cold steel of soldiers.

In every dream, you stand helpless, watching as they beg for mercy. Your people reach for you in desperation, their faces twisted in agony, but you can’t move. 

In every dream, at the center of it all, is him.

Daewon.

Your half-brother.

While you grew up in the limelight, basking in the affections and adoration of others, your half-brother was cast into the shadows. Born from a lowly maid, his very existence was a blemish on the royal family's image. He was the son who would never be acknowledged by his father—neither loved nor remembered.

Despite that, you had treated him kindly.

When did everything go so wrong?

After the slaughter, you were taken away and imprisoned. The room you were kept in was dark and empty—there was no light, or any warmth. It was a far cry from the luxury you were used to.

Occasionally, food and water would be brought to you—a guard would come every few days, sliding bowls of stale rice and cloudy water across the floor without a word, without so much as a glance in your direction. You felt like an animal.

But worse than the silence of your captors were the visits from Daewon.

You hated those days the most.

“Brother.” His deep voice sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t make out his face within the shadows.

So you bury your head further into the damp pillows, hiding from the monster in the room.

It isn’t long before you feel the bed dip under his weight, the chain on your ankle rustles against the sheets. He kneels beside you, leaning close enough for you to smell the faint traces of blood still lingering on his robe.

“You haven’t been eating,” Daewon’s voice was soft, almost tender, but you could hear the dark amusement laced beneath it. “Is the food not to your liking?”

You keep your eyes shut tight, fists clenched under the thin blankets.

It'll all be okay. Soon enough, he would leave you alone.

Cold fingers brush against your cheek, and you flinch. He chuckles at that, a low, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl.

“Did you know that these meals are what I had to eat as a child?” He whispers, his breath hot against your ears.

You briefly open your eyes, glancing at the food scattered across the floor, remnants of your earlier fit of rage—destroyed, just like everything else in your life. 

“There were many days when the servants never even came. My mother often gave me her share, just so I wouldn't starve." 

You grit your teeth—

"Why don't you just kill me already?"

The words hang in the air, and a suffocating silence stretches between you.

But then, Daewon's firm hand suddenly grips your chin, forcing you to meet his dark gaze.

“Kill you?” A cruel, guttural laugh escapes him, sending a shiver down your spine. “But death would be far too easy.” 

“No... you have to live. You’ll live and endure. Just like I did.”

He had lived a life of invisibility, where no one cared to look beyond the stain of his tainted blood—no one, except you.

And the thought of it drives him mad.

His hand falls from your chin, trailing down until it rests against your chest. With that simple touch, your spirit breaks just a little more.

You hate him—hate him more than you’ve ever hated anyone. 

Without any warning, you feel the press of his soft lips against your own. His body heat seeps into yours as he forcefully pulls you closer and presses you flush against him.

You are too tired, too hungry to resist.

"No, stop—" You protest breathlessly, the words barely escaping your lips as your mind reels, still foggy from the kiss. A dizzying mix of shock, confusion, and disgust floods your senses.

"This is wrong, we can't—"

"They will never fully accept a half-blooded bastard like me as their king."

“What?” You swallow hard, blinking up at the man.

"But surely, they'll accept a 'bride' from the royal family.”

The realization hits you like a punch to the gut. 

Before you can react, his lips crash against yours again, harder this time, more possessive. The taste of him—bitterness and control—invades your senses completely.

A twisted smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and you finally understand.

This is a debt of suffering, a price he intends to collect over and over—until you were broken.

"Don’t worry. For everything you’ve done for me, I'll repay your kindness tenfold."

✦✧✦✧

[A/N]

This was not proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

[satorugu]

In Every Era Part 2 (Sukuna x f!reader)

She is the reincarnation of his love, and he plans to be with her in every era.

PART 1 HERE

Warnings: Blood, violence, fighting, angst, lots of fluff

Note: The readers technique relates to ice and being able to lower the temperatures around her enough to create it. If the text is italicized it is one of the dreams she had. All take place during the Heian era, both Heian era and the version of Sukuna in Itadori's body is included. Takes place during the Shibuya Incident, and quotes the episode's sub at times.

The dreams hadn't stopped.

First, it was that night, the night she fell asleep in his arms.

Then she had another one following it.

Then a third.

It was always a memory from her point of view, so vivid she felt she could still feel his touch when she woke up. They were small, but they got her through the night, always sleeping straight through it.

That kiss was imbued with cursed energy. She didn't know how, but she knew that had something to do with it.

She couldn't take her mind off of it.

Every single night.

"Curses and mutations are mindless, you don't need to harness much cursed energy to exorcise them, although it is made out to be that way," Sukuna said. "If you make a hit on them before they can attack you, you have a better chance at survival."

She was sitting on his lap, up upon his throne. His body heat radiated onto her shoulders, his strong abdomen pressed against her back.

"Is there a reason you're sharing this with me?" (Y/N) asked curiously.

"So you will utilize this information when the time may come my dear," he told her. "Aim for the head."

"I don't think it will ever come," she laughed.

"You are correct to assume that," Sukuna said, putting a hand on her waist and pulling her closer to him. "I won't allow for anyone to harm you."

This was a trick.

The King of Curses wouldn't and couldn't possess emotions like these. He murdered hundreds of thousands, known to be the most powerful sorcerer in history. He needed something from her, to get her to trust him so he could use her and kill her afterward.

These memories were false, she was sure of it.

So she began avoiding Itadori, training after hours and for longer durations to be able to both strengthen herself and not be confronted by the eyes below his. In the end she would return to her dorm exhausted, forgetting that when she fell asleep she would be greeted by what she fled most.

Then a week had turned into a month.

"Master Sukuna had a gift delivered to your dressing room," the maid said almost timidly to (Y/N), as she bowed her head.

She made an emphasis on the fact it was in her dressing room rather than her bedroom. Being that her quarters were Sukuna's, the only part of the palace that was officially hers was her dressing room, which translated to a massive closet. It was filled to the brim with the nicest jewelry available in the lands, along with dresses he had especially picked out for her. It was also a known fact that the garden belonged to (Y/N), although it wasn't claimed by her. She fell in love with the area, so he made it off limits to others.

Unfortunately for her, he was away, handling a nearby village.

Two more servants gathered at the large double doors that led to the dressing room, opening them for her.

Inside was a large bouquet of flowers, white at the tips that slowly faded into a reddish-purple. It was as if they were glowing, vibrant and perky underneath the lighting. The vase was a piece within itself, like clear vines that curled around the stems of the flowers and bunched them all together.

Next to it sat a scroll, bound together by a cursed energy imbued seal. She was quick to unravel it, reading the hand-written, inked message.

'Although I am far away, I will remind you of my love.'

'These flowers are eternal, they will forever stay by your side, just as I will.'

'Sincerely, Ryo.'

She didn't think much of the dream, assuming it was some way of trying to make her think he actually loved her. Instead, she lingered around the campus after hours, honing a new ability with her ice technique. Once she grew sleepy, she returned to her dorm, entering the dark room to see something glowing on her desk.

It was a vibrant and perky flower, with white at the tips that slowly faded into a reddish-purple. While it didn't sit in a vase, it was unnaturally filled with life, acting as a light in pitch black atmosphere.

She thought she was hallucinating, reaching out a hand to pick it up, hoping it would dissolve as soon as she touched it.

The flower sat in her room for a week after that, as she continued to deny the significance behind it.

(Y/N) thought she could get out of having to see Itadori, but it seemed otherwise when another crisis hit.

A large curtain was cast around Shibuya, along with one at Meiji-Jingumae Station. Reports that mutated humans were attacking civillians inside were quick to spread, and both (Y/N) and Itadori were sent to handle it.

"I'll deal with the mutated ones, you search through the station for anymore hostages," she told him quickly, hoping they wouldn't have to interact much.

As soon as the two had met up inside the city, the eyes underneath his own appeared. They felt familiar now, a burning reminder of the dream she had the previous night.

They were in his bedroom, if it even could be called that.

It was larger than the average, with a desk that sat by an extravagant stained glass window, and a large table towards the center. The bed for the two of them sat against the wall, both of them already out of it, yet choosing to stay in one another's company.

Sukuna stood around the table, eyeing a set of scrolls as his wife sat at his desk. The chair was far too big for someone of her size, which he grew to love.

“I want to perform a binding vow between you and I,” he started.

“A binding vow?” (Y/N) asked, having yet to take her eyes off what she was reading.

“A pact bound through Jujutsu, except this one has specific terms accounted with it.”

As the words left his mouth he slipped his hand around her jaw, taking her by surprised as she looked up at him.

"I want to be with you in every era, as you pass, and once you are reincarnated. We will be bound together, it will be destined for you to wed me."

"And it's consequences?" she wondered.

"There are none, this vow is unable to be broken, it will see through that we are meant to be," Sukuna said. "And that you will remain mine."

She wasn't that knowledgeable on binding vows like the one he described, except for the fact it was supposed to leave a mark on your wrist. (Y/N) didn't have one though, so she assumed it was false.

A mutated curse barreled towards her, shards if ice being driven through it's skull as her pink haired friend ran down the hall. She flipped over it's corpse as it fell to the ground, attacking the others before they could make a move on her, and aiming for their heads.

The efficiency behind it was impressive, as she scolded herself internally for doing as the King of Curses had once advised.

And yet she continued for what felt like an hour, going through the motions up until the lights flickered off and she could hear fighting in the lower levels of the station.

Something was off.

(Y/N) jumped down the set of escalators and began running through the station that was almost unrecognizable. She could tell Itadori had fought here, as the remains of his strength imprinted different surfaces.

She was following her gut at that moment, turning down a set of halls until she saw a light bloom at the end of one. She could feel the heat as she got closer, as it formed an orange and yellow blur.

Screams came after the flames.

Two girls who had somehow survived being burnt alive, each coughing and holding onto one another.

As she turned the corner she saw him, Itadori, laying against the wall unconscious. He was littered in cuts, specifically his shoulder which was bleeding out. A special grade curse, Jogo, stood over him, a finger in his hand as he slipped it down the pink haired boy's throat and tilted his head back. She recognized him from the time he fought Gojo, as her eyes lingered over Itadori's figure.

(Y/N) could see the markings on his face.

She thought she might throw up.

"Don't waste my time," the special grade squinted is eyes at the three of them.

He went to lift up his arm and attack, only for it to begin bleeding out in front of him.

"I'll give you one second."

It felt like everything had frozen in place.

Silence in the dark hallway.

"Move."

The special grade fearfully jumped back, now a line of four.

(Y/N) felt her hands tremble, as sweat formed across her forehead and her heartbeat picked up in her ears. They were all that way, as the figure slowly stood up and brushed himself off.

Strength of a different kind than Satoru Gojo.

Overwhelmingly evil.

Fear that even the slightest move could lead to death.

He began to come towards them, as the wounds across his body healed themselves.

As his footsteps grew louder, she felt as if she might pass out.

Then they stopped, and he brushed his hair back in orderly fashion.

"You hold your heads quite high."

That voice.

It felt like there were invisible hands that wrapped around her back, guiding her down to a bowing position without control over her own body. She ended up in the same formation as the other two girls, as a wave brushed over top of the four that would have killed them.

"Did you believe taking one knee was enough?" Sukuna questioned.

The top of Jogo's head was cut off, considering he only kneeled. It was similar to a volcano, purple blood spewing out the top as he bled out.

"The greatest men bow the lowest, or so it goes. I see you value your heads quite lightly."

She could feel him looking down at her, as she stared at the cold floor and begged that whatever this was wasn't real.

She was terrified.

"You brats, I'll start with you," he said. "You wished to speak to me, yes?"

The girl nodded, tears staining the concrete surface below her.

"I'll grant you a fingers worth of audience. Now speak."

"Below us there's a man in monk's robes with a suture across his forehead," the dirty blonde began to say. "Please kill him, please free Geto-sama."

(Y/N) recognized that name, although she thought the man who had it was dead.

"We know the location of one more finger," the girl added. "If you'll kill that man for us, we'll tell you where it is."

"Raise your heads."

(Y/N) still kept hers down, although she could see the two girls raise theirs through her peripheral. It was a moment of relief, as he seemed to have agreed to their terms.

Red.

The head of the brown haired one next to her burst into nothingness, blood coating the other girls face as her corpse fell backward.

(Y/N) felt it splatter onto her uniform, shock pulsating through her veins as terror overrided her senses.

"MIMIKO!" the blonde screamed, shaking the lifeless body next to her.

"Did you think a measly one or two fingers would grant you the right to order me around?" Sukuna asked with amusement in his voice.

It seemed the girl couldn't care less, continuing to scream out her friends name.

"How offensive."

"SUKUNA!" she cried out in anger, slipping out her phone. "DIE!"

As soon as the words left her mouth, it sounded like a blade had cut through something. Similar to the one she heard months ago, when he had saved her.

Then, it sounded like several cuts going at someone at once.

One corpse turned into two, except the blonde had no remains. He killed the both of them without lifting a finger, a copious amount of blood being the only proof.

"You all are desperate," Sukuna turned to Jogo almost knowingly.

(Y/N) felt the invisible hands that once held onto her gently guide her to sit up again, looking at the King of Curses.

"This is the reward for the cursed fingers, come at her," he said, making eye contact with her. "If you manage to land even a single blow on her, I'll work under you all."

"What?" (Y/N) said under her breath, she felt like she couldn't breath.

Jogo slowly looked at her, as if he was making up his mind.

There was no way he was considering this.

"You're true to your word, yes?" he asked Sukuna.

No.

(Y/N) stepped back, like her legs were going to come out from under her at any second.

This was suicide, she couldn't fight him.

"Yes."

Jogos demeaner changed, as Sukuna's hands remained on his pockets and the curse went to face her. He held out his hand, a ball of fire forming within it, as (Y/N) tried to conjure ice in her own.

Again she was airborne.

Too quick for her to react as it all happened at once.

A familiar pair of arms held her bridal style, as she felt herself rest on his chest. It was cold, the fall wind curling around the two as they had fled the building.

He casually dodged them vast amount of fire-charged bullets being sent at him, as he looked down at her.

"Your avoidance has been quite amusing, I see you don't understand yet," Sukuna said, his tone changing into a softer one.

"What have you been doing to me?" she spoke boldly, like a wife would to her husband.

It made him smile, as he leaned on the edge of a building that Jogo shot more bullets at. Soon enough they were inside of it, Sukuna casually walking through a corridor as fire burned around them.

"That's my thank you for ensuring you sleep well?" he spoke teasingly. "I've been restoring your memories, although I knew you would doubt them to the best of your ability."

"They're not real," she mumbled, forgetting what he was capable of.

"And yet how relaxed you are in my hold says otherwise, little one," he said. "Your body reacts naturally to my touch."

(Y/N) opened her mouth to reply but the words never came out, as he jumped through the window of the building and met Jogo's fist. Sukuna was currently holding her securely with one arm, taking up the curse in hand to hand combat. He was quick, catching every single one of Jogo's attempts before holding onto his hand and slicing through his arms with his cleave technique.

The Special Grade was sent flying back, as he shot another beam of fire energy out of his head and (Y/N) watched it blow a whole through a building.

She had never seen a fight like this before.

Sukuna caught up with Jogo, taking his free hand that wasn't carrying her and wrapping it around his cape, throwing him down towards the streets. Smoke emitted from the area that he hit, as he continued to bounce off of it from the force before Sukuna came at him again. This time, he bashed his head into the ground, taking them below the level of the city floor.

She felt the King of Curses abdomen tighten against her side, as he laughed to himself. (Y/N) wasn't looking at him though, as her eyes were on the curse that hadn't landed even a single speck of dust on her.

His free hand slipped underneath her jaw, turning her head to face him.

"Impressed are we?"

Suddenly everything around the two seemed to burst into flames, as the blue skinned curse screamed out and flooded the street with Lava.

This was hell.

Sukuna didn't even react, as a wave of it blanketed over them, yet never touching their skin. He jumped up onto a building that was soon crumbling underneath the hot liquid as well, continuing to dodge without question.

The entire city was on fire, as hands made out of lava held onto two office buildings and lifted them up out of the ground. They surrounded the both of them, Jogo standing on a rooftop in front.

(Y/N) thought she was dead.

Out of pure instinct she took her arm around Sukuna's neck, burying her head into his chest and squinting her eyes closed.

It was only when she heard the sound of the buildings being bashed together, that she realized what she had done. Instead of feeling the impact of her skull being crushed, she felt a delicate kiss be pressed to the top of her head. A large hand then held her hair in a comforting manner, keeping her against him.

"Do you trust me, little one?" he asked her softly, low enough that Jogo couldn't hear.

"Yes."

(Y/N) felt weightless, like she was on one of those amusement park rides that threw you up into the air. Except for the fact that there was no harness, and nothing holding her anymore. Sukuna had thrown her up so far she felt she might touch the clouds, watching his figure dart towards the curse and throw him into a sky scraper.

She could see Jogo come out the other end of it, soaring through the air as Sukuna stood above him. The King of Curses drove his hand into the Special Grades head, sending the two through a roof of another office structure.

Meanwhile (Y/N) began to descend, screaming out and watching as the windows on each level shattered with each level Sukuna shoved him through. She grew anxious as time passed and nothing happened, until the bottom of the building burst out into flames and traveled upwards. She could make out the smaller details of the city now, as she picked up speed in falling and felt the wind course through her clothes. Her best bet was trying to use her ice to impact the fall, although she became distracted by what happened before her.

The building that Jogo had blown up began to form into a ball of fire, and Sukuna was nowhere to be seen.

Or so she thought.

She was trying to conjure up enough cold air around her to form the ice needed to brace her, but knocked into something else, throwing her off guard.

She wasn't surprised when she felt his heartbeat against her side again, but he moved at unregistrable speeds.

Suddenly they were on the ground, in the middle of the street, underneath the meteor Jogo was creating. All of the people around Sukuna froze in place, fear evident in their eyes.

Everyone knew who he was.

"I hereby forbid every person in a 100-meter radius from moving until I say 'now," he started. "And of course, I'll kill anyone who violates that rule."

The silence was horrifying, no one daring to take a step.

"Not yet," he teased.

(Y/N) could feel his hands underneath her weight doing something, as if he was now controlling the ball of fire above them.

"Still not yet."

The ground began to tremble, as it came closer.

"Now."

The sound was overwhelming, as Sukuna brought himself up above it as it crushed everything beneath. He sat down on the meteor, adjusting (Y/N) so she was sitting in his lap, his hands around her waist. Jogo was in front of the two, having yet to turn his back around.

The atmosphere around them was a swirl of orange smoke and broken glass that looked like stars. It floated gently in the air, as more debris from the architecture around them crumbled.

"I've grown tired of this, so I will fight you with your own specialty," he said, allowing for (Y/N) to get up as he stood and faced the Special Grade.

She stepped back, quick to cool the temperatures underneath her feet so she wouldn't burn.

Fire began to emit from his fist, beginning to curl around his figure.

"Arm yourself."

Jogo formed a small sphere of fire in his hand, as Sukuna stretched his own out to form an arrow.

The Special Grade burnt to ashes within a moments notice, while the King of Curses turned around to face the woman behind him.

"Your denial is in vain," he said. "There is nothing I am not capable of, and your death would have already occurred if i wished for it. In your moments of fear you trusted me by instinct, the vow formed between us guiding you to me."

"I don't understand."

"Because you don't want to," he corrected, coming closer to her. "Allow me to show you."

The king lifted her jaw up, taking his hand around the side of her face and kissing her lips.

It felt unworldly, as she slowly returned it and could feel him smiling. Her wrist suddenly tingled, making her to break away to see what caused the sensation.

It was a mark on her wrist, the same one that was on Sukuna's forehead.

"I will love you in every era," he said, taking a step back.

The markings on his face faded, his hair returning to hanging down.

"What happened?" Itadori asked.

She looked into the eyes underneath the original pair, not knowing what to say.

But she understood now.

A/N: I have a part 3 in mind. If you're interested let me know!

Tag List: @daydreamshenanigans @witchmoon10 @@spiderlilytengu @sircatchungus @sunshine7queen @yandere-consumer @emryb @96jnie @frogzxch @toshirolovebot @rottinginvelvet @rorel1a @cax-per @butteredwalnut @sweetcoorpse @mynewblackdress @serafina-nyx @karmazwrld @gambighoul @honestlysublimecherryblossom @sy557 @mag-chan

[babey-fruit-bat]

Ut te mihi Juno

Caracalla X F! Reader

Summary: Caracalla presents a surprise gift for your wedding, hoping it will be to your liking Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, Happy Winter Solstice, Yule, and glad tidings to all my followers or readers! Hoping you have a delightful holiday season no matter what it looks likes or who you celebrate with!

🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿💍🕊️🌿

The dawn cascaded through the large windows of your room in the imperial palace. Your gaze drifted open to the golden embroidered gown hanging in the windowsill. There wasn't much time to ponder the day's events as your handmaids flooded the room preparing a steaming bath with lily, rose and locus. You were ushered in as breakfast was brought up. A spread of cheeses, breads, fruits and a light wine was served, and as you ate your mind drifted to the memory of Caracalla. The first day you met so vivid in your mind, as if it was yesterday. It was a grueling process of selection, that quickly became easy within the first week of your arrival. You were selected along with five other noblewomen as choices for the young emperor to sort from and select a bride. You'd attended meetings, parties, formal and informal gatherings both as a group and an individual to see how well he might take to each of you. By the end of the week, it was time to attend the first gladiator tournament. You'd accompanied him as a group to not only show off his selection of brides, but to view how each of you would attend an event he cherished so much. You'd been fitted in a cobalt gown and filed in last, Caracalla standing by as each lady found their seat before taking his own. The heavy fabric snagged beneath your sandal, and you found yourself caught in his arms before your soft skin could be marred by the rough granite of the Coliseum. His grip lingered on your body for a few moments before he released you to find your seat.

It was practically tangible the jealousy that coursed through each womans veins as he kept turning to sneak glances at you during the game- the feel of your prefect skin burned into his mind. He had to have you. From that day forth an obsession with you erupted from within him. He could not eat, speak, nor dream without his brain plagued by your scent. He surprised the Senate by having every other noblewoman removed from his party of admirers. He desired only you to accompany him, always insisting you take his arm. Geta, who wished to consider a more rational proceeding had to share his concerns to his brother, who promptly shut him down, "She is entirely perfect- she fit beneath my arm as if the Gods crafted her just for me- you just don't understand." Despite initial discrepancies no one could deter Caracalla- he was determined to make you his empress, his eternal companion, his woman. His love for you had become all consuming- and the wedding arrangements consumed much of his spare time. He consulted you for most of it, agreeing to a winter wedding in January- to honor the Goddess, Juno, in hopes of a blessed and fruitful union. Each detail had been crafted to honor of you both. An ornate hall was trimmed in gold, and sapphires glittered from every corner of the ceiling. White silks lined the floors underneath tables with rows upon rows of the finest delicacies. Vases with floating candles and peacock feathers lined the tables. The opulence and detail in each piece was nearly overwhelming to your senses.

Billows of incense wafted through the temple, scents of frankincense, myrrh, and pine delighted your senses as you made your way to the holding room before the wedding. You slipped into your gown the white fabric melting onto your skin in silken pleats. Your maids tended to any finishing details adorning you with a collared necklace encrusted with diamonds and sapphires from the far East- the last gift delivered to your room from Caracalla before you'd become his. The groom paced frantically around the room, servants sent away, just him, his brother, and beloved pet- Dondas. He was brought along to help ease Calla's growing anxiety, but not about his marriage to you. He tugged at the golden pieces littering his garb groaning for time to move faster. The deep red robes swished around his feet clinking and jangling softly as his pace increased. "Brother, you've checked with the servants twice and you've ensured everything's been delivered?" Geta rose with a huff, his wine nearly sloshing out of his cup. "Yes, Carcalla, she's right here, the servants just brought her in as you finished dressing."

They both ventured over to a stand containing a large dome covered in cloth. Dondas peered closer trying to uncover it with the familiar sound of a creature hidden from view. "And you're sure she'll like this brother? I have yet to see you acquaint your darling lover with the stables or any of the animals' grounds- perhaps she will not share your love of beasts."

"You speak in lies and doubt, Geta, you do not see her eyes, powerful, understanding, and unyielding... like Dondas." He smiled looking to his Capuchin- who squeaked in amusement nibbling on the bowl of nuts and fruit specially brought to him. The pair paused gazing at the creature, happily unaware of the impeding events about to unfold. "Right... I suppose you would know her best- I only hope once she weds you, she does not have to vie for your attention alongside Dondas." Geta said with a lilt, focus back on his brother. "Certainly not- My jewel will be the most coveted in Rome! The most envied and cared for in imperial history- Just as Dondas is. I have no doubt she'll accept this offering as well, one perfect enough for my wife." "And there's no time like the present- Come now Caracalla, the priest is ready to start." With that, Geta guided him to the altar to start the ceremony. Time seemed to stand still as you glided down the aisle. Guests lined the rows of seats eager to catch a view at the empire's newest family member. As you reached the end of the aisle Caracalla took your hands in his, both repeating your vows in tender speech and promise. His warm hands felt firm on your hips as he pulled you in for a feverish kiss, desperate to finally claim you as his own. An astounding array of cheers followed as guests poured into the receiving hall quickly being served a bountiful round of courses and drink upon drink was filled and refilled.

Before the night concluded and guests started to make their way home Carcalla stood before the crowd determined to capture everyone's attention. He had indulged heavily in the party's whimsy and substances passed around on sliver platters, vases, and cups. You'd had your fair share too ending up in your new husbands' arms most of the night mimicking the stories spread far and wide about young lovers and their affectionate nature. "Great celebrates! We thank you for coming in celebration of Rome's glory, of victory, and great love found within it-" A round of cheers and raised glasses concurred with Calla's statement. "I wish to present my wife with one more precious gift. One more declaration before the festivities end, and I have you, my dear empress all to myself this night." His gaze met yours and darkened as low murmurs and a few celebratory cheers were heard from the husbands in the hall. Dondas leapt up to join him on his shoulder, chittering before ruffling his master's hair. "Bring her in, I cannot wait any longer for this!"

A fanfare of servants was summoned into the room by horns throwing a parade of flower petals down to meet you, leaning down where to sat until the strange dome was eye level. You carefully removed the sheet to find the most precious creature. Another Capuchin monkey, a female, dressed in a gown identical to your wedding gown, adorned with a ribbon tied loosely around her neck. The tiny moneys eyes peered into yours seeking warmth and refuge after spending so much of her day kept away from the festivities. You popped the latch as quickly as possible and cradled her close to your chest. "Oh, Caracalla, I really don't know what to say-" His eyes flickered with doubt for a moment, his mind returning to the words of his bother earlier. "She's just perfect! Not only for I, but Dondas, now he will also have a dear friend to spend his days with!" Your face was brighter than ever as Dondas crawled his way up to your shoulder to sneak a peek at your new pet. "We will have to name her, a name fitting for an imperial pet, a title she'll be worthy of..." Calla paused searching his drunken brain for names befitting a creature meant to represent so much to him. "What about... Juno?"

He paused to ponder your choice ""Hmm, Juno? As in the queen of the Gods?" "Yes, it's perfect- Juno will favor us as we have honored and favored her during our union- our future will be blessed, happy." Your decree fell to his ears in a hushed tone, keeping the intimate moment between yourselves and pets private from the prying ears of guests. "It really is perfect, isn't it?" He agreed taking your hand in his pressing a soft kiss to inside of your palm. Calla stood once more on top of the table, Geta rolling his eyes hoping he'd fall off. Caracalla swayed steadying himself before commanding the crowd to his attentions again. Your eyes glittered in amusement with his display of affection and devotion.

"Citizens- we delight in sharing our other newest imperial member with you tonight- Hail Juno!"

@certifiedcodbabygirl @s-lverwing

[tmsource]

TMSOURCE's Episode of the Week ↳ WEEK 28 ✧ 1x06 — "Red Handed"

[A memory palace is] a place that is so clear in your mind that you can walk all around it in your head. Everybody's palace is different. It has to be big, and detailed, and vivid... my point: if the tenth card in the deck is a jack of hearts, I see a devil-horned dancer at the Joplin Missouri Fairgrounds.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter One: Beyond the Window

Word Count | 1.7k

Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader

Chapter Warnings | None, just introducing the two of them! You always loved the gentle song of birds beyond your window. It offers a fleeting escape from the grim realities that haunt the Roman people outside the gates.

If only I could save them. Yet, one can only do so much. Your father does not bear the name "Justus" by chance. He strives with all his might, doing what he can for the empire. Since your mother’s passing, he has grown quieter, more withdrawn, even distant at times. And yet, the love he holds for you remains steadfast and undeniable, as does the love you bear for him. He has done everything for you, even in matters of matrimony.

At times, you wonder if you should care whether the man you marry will be young, old, or at least pleasing to the eye. But the truth is, you do not. You’ve heard tales of other women in your position who dared to hope for love, only to be met with anguish and betrayal. You will not be one of them.

Marry. Bear an heir. Go somewhere distant. That is the plan.

No love in sight, no heartbreak. Only you, poetry, music, and the birds that sing just beyond your window.

· · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

"I do not to see the purpose of wearing such elegance, when all eyes must rest upon the oh-so-great general of Rome," you say, your annoyance evident as you prepare for yet another festivity you must attend. Or better, endure.

"It is a moment of great significance for your father and for the imperium, Melita," Vera replies, her voice carrying the weight of a serious tone. "And besides, you should not speak of the general in such a manner. He is a man of honor, having done much for Rome."

You miss the days when you and Vera would run freely through the palace gardens, carefree as children, with no burdens to bear. Now, she assists you in preparing for events you cannot avoid, and you wonder if she still sees you as a friend, or only as the filia Caesaris—the daughter of the emperor.

"I apologize," you say softly. "The people hold him in great esteem, and I should indeed be grateful for all he has done for my father. I just wish we could remain here, listening to the ladies gossip about the handsome soldiers returning from war."

"It will be worth it," Vera says with a glint of excitement. "We shall see those soldiers with our own eyes. At last, we shall be the ones doing the gossiping."

"May the gods have mercy on us," you mutter, already dreading the upcoming event. · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The sound of metal striking metal still echoes in the general’s ears. The scent of blood, the desperate cries for mercy—it all lingers, vivid and fresh in his mind.

It was you or them. Your home for their home.

He wishes he could be like the other soldiers, who seek fleeting solace in the arms of strangers, lovers whose names they scarcely remember. But those were the days of his youth. He is now the general of the mighty Roman Empire. His focus must remain on strategy, on returning as many men as possible to their homes.

He hears his name called for the second time.

“Forgive me, what was it you said?” The presence of the lady at the entrance of the tent only then registered. His mind was still trapped in the aftershocks of battle, not yet fully adjusted to the safety of the moment. It always took a few days to refocus, to remind himself he was no longer in danger.

“Excuse me, dominus,” she replies softly “I asked if the armor suits you, if it is comfortable. The emperor insists it is to your liking.”

He finds himself momentarily lost in the tenderness of her voice, the sound of a woman’s presence - he had missed the feeling.

“Ah, yes,” he says, shaking himself from his thoughts. “It fits very well, indeed. Thank you for your service. I shall be in the chariot in a moment.” · · ──────────── ·𖥸· ──────────── · ·

The triumphal chariot draws near, as the man within waves to the crowd, who scream his name and hurl flowers in his direction. He is indeed very loved. You actually missed hearing and seeing the roman people so happy. After all, some of their sons are returning home. If the general returns, it means the war is over, and peace—albeit brief—shall once again grace the empire.

"The people adore Acacius," your father remarks, ensuring that you and the senators hear him. His tone carries pride, almost as if he himself had returned victorious from the battlefield.

"Does this mean you no longer wish to conquer, Father? Is the war truly over, or shall we find peace but only for a moment?" You whisper, careful that only he hears. A lady should not meddle in matters of politics, but your father had always encouraged you to think freely, to care for the well-being of the Roman people and do what you can to help them.

He leans closer, his whisper low, careful. "This is not for me alone to decide, Vita mea. The Senate desires more land and more wealth. My enemies long for the fall of Rome. The rich seek to fill the Colosseum, to profit from the slaughter and tragedies within. If I do not appease them, they will come for our heads. Do you understand?"

You nod, seeing the weariness in the emperor's eyes. He is just, but at what cost? Trying to please everyone, sometimes, can deny you from your own beliefs. 

The general ascends the stairs, and now you may better observe him. He is a towering figure, muscles honed from battle—as soldiers ought to be—his face the very likeness that artists would strive to capture in paintings and sculptures. His gaze is unyielding, as one who has borne witness to horrors, yet bears them silently.

"Emperor Antoninus Justus, I have taken Namidia in your name, so your dominion may eclipse that of all emperors before you," the general declares with stoic solemnity.

"Ah, Acacius, you need not be so formal," the emperor replies, a rare smile curving his lips, a smile you've seen only on joyous occasions.

"We shall celebrate your victory with grandeur in the Colosseum," one of the senators exclaims, raising his cup of wine in eager celebration, seeking the approval of the other senators.

The general, however, would prefer to retire for much-needed rest, would he not? You notice the fleeting glance exchanged between your father and the general—an unspoken understanding shared between them.

"There is no need for such, the glory must be all yours," Acacius replies, his voice still heavy with that same unyielding seriousness.

"The games will proceed, whether you desire them or not, General," the most influential senator among the merchants, Macrelius, declares, his tone laced with authority, intending to compel the general into submission. But Acacius does not flinch. In fact, you notice a fleeting look of irrelevance from the general toward the senator, as though he were but a fleeting shadow, insignificant in comparison to the horrors the general has witnessed. You smile, a quiet thought passing through your mind—perhaps the general shares the same defiant spirit that you carry within you.

"The people of Rome, and my family, are forever grateful for your devotion, General Marcus Acacius," you finally speak, your voice cutting through the tension in the room, a small attempt to make your presence known amidst the sea of men.

It is only then that you realize your eyes have not yet met those of the soldier. But when they do, it is as though the rhythm of your heart falters for a brief moment, missing its beat. Acacius, too, seems surprised, his face relaxing slightly, as though a weight has lifted for the briefest instant, dispelling the tension that hangs in the air. But that impression, it seems, lasts only a heartbeat—or perhaps less.

The general takes your hand, now appearing so delicate in his grasp, and with the utmost care, almost imperceptibly, he presses a kiss to your fingers. Not in a manner of flirtation, but with the solemn respect of a soldier honoring his superior. "It is an honor, to me, Caesaris filia," he says, his voice steady but laced with reverence. "To serve Rome as your father has called me to do."

He looks into your eyes, and you are not quite certain, but it seems as though the dark center of his gaze has deepened, growing larger with intensity. He holds your gaze, almost as if testing whether you will flinch, afraid of his stature, his rank, or the ghosts of battles he has fought.

But just as he did with the senator, you do not waver—not even slightly. You keep your eyes locked with his, and maybe—just maybe—you take the opportunity to truly observe his face.

He has what you would call "a funny nose", though far from ugly—certainly not. His hair, touched with strands of gray, weaves through the dark curls in a wild, unruly way. Faint lines trace the space between his brows, the mark of one who has carried more burdens than most could bear. He has lived enough to wear wisdom in his features, but you cannot find a single thing that would make him anything less than captivating—not one flaw to diminish the sight of him.

And just like that, the moment slips away, and the general withdraws his hand. You nod as gracefully as you can and begin to make your way toward the door, your presence no longer required in the room.

As you leave, you see men from all corners of the hall approaching him—offering congratulations, smiles that seem to lack warmth or sincerity. Yet, before you can step out, you steal one last glance at the general, realizing that your earlier mockery of him was unfounded. He seems like a man of worth.

Unexpectedly, your eyes meet his once again. You cannot shake the feeling that he sought you out—that he waited for you to look, after all, the door to leave lies just behind him. This time, however, you avert your gaze. Not out of fear or submission.

But because you know that if you linger on him for just one second longer, you may lose yourself to the way your heart stirs in his presence.

[the-badger-mole]

A Bend in the Stream

Zuko sat up in bed, gasping. He looked around wildly. It took a few moments for his confusion to wane, but soon he was able to recognize the familiar trappings of his room. The one above the tea shop that his uncle was making famous with his delicate blends. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk that would be in King Kuei's suites.

After registering his surroundings, Zuko sighed and let his body flop back onto his bed. His racing heart slowly returned to a steady beat. It had all been a dream after all. Being captured by the Dai Li; the moment with the waterbender in the caverns; Azula offering him a chance to redeem himself; the death of the Avatar... It was all just a bizarrely vivid dream. Just as Zuko was drifting back off to sleep, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities."

"Uncle," Zuko groaned, letting his head loll back onto his pillow.

"Don't take too long," Iroh said. "I have wonderful news! We're serving tea at King Kuei's court!"

"What?" Zuko sat upright and stared at Iroh in disbelief. That was how his dream had begun. Iroh, however, seemed to have taken his nephew's reaction as excitement.

"I got the news last night," he told Zuko. "It seems word of my mango jasmine blend has spread farther than I realized! I would have told you sooner, but you weren't here. Hurry, hurry! We still have to help with the morning rush before we go."

"Yes..." Zuko said distractedly. "That's right..."

"Breakfast is ready when you are." With that Iroh nearly skipped out of his nephew's room, humming a cheerful song under his breath.

Zuko got dressed and hurried through his meal (rice porridge with nuts and dried fruit was too common a breakfast for Zuko to read into it's similarities of his dream breakfast). Then he dressed and headed down to the tea shop. The feeling of deja vu was annoyingly sharp, but Zuko reasoned that his life had become so unusually predictable lately that his mind was still adjusting to the similarities of the day to day grind. So many of the customers were regulars at the tea house, it was no wonder he was learning all the orders already, despite his indifference.

At last, it was time to go serve tea to King Kuei. Something in Zuko's stomach turned. It was a sharp turning feeling in the pit of his stomach. King Kuei's palace was too familiar. He'd never been before, so how could he have dreamed it up in such detail? Zuko's hackles were up as he and his uncle were led to the room where they were to be received. It was just like his dream. Why were they being kept waiting for so long? Eventually, the wait began to grate on Zuko, and he paced the floor nervously.

"Calm down, Nephew," Iroh chided. He poured himself a cup of tea, completely unbothered.

"What's taking so long?" Zuko growled in frustration.

"Perhaps King Kuei overslept," Iroh said, smiling slightly at his nephew's discomfiture.

"Something's not right," Zuko said. Then he froze. It was just like his dream. Just like his dream. He looked at his uncle with wide, frightened eyes.

"What's the matter?" Iroh asked, setting his tea cup down.

"I think-" was all Zuko was able to get out before the door opened, and the next part of Zuko's dream came rushing back to him. Azula walked in, flanked by Dai Li agents, and smirking at Iroh and Zuko smuggly.

"It's tea time!" she said with a saccharine tone.

"No way!" Zuko gasped.

"Have you met the Dai Li?" Azula nodded to the men immediately at her sides. "They're earthbenders, but they have a killer instinct that's so firebender. I just love it." Zuko could only gape at his sister. He knew what she had been about to say. How could he know that? This moment felt less real than the dream had. Iroh stood up beside his nephew, and Zuko knew the words Iroh was about to say to his niece before they were ever spoken out loud.

"Did I ever tell you why they call me the Dragon of the West?"

Zuko was ready to grab Iroh's arm and run the minute Iroh created the hole in the wall. When Iroh used lightning to blast a hole in the second wall, Zuko froze again. Iroh jumped into the bushes below and turned back to his nephew.

"You'll be fine!" he assured Zuko. "Jump!" How could Zuko explain to his uncle why he couldn't? He hardly understood himself. He was just frozen into place. Moments later, Azula and the Dai Li caught up with him and Zuko turned to face his sister.

"You're so dramatic," she taunted him. "What? Are you going to challenge me to an Agni Kai?"

"You're not interested," Zuko murmured. Azula blinked in surprise, caught off guard for the barest moment. It wasn't enough, though, and her Dai Li guards sprang into action before Zuko could do much. He was quickly bound in stone cuffs, and throne into the catacombs beneath the city. And just like so many things that had happened that day, he was unsurprised to find himself trapped with the Avatar's waterbender (Katara. He'd known her name for some time, but Azula herself couldn't have tortured him into admitting it).

His mind was reeling as his memory of his dream and the reality of the situation crashed together, and he had the unpleasant sensation of remembering everything Katara had said before she'd spoken it. Particularly painful was Zuko anticipating her confession about how he was the face that for months she'd been picturing when she pictured the enemy. When she offered to heal his scar, Zuko was ready to break the walls down himself. Still, he submitted to her touch on his face. He wouldn't have been able to explain why for anything. Fortunately, he was spared thinking too hard about it when the Avatar arrived.

Azula caught up to them not long after. When Azula made her offer this time, Zuko froze, completely unable to thinks about anything beyond his own confusion. It was his dream. It was exactly his dream. Right down to the Avatar being struck down, and his uncle being taken prisoner so Katara could escape with the Avatar's....corpse? Zuko watched her go uncertainly. She met his confused gaze with a flinty one of her own. A shiver went down Zuko's spine.

Later that night, Azula congratulated Zuko on his choice. He barely registered any of it. Had he done all of this, he wondered. Had he literally dreamed his success into reality? He settled down into the bed of the room Azula had given him. Where King Kuei was, Zuko couldn't begin to hazard a guess, but for the time being, Azula had claimed his palace as her own, and given her brother the second best room available. Despite this, sleep came reluctantly for Zuko, but still, it came.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko sat up in bed, gasping. He looked around wildly. It took a few moments for his confusion to wane, but soon he was able to recognize the familiar trappings of his room. The one above the tea shop that his uncle was making famous with his delicate blends. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk he remembered falling asleep under in King Kuei's suites.

A few moments later, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities."

This time, all Zuko could do was stare. Iroh was as excited as ever as he admonished his nephew to get out of bed and get ready for work. Zuko was not at all surprised when Iroh announced that he had been invited to King Kuei's palace to serve tea.

"It's a trap," Zuko warned him. "We shouldn't go."

"Don't be silly, Nephew!" Iroh chortled. "Why would Kuei want to trap us?" Zuko wasn't sure how to handle that question without sounding insane. He went along with it. Perhaps he was still dreaming, Zuko reasoned. He had been asleep the entire time, and his brain wasn't allowing him to wake properly. He went through his day for the third time. He remembered most of the orders he'd taken the last couple of times, so he was able to devote most of his brain space to figuring out what was happening and how to stop it.

This time, he said little as he paced the floor in King Kue's palace, but he still hesitated just long enough that he was once again caught by Azula's Dai Li agents. And once more, he landed at Katara's feet. As before, he submitted to her tirade silently. This time, he was caught by the pain in he voice when she told him how his family had taken her mother from her. He wondered about her story. How long ago had it happened? How had it happened? How young had she been?

Katara wasn't much younger than he was, Zuko guessed. Maybe a year or two. He wasn't certain. She was still young enough to need her mother. It wasn't fair that she'd lost her mother so young. He said that, too, after commiserating with her over the loss of his mother. What would Ursa say? What would she think of her son sharing this with a Water Tribe girl?

When her hand came up to his face, Zuko had already accepted that she wouldn't have time to try her healing water on him. Sure enough, as her thumb grazed his lip, the wall on the far side of the cavern burst open, and the Avatar came in, followed closely by Iroh. Katara threw her arms around the younger boy, relieved to be rescued, and completely forgetting her offer to heal Zuko.

Zuko hesitated longer on his sister's offer. Little else changed, after all, how could he not help his sister? How could he not take his chance to go home? Still, Azula's suspicious gaze lingered on Zuko a bit longer afterwards. Zuko felt more eyes on him in general for the rest of the day. By the time he turned in that night, he was certain his sister had eyes on him even as he climbed into bed, sore, tired and confused.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko opened his eyes, somehow unsurprised to find himself in the familiar trappings of his room above the tea shop. There was no smell of floral garden air from the windows. His blanket was scratchy and stiff wool, and not the down stuffed silk he had fallen asleep under in King Kuei's suites.

A few moments later, his door swung open and Iroh came in with a wide grin.

"Good morning, nephew!" he said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities." Zuko sat quietly as Iroh told him the good news. That they had been invited to serve tea to the King of Ba Sing Se. Iroh's smile dimmed a bit when he realized that Zuko wasn't reacting.

"Are you alright?" he asked. He sat down on the edge of Zuko's bed and pressed a hand to his forehead. "Are you sick?"

"...no," Zuko said after a moment. "I just...didn't sleep well." That may have been true. Zuko didn't remember falling asleep. Didn't remember dreaming. It seemed to him that he had just closed his eyes for a moment and then the world had reset itself. What was happening?

"Alright," Iroh said, unconvinced. "Breakfast is ready when you are." He got up and started to go. He paused at the door and stared at his nephew. "Or you can stay home, if you'd prefer." Zuko shook his head.

"I'm alright. I'll be out in a few minutes."

Zuko had heard all of his customers' orders so many times by this point, he didn't even need to pay attention to them. He did the cursory work, pretending to jot their tea preferences down on his note pad before he turned them into his uncle in the kitchen. Maybe that's why he was able to pay more attention. Maybe that's why he saw Katara this time. Their eyes met across the crowded tea room, Katara's eyes wide in horror. Zuko's eyes wide in shock. Had she always seen him that day? No wonder there was more anger than surprise when hours later, the Dai Li threw him into the catacombs before her. This time was no different.

She launched into her tirade, hurling her accusations, her pent up anger, her grief at him. This time, Zuko understood a bit better. She wasn't angry at him- or rather, she was, but it was a deeper wound she was purging. So when she spoke of her mother, Zuko said,

"That's something we have in common." And then... "What was her name?"

Katara was thrown completely for a loop, Zuko could see it in her eyes. She turned to him, wiping the tears from her eyes. She stared at him quietly for so long, Zuko didn't think she would answer him. But then...

"Kya," she whispered. "H-her name was Kya." Zuko shut his eyes and repeated the name to himself. Kya sounded like a poem. What kind of person was she? Was her daughter anything like her? Zuko thought she probably was, and if Katara was like her, then Kya must have been a very fierce...pain in the neck. The thought made him smile a bit.

"Are you laughing?" Katara demanded. Venomous rage bled back into her voice. Zuko met her gaze head on.

"No," he said. "I was just wondering if she was anything like you." That froze Katara once again, and this time Zuko did have to bite back a chuckle. There was a long, awkward pause. Then,

"My...my grandmother says I am," Katara said quietly. Zuko wasn't entirely sure she was speaking to him directly, or just didn't care if he heard her. "She says that I'm just like my mother when she was my age." She went silent again, casting furtive glances at Zuko. "What was your mother's name?"

"Ursa," Zuko sighed.

"Are you like her?" Katara asked. Zuko considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged.

"I hope I am," he said.

They didn't get around to Katara touching his face or her offer to heal his scar. They were still on opposite sides of the cave when Iroh and the Avatar burst in. This time, Zuko hesitated a beat too long, and he was crushed by a rock from one of the Dai Li agents.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko shot up in bed, choking down a strangled scream. He could still remember the agonizing pain radiating from his caved in chest, and the feeling of blood filling his lungs as he gurgled out his last breath. He ran his hands over himself looking for any marks, or bruises. Any evidence at all from what had happened....last night? Tonight? What was going on? A hiccupping sob escaped Zuko just as the door opened.

"Good morning, nephew!" Iroh said cheerfully. "It's a beautiful day, full of endless possibilities." Iroh froze abruptly when he saw the look on Zuko's face. "What's wrong?"

Zuko didn't say anything. He just leapt out of bed and threw himself on Iroh and wept like child in his uncle's arms. Iroh let him, alternating between comforting Zuko and trying to understand what had him in such a state. It took nearly ten minutes before Iroh managed to calm Zuko. Then he bundled Zuko up in his scratchy blanket and guided him to the little kitchen table, the one that wobbled and was hardly big enough for the both of them. Minutes later, he pressed a fresh cup of soothing tea into Zuko's hands and squeezed into the other side of the table.

"What happened?" he asked. Zuko choked down an errant sob and shrugged helplessly.

"You won't believe me," he muttered.

"Try me," Iroh implored. He reached out across the table and squeezed Zuko's free hand. "Please, Zuko. Did something happen last night? Did you get into some trouble? Did you break up with your lady friend?" At that Zuko laughed. If only if it were something that small.

"No," he said. "Jin and I haven't spoken in..." Zuko frowned. How long ago had it been? How many times had he relived this day? Did it count towards how long it'd been since he'd seen Jin?

"Then, what is it?" Iroh looked ready to cry himself. That startled Zuko. And it loosened his tongue. He told Iroh everything. How he'd live this day already, several times. How the invitation to King Kuei's palace was a trap. That Azula was not only in the city, but in the middle of a coup. He told Iroh about being trapped in the cavern with Katara (despite the situation, Iroh managed to look arch at Zuko using the waterbender's name). Zuko hid his shame, but he told Iroh how Azula won at the end of the day. Then he told Iroh how the last time, he'd died. Iroh was stricken at that. He scanned Zuko for injuries that they both knew weren't there.

"No wonder you were upset," Iroh said.

"You believe me?" Zuko stared at his uncle in shock.

"I have little reason to doubt," Iroh shrugged. "After all, I haven't mentioned tea at King Kuei's yet. I've seen far too much in my day to dismiss your claim out of hand."

"What do I do, Uncle?" Zuko pleaded. Iroh shook his head sadly.

"I don't know myself," he admitted. "This has the marks of some spirit's intervention."

"So, I just have to keep living today over and over until whatever spirit is doing this decides they're done?" Iroh pursed his lips and blew out a long slow breath.

"It's rare for any spirit powerful enough to do this to act arbitrarily," he said. "There must be something you need to do. Some lesson you need to learn. Have you done anything different?"

"Not really," Zuko said. The only major changes had been his conversation with Katara and his hesitation in that final battle.

"Maybe you should try."

So, Zuko did just that. Neither he nor Iroh ended up going to the palace, or to work that day. They stayed inside. Katara never saw Zuko at the tea house. Zuko never ended up in the cavern. Beyond that, Zuko didn't know what difference it had made. He didn't know that without Iroh there to distract his niece, Katara and Aang both died in the cavern. He didn't know that Sokka and Toph had just barely made it out of the city, or that Chief Hakoda driven more by grief than logic had ordered a failed attack on the city that ended with half the Southern Tribe warriors dead or captured. It wasn't until the Dai Li agents arrived at their apartment that Zuko realized that Azula knew where he and Iroh lived. There was no need for her to keep him around now. The Avatar was undeniably dead. The stone cuffs made it impossible for Zuko and Iroh to defend themselves, and in a rare act of mercy, Azula killed them quickly.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko woke up with the memory of lightning scorching his internal organs, and the echoes of Iroh's agonized screams in his ears. He flung his blanket off and threw the door open, startling Iroh, who was just coming in to wake him. This time Zuko didn't hesitate to tell Iroh everything. This time instead of waiting around the apartment all day, they stole out of the city. They were miles away when the city and the Avatar fell. They didn't stop until night fall, and they made an impromptu camp. They sat around the fire quietly, picking at their meals.

"Do you think this will end the loop?" Zuko asked his uncle. Iroh pursed his lips and blew out a long, slow breath.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I hope it does. But maybe I'm not who you're supposed to save."

"It must be," Zuko insisted. "Who else?" Iroh shrugged.

"Who can say with the spirits? It's rare for any spirit powerful enough to do this to act arbitrarily, though." Zuko didn't agree, but he said nothing. Finally, Iroh turned in for the night. Zuko offered to keep watch, determined to stay awake until the sun rose the next day. He drank a whole pot of the strong morning tea they'd packed. Despite their desperate flight out of Ba Sing Se, Zuko wasn't the least bit tired. He was certain he'd be able to stay up.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

Zuko opened his eyes and let out a long, loud string of expletives when he found himself in the familiar trappings of his room above the tea shop. Iroh poked his head in, frowning in concern.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"No!" Zuko shouted. "Nothing is alright! I hate the spirits!"

Zuko didn't want to explain anything to his uncle this time. He disappeared into the city, picking fights with anyone who crossed him. Eventually he was caught by the Dai Li and taken to the underground lake prison. His last memory was of a flashing green light and someone trying to hypnotize him. The next few times he woke up, he tried breaking into the palace and catching Azula unawares. He lost three times, died once, reached a stalemate four times, and killed his sister twice.

Most often, he ended up back in the cavern with Katara. Once, she managed to use her magic water on his scar. It worked, sort of. The scar faded until it was just a pinkish blemish over his eye, but then Azula hit the Avatar with lightning just before Zuko took her out. The Avatar died because Katara didn't have the water to heal him with. She was kind enough not to blame Zuko, but the sound of her sobs chased him into the new day. He never let her try that again. The next few times, he found Katara earlier in the day. He managed to get her to listen to him most of the time. She was, he found, more inclined to trust than he expected. These days still ended up with Ba Sing Se's fall, but Katara usually managed to escape with her friends, sometimes with Zuko's help, sometimes on her own, but Zuko never took her up on her offer to join them. Something inside him still balked at the idea of helping the Avatar, though he'd long since given up on returning to his father. Being murdered by his gleeful sister in increasingly creative ways had dashed any real hope he had that his father wanted him home. He learned a lot about Katara on those days, when he managed to get her to hear him out before attacking.

Today, he was exhausted. He went to work his shift at the tea house, because he didn't know what else to do. He was rude and snappish with the customers all morning, barely stopping to listen to their orders, and even though he didn't get a single order wrong, the owner of the shop sent him away early. That was fine. Zuko didn't stop to answer his uncle's calls as he stormed out into the street, running into a smaller person. He reached out instinctively to steady them, ready to berate whoever it was, but he froze. Katara was in his arms, staring up at him in horror.

Of course...

This had happened before, and the last time, both he and Katara had been taken by the Dai Li to that underground prison lake. Now, Zuko let go of her and turned to run in the opposite direction before she even had a chance to react. He expected to feel water snaking around his ankles, an icicle in his back, to hear her screaming for the Dai Li behind him.

None of that happened. Instead, he ran into two more girls. Girls in Kyoshi Warrior makeup. Girls who he'd recognize anywhere, no matter how much paint was on their faces.

"Oh no," he groaned.

"Is that anyway to greet old friends?" Mai asked mockingly.

Zuko ended up in the cavern with Katara. He wasn't sure how she'd gotten caught, but he was there first this time. Whatever tirade she had been preparing to launch into stopped abruptly when she saw him hitting his head against the rock wall with alarming force.

"What are you doing?" she gasped. Zuko was too dizzy to be surprised when she pulled him away from the wall. He could feel something trickle down his face, and whatever it was had Katara staring at him in open concern.

"Let go!" Zuko tried to shrug her off. "I have to get out of here!"

"Zuko!" Katara pulled him away from his wall, and he was too dazed to stop her. She pulled water from...somewhere, Zuko wasn't sure. Maybe the walls. The cave was damp enough. Her hand glowed a soft blue, and the pain in his forehead faded, to his disappointment.

"What did you go and do that for?" Zuko demanded, rubbing his hand over his unbruised forehead.

"Why were you hitting you head against the wall?" Katara countered sharply. She folded her arms and glowered at Zuko.

"I was trying to kill myself, if you must know," he sneered at her. For all the times they'd met and all he had learned about Katara, this was a new day. They were not friends.

"What?" Katara looked stricken, and Zuko felt bad, despite himself.

"Forget it," he said, turning away from her. "It doesn't matter."

"Zuko, what's going on?" Katara ran around him so she could see his face. "Tell me what's happening! Why are we here?"

"Trust me, you couldn't have picked a question I want answered more," he scoffed. "I don't know why I'm here. I've been here too many times to count at this point, and I don't know why! I've tried not coming here, but that doesn't work either."

"What are you talking about?" Katara asked, staring at him as if he'd grown another head. Zuko almost laughed. Maybe he had. It would make as much sense as anything else.

"I'm cursed, Katara," he said a bit hysterically. "I'm cursed. I've lived this day so many times... I...I don't know what to do. I'm losing my mind, and I'm scared." Zuko crumpled to the floor and sobbed into his palms.

Katara didn't know what to do. He could feel her hovering over him, uncertain of what, if anything, to do for him. Finally, she sat beside him, and hesitantly wrapped her arm around him from the side. All pride had utterly fled Zuko. He threw himself into her embrace and sobbed on her shoulder. Katara stiffened, and for a moment Zuko thought she would throw him off of her, but kindness, or compassion, or whatever drove her overrode her hatred for him, and she held him stiffly while he cried.

Zuko composed himself as fast as he could, and pulled away from Katara. He'd left a large wet mark of sweat and tears and snot on her dress, but she was a good sport about it.

"Will you tell me what's going on?" she asked.

"You won't believe me," Zuko said. The words brought back a memory of a similar conversation with his uncle.

"Try me," Katara said, with a wry smirk.

"I already told you," Zuko said. "I'm reliving today and I don't know how to get out of this loop."

"What?" Katara stared at him as if his second head had sprouted wings and started earthbending.

"I told you wouldn't believe me." This time Zuko did chuckle. "I've been here in this cavern with you, so many time's I've lost count. Do you think I'm crazy?"

"I-I," Katara stammered. "Zuko, this isn't..."

"I can prove it," Zuko told her. "We've spoken before. You've told me things. Personal things."

"Excuse me?" Katara stared at him, aghast.

"You have," Zuko insisted. "How else do I know that you have magic healing water from the Spirit Oasis?"

"Y-you were there," Katara said. "You could've been spying." Zuko shook his head.

"Nope," he said. "That's not it. I also know that you lost your mother. We've talked about her nearly every time we've met." Rage flashed across Katara's face at that.

"How dare you-?"

"I'm just saying what you told me," Zuko said. "You told me her name was Kya. And you told me how your grandmother said you're just like her when she was your age." Katara gaped at him in shock.

"How did you know-"

"You told me," Zuko sighed. "Just like you told me that your favorite color is seafoam green, and you miss the dancing lights in the sky back home, and your brother Sokka once got two hooks stuck in his thumb. One time, you ate papaya even though you hate it because a fortuneteller told you to. I have no other way to know any of that except from you. I'm not lying. I'm stuck in some sort of time loop. I don't know how to get unstuck."

"Oh-" Katara sat beside him quietly for a long time, processing the new information. "And I just..told you all of that? Why?"

"I don't know," Zuko shrugged helplessly. "I asked, and if you were in a good mood, you'd tell me. I don't always see you, and when I do we don't always talk." More silence, though, Zuko could almost hear her brain working double time to process all of this.

"Do you know how it started?' she asked after a long while.

"No," Zuko shook his head. He had tried to recall if he'd crossed any priests, or accidentally touched some relic, or walked under a ladder, but he couldn't think of anything out of the ordinary until he woke up and the day repeated. He told Katara as much.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I am, too," he shook his head. "I'm the only one who knows it, but you're all stuck in this loop with me, it seems. I really am sorry."

"That's got to be so lonely," Katara said. Zuko let out another shuddering sob. He hadn't let himself admit it yet, but she was right. It was incredibly lonely. No matter how many times they'd spoken, Iroh didn't remember why his nephew sometimes woke up screaming. Katara wouldn't remember this conversation, or that she and Zuko had made a connection and had more in common than she realized. In a few hours, Zuko would wake up and they would be enemies again. Katara pulled him into another embrace, and Zuko clung to her like a life line. He didn't cry on her anymore, though.

"I'm so scared," he whispered. "I can't even die." Katara stiffened in his hold, but instead of pushing him away, she held him tighter.

"There's got to be a way out," she said. "There has to be." Zuko didn't bother telling her that he'd tried everything he could think of. He pulled away slightly, not quite ready to let go of her yet, and rested his forehead against hers.

"Maybe I'm not dying the right way," he said.

"Why do you think you have to die at all?" Katara asked. Zuko snorted.

"Wouldn't it make your life easier if I were dead?" he asked. "If I die and end this loop, you wouldn't have to worry about me coming after you, or betraying your trust, or...or..." Zuko clenched his teeth tightly. Katara unwound an arm from his mid section and cupped his jaw.

"Where's that stubborn mule-ox who chased us around the world?" she demanded. "Where's that fighting spirit that led you to do stupid things, like challenge me while I was surrounded by my element?"

"I think that bit of me died around the fortieth time I woke up this morning," Zuko laughed mirthlessly. "Katara, I can't do this anymore. I have to figure out a way to end this. Even if it means I die. I can't go on like this!" His grip tightened around her waist, and he felt the tears coming again.

Then his world came to a screeching halt.

Katara's lips were pressed against his. Every thought in Zuko's head flickered out and all he could focus on was how soft Katara's lips were.

She pulled away with a jerk. Already she was babbling an apology, an explanation that she didn't know how else to distract him, other words that were lost on Zuko. Then she stopped talking when he leaned in to kiss her again. It was an urgent, awkward kiss between two inexperienced and desperate teens, with too much teeth and too many hands uncertain of where touch was okay. They kissed until they were breathless. They kissed until the wall imploded. And when Iroh and Aang burst in and the dust settled, they were still clinging to each other in a way that left little doubt of what they'd been doing.

They sprang apart, but instead of rushing over to Aang as she'd done so many times before, Katara stood awkwardly beside Zuko. A bright red blush covered her face and neck, and she looked a bit ashamed of herself as she avoided her friend's devastated face, but she didn't leave Zuko's side. Her knuckles bushed against his reassuringly, but neither of them made to entwine their hands.

There was no time to discuss any of what had happened. Azula and the Dai Li agents had heard the commotion as they always did, and soon they found themselves in the middle of a battle. Zuko had long since given up on joining his sister's side. And maybe the kiss had emboldened him, but this time, he joined the fight against his sister without hesitating. That enraged her, but between him, his uncle and Katara, she and the Dai Li were on their back foot. Zuko tried to keep his sister's focus on him. This time he would see Katara and his uncle escape safely with the Avatar. But something went wrong, and Aang was struck by Azula's lightning.

Katara in her rage was a sight to behold. She caught Aang as he fell, and almost simultaneously called up a wave with all the water in the cavern and froze Azula and her guards. That hadn't happened before. Neither had Zuko and Iroh ever managed to actually escape the cavern with Katara and Aang.

Later that night on Appa's saddle, Zuko watched in awe as the spirit water literally brought the Avatar back from the dead. He was glad that Katara hadn't wasted it on something as frivolous as his scar. Especially not when she looked at him, almost weeping with relief when her friend's chest began to fall and rise again.

In the chaos, Zuko and Iroh's presence had gone unremarked by Katara's other companions, but now that Ba Sing Se was miles behind them, and the Southern Tribe Warriors' camp lay before them, Sokka and Toph finally stopped to question their new companions. Katara told them in no uncertain terms that they owed Zuko and Iroh both hers and Aang's lives, and that they were fine to travel with them as long as they liked. Iroh offered his services as a firebending master for the Avatar once he woke. Zuko was quiet and stuck by either Iroh's or Katara's side- the latter was noted by Sokka with more than a hint of suspicion, but Zuko didn't care. It wouldn't matter in a few hours.

When they landed for an hour to plan their next move, Zuko told Katara as much when he managed to capture a few moments alone with her. She squeezed his hand.

"It'll be okay," she said. Zuko thought she was going to kiss him again, but Sokka appeared, inserting himself between them, with a suspicious glower levied at Zuko. Katara scoffed and went to go check on Aang.

They arrived at Chameleon Bay not long after that, and Zuko and Iroh were welcomed, albeit coldly by Katara's father and his troop. Zuko wasn't sure what Katara said, but he and Iroh were given a room on the Fire Nation ship Chief Hakoda and his men had managed to take possession of. Zuko couldn't sleep, though.

He ended up on the deck of the ship as the moon was nearing its zenith. It was close to the time that the day would reset for him. Zuko had timed it before. He figured he had about twenty minutes before he blacked out and woke in his room at the tea shop. He dreaded it, but he also felt a bit melancholy about it. No one would remember what happened today. His new allies, as fragile as the relationship was, would not know what happened tonight. His uncle, sleeping safely (as safely as was possible, at least) would soon burst into his room, excited about the trap that had been set for him at King Kuei's palace. Katara wouldn't remember comforting him in the caverns. She wouldn't remember kissing him, and when he saw her next, they would be enemies again. He didn't dare hope for a repeat of this particular version of the day, either.

Light footsteps came up behind him, but Zuko didn't so much as flinch. The worst that could happen would be someone slitting his throat. He wasn't overly worried about it, though, and he wasn't all that surprised when Katara sat down beside him, letting her legs dangle over the edge of the stern.

"It's late," she said.

"Yeah," Zuko agreed.

"Aren't you tired?"

"Aren't you?" Zuko scoffed. He glanced at Katara out of the corner of his eye. She was still covered in gore from where she'd caried Aang out of the cavern. Her hair was stiff with dried sweat, and there were smudges of mud and blood on her face and hands. She was gorgeous, Zuko realized with horrified clarity. He looked away from her and cleared his throat. He turned his gaze out on the the water of the bay. The moonlight scattered across the surface of the water, and danced across the waves.

"It's getting close to the time when my day starts again," he told Katara quietly. He sagged against the railing of the ship and rested his forehead against the cool metal. He was exhausted. He was always exhausted when he reached this part of the day.

"What if you stay up?" Katara suggested. Zuko shook his head with a sigh.

"I've tried," he told her. "If I don't fall asleep, or get knocked out or die, I just sort of black out. I can't fight it." Katara gasped, but didn't say anything. She slipped her hand inside of his and held it tightly. It was a nice sensation to end on, Zuko thought. He didn't fight it when sleep came to claim him.

Sunlight on his face woke him. Zuko looked around in confusion. He was not in his room above the tea shop. Above him, he saw the lightening dawn sky instead of the ceiling he'd been expecting. There was no scratchy stiff wool blanket over him. There was something soft and warm, and much heavier than a blanket on him though. He looked down and found Katara asleep on his chest, her arm draped across him protectively.

She must have heard the change in Zuko's heartbeat. Katara began to stir. She sat up and looked around blearily. She was not a morning person, Zuko thought giddily. When her eyes finally landed on him, several things crossed her face; surprise, fear, then dawning realization.

"Did you do it?" she asked. "Did you break the loop?" Zuko nodded, swallowing hard.

"It looks like it," he said. He looked around himself in awe. It was a new day.

[lokisgoodgirl]

lol so I had a really vivid dream that involved Loki and a bath last night and it gave me some headcanons I thought you'd appreciate:

In his mind, showers are for cleaning one's body. Baths are for luxury and sex. Whenever he asks a servant to draw a bath, that servant will know what's on his mind.

For Loki, baths are a very intimate place, more intimate than a bed.

That said, he will always share it with a willing partner, and his tactile kink shows the most when he's sliding wet hands all over your soapy chest.

His first handjob was when he invited a maid into the bath with him. His first time with sex started in bed and ended up in the bath.

He always starts a bath by wading in until he's hip-deep, then he asks for scented bath oils and slathers them all over his chest like this:

He loves bubbles but won't admit it to anyone. He'll only bring them out if you've been sleeping with him long enough for him to trust you.

Loki will lose track of time in the bath with you so easily, the water usually goes lukewarm before he notices he's been lathering you for nearly an hour.

Water sex definitely turns him on, especially if there's a lot of splashing and play involved

He loves having his partner comb/condition his hair and massaging his scalp, and he'll return the favor if you ask.

His baths are larger than most hotel pools. He absolutely must be able to swim around freely.

He prefer natural springs to the baths in the palace. He loves watchin the stars from a natural hot spring.

Anyway, hope you have a good Monday. :D

I can't even add anything to this, it's absolutely sublime 😭😂

I lovvvvvvve when his servants run a bath, they know what's up🤤

Thank you for making my Monday 110% more erotic. I tend to just have nightmares constantly so I'd love, i would DIE for something like this omg 💕💕💕

[tenshiharmonia]

Okay so, I had this pretty vivid dream about Helluva Boss, so I thought I might as well share it with you while it's still fresh in my mind.

It starts off in the dining room of Stolas' ex-palace, as Stella and Andrealphus join Via at the table. The Marquis starts chatting with his niece, but something doesn't feel right. A ferocious and unusual cold slowly fills the room, and frost begins to cover the windows as Andrealphus mentions Via's approaching birthday. Stella is uncharacteristically silent. Finally, as the owlet starts to freak out, wondering what is happening, her uncle flippantly announces that he intends to have her die. Via is left dumbfounded. She knew that her mom and uncle weren't the most upstanding people in Hell, but surely they wouldn't be sinking that low. Of course, the pompous peacock is quick to reassure her that it's nothing personal ; he just cannot allow her to inherit everything he worked so hard to usurp.

Octavia finally understands what this is all about, but it's too late : her uncle's wintery magic is already at work, encasing her in a sarcophagus of ice, to prevent her from fleeing or even defending herself. All she can do is plead. If this is her dad's title they are after, they can have it. She doesn't want it anyway. Sadly, as Andrealphus reminds her, this won't suffice. Her existence was willed by King Paimon and the Goetia. If the Marquis wants his ploy to succeed, the heir needs to be eliminated. Angrily, Via retorts that the family won't let it slide, but Andrealphus came prepared. They already have the perfect cover-up, he says, snapping his fingers to summon a snarling Striker, trapped in a block of ice. Reveling in the theatricality of the situation, the peacock then retrieves a familiar dagger from his coat. A glowing blade made of angelic steel, perfect to murder demon royalty.

In the most melodramatic way possible, he goes on to explain how, after failing to assassinate her dad, the revengeful imp sneaked into the palace and took advantage of a moment of inattention to kill the poor princess. Ah, if only her incompetent father had taught her how to defend herself against commoners… Still, they have their scapegoat, so it's now time to sacrifice the lamb. As ice encases her and the blade draws near, Via can only beg for her mother's help. Conflicted, but ultimately unwilling to intervene, Stella looks away, closing her eyes tightly. But as Andrealphus is about to strike, something happens. A swirl of magic emanates from Octavia and, in a split second, forms a barrier around her. But it's not sporting the princess' magic's signature purple hue. No, said magic is tinted a dark, familiar blue. Andrealphus doesn't have time to react. The blessed dagger hits the shield, unleashing a powerful shock wave. The air itself seems to vibrate, as if he rang a crystalline bell.

Carried by an irrepressible force, the sound echoes through the city, catching the perplexed attention of a few passers-by, until it reaches a certain building. Inside, the I.M.Ps are emerging from a bejewelled portal. Blitz congratulates his team on a job well done before turning towards Stolas - who just hung up the phone - to get a debriefing. Their conversation, however, is suddenly interrupted by the reverberating sound. Blitz is quick to express his bewilderment while the prince-turned-secretary freezes, recognizing a noise he hoped he was never going to hear, a noise that was searching for the owl's ears and no others.

Back to the palace. The dust is settling, revealing the aftermath of the blast. The dining hall is scattered with furniture debris and pieces of exploded ice. Octavia, now freed from her glacial shroud, is standing in the middle of this mess, looking in puzzlement at the starry magic swirling around her. Amid the wreckage, Striker, freed by the blast, is painfully regaining consciousness, while Andrealphus and Stella - who were likewise ejected by the violent shock wave - are struggling to get back on their feet. "Urgh…" the Marquis mumbles. "The bastard… !" His sister, meanwhile, can only enquire in angry confusion what the f*ck just happened. "I should have seen it coming…" the peacock continues, clenching his indignant fist around the handle of the holy dagger. "It's a…"

"A ward, Blitz." Back to the I.M.Ps' office, Stolas is frantically explaining the situation to the assassin. "A defensive spell, meant to repel any threat. I placed it on Via right after she was born…" "And nothing has triggered it until now ?" an incredulous Blitz asks. "It's meant to ward off one thing and one thing only : death. Such is the price of such a powerful spell." the prince clarifies. "Oh Blitz, Via is in grave danger ! We have to hurry ! This was the strongest spell I had, but even then, the protection it offers will not last eternally…" "I'm on it, big bird !" the imp exclaims, in a trademark mix of lighthearted enthusiasm and adamant seriousness, as he draws a comically large rocket launcher.

Meanwhile, in the frozen corridors of Stolas' ex-palace, a curious chase has begun. A furious Andrealphus, crawling through the halls like a monstrous, icy spider, is pursuing a frightened Via as an agitated Striker is dragging the poor girl by the hand. "We have to find an exit !" the owlet exclaims. "Thanks, I didn't notice !" comes the assassin's sarcastic answer, as he hastily tries to break a frozen door open, without success. "Listen up, princess, the only reason I'm sticking with you is because your fancy little trick is the only thing protecting us from your crazy uncle's powers…" As he says this, a swirl of glittery magic forms another barrier to block one of Andrealphus' ice blades. "You can run, Via, but daddy's spell won't protect you forever." the peacock vociferously declares, recoiling from the impact as his ice shatters against the sparkling shield. "Sooner or later, it. Will. Die. Out !" Evading the Marquis' assault, the improbable duo rushes into another hallway. "Now if that crowned head of yours could make itself useful and tell me where we can find a way out, that'd be appreciated…" the cowboy says, in a blend of irritated scorn and genuine nervousness…

And this is pretty much where the dream ended. I don't think it's even remotely close to what the future seasons have in store for us, but on a purely cinematographic level, I thought it was pretty neat. Now, what my waking mind made of it is probably much more detailed than what it really was, and I may have embellished a few parts, but still, it certainly made for a fun exercise. Anyway, I hope you found it somewhat entertaining. :3

[starrysvn]

angel | park seonghwa

pairing: fem!reader x non idol!park seonghwa

genre: soulmate au

word count: 3.5k

warnings: mentions of food, fluff

playlist: inception - ateez, francesca - hozier, unknown/nth - hozier

networks: @cromernet

author’s note: happiest birthday to my lovely star bai @hwaightme , i love you more than words can say <3 i hope today has been filled with nothing but happiness and laughter and love. thank you for being a precious friend and my partner in delulu. ilysm, sending the biggest warmest hugs <33333 please enjoy this delulu frankenstein

masterlist | navi

“Are you quite sure we should be doing this?” 

The night was drawing to an end, and so was your wit. You could no longer stand to be in the suffocating ballroom, the amount of people spinning around was making you dizzy to the point of nausea. That was when he offered you a way out, seeing you struggle to maintain composure while sitting all alone.

“Absolutely not,” you heard the smirk in his voice while he led you out to the garden, sure you were following after him.

“How irresponsible of you to draw a young lady away to a dark secluded corner of a garden,” he laughed. “Should I be fearing for my life?”

When he stopped walking you almost ran into him, looking around to see you standing in the heart of the English Garden of the palace. During the night it was almost dreadful, as opposed to its beauty in the daytime, if it weren’t for the few scattered lights. 

“Not at all,” he turned, but you couldn’t see his face. The thought confused you only for a second, for you knew this man. You trusted him with your life. He reached for your hand, holding it in his warmer one. “Not long, now.”

“Not long,” you whispered back, your surroundings slowly fading as he pressed his lips to yours. 

Sometimes it was more than just a dream, you could feel it in your bones. It lingered during the day, the unshakable conviction that it was all true. That it had been true. It could not have been just your mind making up the ballroom dancing, whispered poems and a soft piano echoing during a sunny afternoon. So you wrote it all down in letters you kept under your bed. Most times the dreams had already escaped your memory, so all there was were jumbled thoughts scribbled quickly before even those could fade away. Other times, you woke up in the middle of the night, so convinced you were still there, still surrounded by warmth and love you never dared imagine could exist. Your hand blindly reached for the notebook you kept on your nightstand, chasing after the vivid imagery in your head. 

The words you kept closer to your heart were the ones he whispered one night, you could hear vivid chatter from somewhere far away and the evening breeze making goosebumps erupt on your skin. But he was there, standing tall and faceless beside you, his hand guiding yours to his lips. 

“Farewell, my angel,” he had whispered against your knuckles before you woke up. 

In shades of dark and moonlight, you waited for the distinct feeling of the lingering feather-like kiss to vanish, both hoping it would and wishing it wouldn’t. Alone in your bed you hesitated to turn and reach for the notebook like you usually would; you had the feeling you could never forget the way his voice spoke the words that made every hair stand on ends. 

And you never did, for each night you would be in his company in dreamland and, each night, he would call you his angel. He showed you a world of colors, of hushed whispers in the dark, a warm murmur by your ear as he enveloped you in his arms. It was all you ever wished to hear in the daylight rather than just inside your head. 

It was another day waking up itching to know more, wanting to know if you were going insane or if this was the twisted way in which fate had decided to assign you your soulmate. All you had ever had were dreams that made no sense, yet gave you hope. Even when you did not know where to start, if to even dare at all.

There was little you could do, really, except live in a dream. Because even as you made your way down a busy street, en route to work, chopped away whatever you needed for lunch or dinner, every other thought was stuck on him. This illusion of a perfect man who faded as moonlight gave way to another day. Sometimes it felt so real that it was hard to discern from reality itself. The phantom brush of a hand, the faint memory of a scribbled note, of his contagious laughter. It was as if you could hear them, as if they refused to go and stay where they belonged. 

But you couldn’t live in a dream, could you? You could hold out for however long it took, but you could not give up life in the meantime. 

“I swear, just trust me!” Your colleague would not give up. The constant nagging had become almost unbearable, so much so that it made you want to give in. “One date and if it sucks, I’ll leave you alone forever, I pinky promise.”

The copier rapidly dished out the papers you needed to bring back to your desk, giving you the perfect excuse not to look up at San. You sighed, he had been on a mission to get you to go out with this guy for a while now. He swore up and down that you two were destined, but you usually were able to dissuade your colleague pretty fast. Not today, it seemed. 

“Listen,” busying yourself counting the copies, you won another few short seconds before the time came to face San’s begging eyes. “Just one coffee?” 

“Please, please, believe me you guys would be perfect togeth- hold up,” smile opening up on his lips, eyes shiny and wide, San almost did a double take. “Are you saying yes?”

Sighing again, you fiddled with the top corner of your papers - that you were now hugging to your chest - before nodding. 

“One date,” you agreed, holding up your pointer finger right in front of his face. “And you have to stay near in case he’s weird and I need to escape.”

Proud of the conditions you laid down, you watched as San furiously nodded along, albeit a little offended that you’d think I’d set you up with some random weirdo. Thus, he ran back to his desk, murmuring about texting his friend. You let out one last sigh before returning to your station, too. 

You hoped you’d made the right choice. 

The first hints of autumn were making themselves known, a cooler breeze than usual surprising you as it caressed your face upon walking out the glass doors, the sun already on its way to set. You hid your face a little further into the scarf around your neck, walking out of your workplace beside San. 

It had been a week since you gave into his pleading and he’d been very secretive about the infamous date. You were starting to worry. Maybe his friend had said no? Or was he planning something elaborate? Was he not saying anything because, really, this friend of his truly was just some weirdo?

You were pulled out of your thoughts by San himself, catching him wave and say something along the lines of there he is. He quickly found your elbow, gently hitting it with his, snapping you back to reality. You barely caught any detail of the man walking towards the two of you.

“Alright, that is the friend I was telling you about,” your head snapped into San’s direction, eyes wide as saucers. “Looks like you’re going on a date.” 

Your friend was smiling his Cheshire grin, making you want to wipe it clean off his face.

“Choi San, this is an ambush!” You yelped, alarmed by his quiet giggling and eyebrow wiggling. “High treason even, could you not warn me at least-”

“Hi.”

Stood there, wrapped in a warm looking coat, was quite possibly the most gorgeous man you had ever seen. His smile was timid but friendly and his eyes were just as bright and warm, reflecting the lights from the lamppost. A few strands of wavy, chocolate hair fell delicately just above them.

“Well, I’ll leave you guys now, have fun!” 

Oh, you were going to kill San.

“Hi,” you greeted, eyes leaving the retreating figure of your friend to focus back on the man in front of you. 

“I’m Seonghwa, San’s friend,” he smiled again, melting your heart a little just by the sound of his voice. “It’s nice to meet you and I apologize for the suddenness of this all… it appears he didn’t need help with document boxes after all.”

“He sure didn’t,” you tried to keep the bitterness out of your voice, for it was San’s brilliant planning that landed you here, not his friend’s. So, you introduced yourself as well, suggesting to go to your favorite cafè just around the corner and trying to take the surprise blind date in stride. 

“It’s the only place I could think of,” you said, almost apologetic as you sat down. Truth was, the little hole in the wall cafè was special to you. It housed memories of tranquil mornings where you got there early enough to sit down for a coffee before work, joyous lunches with friends to celebrate achievements, quiet afternoons spent in the company of your favorite books. Your feet had taken you here on auto-pilot. 

“It’s lovely,” his smile could melt snow, you figured right then and there, after he’d looked around with curious eyes to the unique decor and shelves of literature, poems and papers.

Seonghwa was just as San had described him, after all. He made sure to open the door for you as you entered the cafè, he asked your order so he could go up to the register while you found a table you liked and even offered to pay. He was charming and a great listener, and he had managed to make you laugh until tears pooled in your eyes. It was so warm to be around him, easy to talk to as if you’d known him your whole life, almost as perfect as two puzzle pieces fitting together. 

When it was time to leave you almost didn’t want to. You wanted to stay there with him and keep talking, keep sharing your interests and favorites, exist inside the cozy bubble that had formed around you two. So, with the promise of another date and Seonghwa insisting to at least walk you to the nearest bus stop, you went home. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, taking you by surprise when he dipped down to land a kiss on your cheek before you could get on the bus. It stayed with you, making you feel like a teenager all over again. 

You went through the motions of preparing dinner and getting ready for bed as if floating on a cloud, barely believing you had it in you to feel so light. And if, while laying down on your bed with the lights off, you had felt so full of hope for something good, happiness and giddiness enough to make you giggle to yourself, then you woke up the following morning as empty as ever. A foreign hollow in your chest, that you had trouble identifying, was steadily painting everything gray, from the breakfast you made to the commute home. It was only then, sitting on the bus staring out to the traffic, that you realized you hadn’t dreamt of him that night. For the first night ever, you weren’t chasing after his fading figure. 

Each night you went to bed hoping to hear his voice and see on which adventure sleep would take you. Then, each morning you woke up well rested and clear-headed: no more piecing together the fragments of dreams you couldn’t remember, no more trying hard to see the face of the man that made you feel loved. Months of empty nights went by until, with time, you even forgot to remember him unless you stumbled upon your notebook. 

“You seem quiet today,” Seonghwa piped up, still browsing through the vinyls in front of him. 

“I was just thinking,” you shrugged, making your way over to him and taking his hand in yours. His smile, soft and contagious, made your heart flutter. Still focused on his search, now led with one hand only, he intertwined your fingers. It was at times like these, when he would kiss the back of your hand, that you wondered.  

“About what?” 

Finally, he looked at you, eyes bright and welcoming and saying what his words hid: you can tell me anything. You just shook your head, smiling back at him, shrugging as if the wandering thought didn’t lie heavy on your head whenever it knocked on the doors of your consciousness. 

“Alright, then, I have a surprise for you,” he pulled you away from the vinyl stand, almost as giddy as you felt, and into the busier paths of the market. Under string lights that festively shone, between the other passersby, it was easy to feel like you were the only two people in the world. That’s how Seonghwa made you feel; in his presence, living life was easier. If he was holding your hand, you were sure you could face any hurdles that may come. It was a feeling so real that you could almost taste it in his sweet kisses, his loving embrace, and no longer only dream of. 

As he dragged you - arm lazily thrown on your shoulders or hand on the small of your back if too many people forced you two to walk in line - remnant, persisting memories almost made you dizzy with deja vu. His hand squeezing yours to make sure you were still following, to tell you he was still there, his voice pointing out whatever caught his attention as you passed by, the wintry breeze and the cacophony of voices, laughs, faraway music surrounding you. 

“Here we are,” you almost bumped into his back when he stopped and stood facing the cafè that held the memory of your first date.

“It’s closed,” you pointed out, hearing his chuckle shortly after.

“Good thing I’ve got the keys,” he jingled them in the space between the two of you, a proud smile on his lips. You cocked your head to the side, brows furrowed. 

“You’ll see.” 

Seonghwa made quick work of opening up and leading you in, turning on the softer lights, leaving the sign on “closed”. As if on autopilot, you wandered around the room to the one table that had caught your eye. On it, laid few of your favorite pastries and pictures of you together, a colorful bouquet in the middle. 

“Seonghwa… what’s all this?” 

“Happy birthday,” his arms embraced you, bringing you to rest your back against his chest, holding you close. Speechless, you turned around in his hold, ready to speak but the words wouldn’t come. “I know you said you were working and were probably going to go home and do something on the weekend, but I didn’t want to just text you happy birthday and go about my day. Today is your day and you’re very special to me and I wanted to do something to wish you-”

You kissed him - interrupting his rambling and pulling him closer - gently like his arms were around your waist, warm like your cheeks and slow as if you had all the time in the world. 

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips, hands still playing with soft strands of his hair. “You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to,” he pecked your lips once again before sliding away from you and pulling out the chair for you to sit. As he did, another confused memory swirled in your head. You pushed it away. Sitting in front of you, Seonghwa asked about your day and let you ramble on and on, so you asked about his, too. He left his hand out on the table for you to hold, so you did, not missing the way he quickly hid a smile after you intertwined your fingers. Whenever he was close to you, Seonghwa wondered if you could tell how furiously his heart was beating in his chest; be it by brushing your finger against his pulse or resting your head against it. 

When he deemed dinner over, he pulled out of its box a little cake and stuck a candle right in the middle of it for you to blow out - only after he’d sang happy birthday to you. Seonghwa found the way you covered your blushing cheeks with your hands the most adorable thing you could ever do. He seemed antsy, itching even, to give you your present, though. So you pushed the platter with your slice of cake aside. 

“You could’ve finished,” he pouted, making you laugh over the rustling of a paper bag.

“You looked like you were about to explode, Hwa,” you accepted his present, wrapped pristine and precise, insisting that he didn’t have to. He kept on saying he wanted to (and also, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?).

A smile so bright it rivaled the sun opened up on your lips, seeing the art cover of your favorite artist’s album peeking from the torn wrapping paper. 

“Is this why you were hogging the stand earlier?” You beamed at him, who sat with wide eyes hanging by your every word. You could tell his leg was bouncing. 

“I couldn’t have you buy it when I got it for you,” he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his you’d noticed, with a sheepish smile. You stood and, on the way to the record player of the shop, you kissed his cheek, murmuring a soft thank you. It was a look you wished to forever have engraved in your mind, the one he gave you when you offered him your hand to take, asking if you could have this dance. 

Seonghwa stood as if in a trance, nodding his head, only for you to guide him where less tables were. He pulled you close once again, slowly swaying to the beat of his fluttering heart or the music, he wasn’t sure. Time and time again he’d asked himself, in his time with you, how could he have been so lucky to meet you. To somehow hold your attention for long enough to make you see him, care for him. For you to want him to be this close to you. He hoped you’d allow him to be forever.

He twirled you around and waited for you to land back in his arms, feeling as dizzy as he often was when you found yourself there. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, cheek resting against his chest.

“Please, don’t thank me, my angel,” he whispered back, freezing time. 

The first time he’d called you angel, your heart had leapt from you. And yet, it wasn’t then and there, but back in your dreams. You didn’t know whether you were breathing still, all you knew was that when you looked up, Seonghwa was already searching for your eyes. 

“Say that again,” your voice was barely above a whisper, just as fragile as a piece of glass. 

“My angel,” his was too, broken by emotion and you had a feeling you knew just why. Seonghwa’s hands came to cup your cheeks, eyes drinking you in as if it were the first time. Perhaps it was, because you were looking at him like you finally found who you had been looking for. Like you could finally see the face that had populated your dreams. 

“It’s you,” it sounded crazy, absolutely mad to say something like that, but when he nodded back with unshed tears in his eyes, you knew. Seonghwa’s arms were quick to hug you to him once more, holding close like he never had before. Both your figures were shaken by sobs, but your hearts were being mended. Behind your eyelids, scenes of you through time played; all your dreams finally making sense as memories of past lives spent together, consumed by a love so fierce that it found you in every life. 

 “I can’t believe I found you again,” Seonghwa whispered as your sobs died down. He was still holding you, in the middle of the cafè while the music played, as if he were afraid you’d vanish. 

“I can,” you sniffled. “I dreamed of you for so long, I should’ve known…” 

“I thought I was going out of my mind,” his watery laugh pulled a chuckle out of you. “I longed for the day I’d see you again.”The record had gone quieter, maybe because there was only so little you could focus on when you finally were in the arms of your soulmate. There was no need for words, not now. Not when you could feel the love pouring out of your fingertips. Not when Seonghwa was placing kisses on the tears running down your cheeks, your temples, your forehead, your lips. Not when his whispered my angel made up for the time you’d spent apart. All this running around in circles every night, chasing after figments of what you thought could only be your imagination had finally brought him to you. You both laughed at destiny for making you dream for so long, secure in the newfound conviction that you’d be together no matter where it brought you.

[brabblesblog]

Ch 3: … that we may seek him with thee.

Astarion has ascended, and she has stayed with him. Life in the Crimson Palace isn’t as idyllic as it seems. Is there a chance for their relationship to go back to how it was? Or is it too late for the Ascendant and his consort?

This series is about Ban, my Tav, and the Vampire Ascendant. Will be angst and smut, with sprinkles of fluff.

This fic is a softer take on Ascendant!Astarion and of the changes he undergoes after the rite. Can Ban handle the change, and if a chance came, would she choose to run? And can the Ascendant win her back in time? Inspired by the concept of vampire wives and that IGN interview with Larian that discussed the ascension.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Withers’ party is in full swing. Ban finally learns the truth about her nature, and finds a chance at freedom.

Read on AO3.

Masterlist.

Ban was all dressed up, her doublet a match to Astarion’s. He’d insisted on it.

“I had it especially tailored for you, pet,” he had said, helping her button it up, “so they could see who you’re paired with. Who you belong to.”

She hadn’t fought it. In fact, she hadn’t fought him on much since that night she’d seen into his mind. It had given her a new fear to contend with: since he could show her his thoughts, push them into her brain, then was he able to do the reverse? Were her thoughts being read? She’d always feared being compelled, but the idea of him reading her mind at will was somehow more invasive. As frightened as she was, however, she believed it to be unlikely. When their minds had touched, the feel of his presence had been alien, most certainly not something that would go unnoticed. It had felt rather like the tadpole - a weight in her brain.

So she’d tested it; she’d waited for an opportune moment, finding it in a meeting over the planning for the expansion to the gardens Astarion planned to build. While he’d been deep in conversation about the intended theme of the garden, Ban had stared at her clasped hands and imagined something that if seen, would make him react strongly but not enrage him. She’d shut her eyes, bringing to mind a vivid image of him on his knees, naked and bruised, begging for her touch. She’d focused on Astarion’s voice and posture, ready to pick up any change in his tone or demeanor.

“I’m not sure I’m going for gothic,” Astarion had drawled. “I would highly prefer a more romantic... ambience to it.”

“But, my lord, the rest of the house-“

“I don’t care if it matches!” he’d hissed, making the others flinch.

Nothing. He hadn’t missed a beat, hadn’t seemed to notice anything at all. Ban had exhaled and let the image go, relief flooding her. Her mind was still her sanctuary.

Her plan may yet work.

Seeing everyone together again was wonderful; Ban stared at each and every person, drinking everything in. It had been months since she’d left the confines of the Crimson Palace, and this was a much needed change of scenery.

Behind her, the Ascendant fell back, a goblet of wine in his hand. He’d told her to mingle while he satisfied himself sampling the wines Withers had on tonight’s selection.

She scoffed. He was as likely to be preening as sampling the wines - possibly both at the same time. Either way, he was distracted.

Ban spotted Gale and made a beeline for him, tapping Karlach on the shoulder and beckoning her to join them on the way. They exchanged pleasantries and loudly regaled each other with shallow stories, while slowly moving out of the Ascendant’s earshot.

Eventually, the three of them huddled in a distant corner, hidden behind a boulder.

“What did you find out?” Ban asked Gale, all pretense discarded.

Gale clasped Ban’s hands. “Ban. You have an option to leave. I implore you. Take it.”

He squeezed, bracing himself. “You said he has never compelled you to do anything. Even if you argue. Does that remain true?” As she nodded, he couldn't help the smile that broke across his face.

“Then I must be correct.” He leaned in. “You’re not a spawn, Ban. It’s not that he won’t compel you. He can’t.”

“Oh, goody!” Karlach clapped her hands. “This is perfect!”

Ban stared at them both in silence. He had turned her, had he not? She felt a massive pull towards him and his will, so much so that even as she planned to leave, part of her assumed she’d return to the palace tonight. She opened her mouth to say this, but Gale interrupted before she could.

“He will still hold sway over you. He is still your creator, your... lover," he hesitated. "But that influence is not magical at all. You’re a bride, Ban. If everything you’ve told me is correct - he made you his bride.”

Ban took a moment. A vampire bride… or a spawn he hadn’t compelled yet? She realized, belatedly, that Gale’s theory was likely true. Astarion had fed her his own blood when he’d turned her, encouraged her to drink from him when making love. He had considerable influence over her, but it was never hard to refuse, never hard to be spiteful to him, even in the heights of his rage.

She had never even considered the possibility. She’d always assumed that she’d either escape and have to try to fight his compulsion while hiding from him - Cazador had been able to compel his spawn from a distance; presumably the Ascendant could as well - or that she’d have to let the chance at freedom go by.

But a chance at a future without him, free of the fear of compulsion, that also had some prospect of happiness? It was more than she’d ever expected.

Oh, he’d hunt her down, but if she couldn’t be compelled… there was a chance. He'd definitely retract his extension of Mephistopheles' gifts from her, making her sensitive to sunlight and significantly weaker, but what of it? Better that than to always be living in fear of hearing his voice in her head, of an immutable command to come back to him. To be little more than a slave, forevermore.

Ban braced herself. “Let me try to talk to him one more time.”

“Ban!” Karlach squeezed Ban’s shoulders, as if desperately wanting to shake her. “You have been trying. For months! What makes you think-”

Gale raised a hand to hush the tiefling; he understood. “One more chance, Ban. And then we will have to intervene if you can’t do what must be done.”

Ban nodded, and steeled herself. One last chance, then. For her, for the man he'd been. For their love.

She headed off, marching towards the Ascendant. Astarion’s ears pricked up, his head tilting towards her in his usual, elegant manner as he heard her familiar footsteps.

“And? How have our good friends been without us to guide and protect them?”

He seems to be in a good mood, probably a little buzzed, Ban thought.

“They’re great - everyone seems so happy,” she said, trying to go for the simplest response possible. She shifted uncomfortably, preparing to delve into what she really wished to talk to him about.

Her words seemed to surprise him. He looked away for a moment, considering this information. “Really? Are you sure? I was certain they’d be half dead and begging us to take them back.” He let out a small scoff.

"Well. Miracles never cease." He leaned back, shifting his weight.

“Still, it is good to see them. And good for them to see us, side by side, flourishing.”

She almost choked out a laugh at that. Seriously? He considered what they’d become flourishing?

She tried to stop herself, tried to keep her composure, but utterly failed at the sight of his smug, inebriated smirk.

“Is that what we’re doing? 'Flourishing'?” I want to leave you, you fucking prick, she thought.

He laughed, a false trill of mirth that belied the threat underneath.

“Of course, my darling. Look at us! We share a palace, share power, live lives eternal in each other’s arms. What more could anyone want?” The smile was now more a sneer, daring her to disagree.

She almost yielded out of habit, almost agreed with him as she’d usually done of late. But she remembered Gale’s words and what she’d promised. One last time, and if Astarion refused to listen, he’d have decided for them both.

“Freedom?” she ventured.

That word that he loathed so much now; it was all he’d wanted before. Freedom had led him to become this, a shell of his former self. Ban despised it for what it had driven him to be, but she needed it for herself, too.

“Gods, not this again. I give you wealth, power, pleasure - every decadence that can be afforded to a person? But you’d rather - what - sleep in the dirt again?”

His voice dropped almost to a growl; they were both acutely aware that wasn’t the point. But he’d never, ever, acknowledge exactly what it was she wanted, or why he was so adamantly against giving it.

Give her any scrap of freedom and she would be gone. She would leave him, he’d be alone again, because he could no longer make her happy. And gods, he was trying. Was it really his fault the one thing she wished for was the one thing he could not provide?

He dropped the pretense of civility, the venom creeping into his voice with each word.

“You are my consort, and I will see you living the very best life. Even if you don’t appreciate it.”

He chuckled sardonically. “Why don’t you go and mingle? Have fun with your so-called friends. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He may not be completely sober but the fury simmering behind those crimson eyes was not dulled by the drink.

Ban sighed, watching him with a soft, melancholic expression. This was it, then. He had sealed their fates. She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back later.”

She turned away, heading back to Gale and the others, trying not to let tears stream down her face. She could feel Astarion’s eyes boring into her back.

They formulated a plan, involving the rest of the companions in attendance. One by one, they each found a chance to wander over to where the Ascendant lounged lazily, offered him a drink, engaged him in light conversation. None of them had talked to him much after he’d ascended, but they all made sure to ask him about his ambitions, or how he liked Wither’s wine, or how life with Ban had been. Each of them offered a toast to his newfound life, to his power and prestige, and each toast was pompously accepted.

Astarion drank and drank, making the most of his ability to enjoy alcohol. Withers’ wine is sanguine, he noted to himself. He imbibed until he slurred and swayed, leaning on a rock to keep himself up. He was basking in his former companions’ hollow words of praise - of course, he knew they were lies, but what of it? He could still enjoy the pretty falsehoods for what they were: attempts at currying favor with the most powerful vampire to ever walk the land.

I should take a tour. Just to see what the rest are up to. He looked over at his former companions with a haughty, self-satisfied grin. With a thought, he shifted into his bat form, flying low over the other guests, trying to overhear snippets of conversation.

From afar, Ban saw him flying and immediately changed the course of her conversation with Wyll and Halsin, switching to talking about Ulder and steering away from talk of the Ascendant’s parties and which patriars had been invited. The two men noticed Ban’s change in topic and followed her lead.

Astarion flew by, the bat’s wingbeats erratic and his path not very straight.

He flitted around a little more, then landed by his goblet. Hooking his wings around the rim, he drank with little licks. He was too drunk to transform back, so he satisfied himself with more wine; he’d definitely need to ask Withers where this particular vintage came from.

Not too long after that, the goblet fell over and Astarion’s furred body went along with it. He’d toppled over, cuddling the cup, his fur stained with wine, as the drink finally took him. He was out cold.

Gale noticed. So did Ban. Silently, everyone moved.

Astarion slept through it all.

Astarion woke up in a haze of morning light, blinking away the sleep. His vision was blurry, quite unlike the instant focus he usually had. He attempted to sit up, failed, and realized he was looking at wings and claws, not hands. It took another moment to fully grasp he'd passed out as a bat.

He changed back, stretching to his full height as he did. The world snapped into focus; the bright rays of the sun bathed everything in warm light. He saw the camp, heard the sound of birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the breeze. The first word out of his mouth was her name.

“Ban? Ban!” He called out, taking another scan of his surroundings, looking for her. Nothing. Odd. She ought to have picked him up and held him whilst he slept; he was a little miffed to have found himself on the table with the remnants of last night’s drink instead.

He opened his mouth to voice his dissatisfaction when he noticed the utter lack of noise other than the ambient sounds of nature. There was no rustling of shoes on the ground, no voices, not even Ban’s slow breathing, a sound he could pick out anywhere, as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

In fact, no one was here at all, the camp as empty as when they’d left it during their travels. It slowly dawned on him that she’d left, and that the others had probably given her aid. They’d likely slipped away in the night as he slept, left him in the dirt, exposed and vulnerable. Alone.

He gaped dumbly at the empty clearing, his mind simply refusing to wrap itself around this development. The first feeling that bled through the shock was disbelief. Did she not love him, not need him? Was what he provided not enough? Was he not enough? He’d given her every possible luxury - clothes, jewelry, coin, blood, all of it was hers. He’d allowed her free rein of the palace; she’d been free to decorate and remake it as she saw fit. He’d given her the keys to his kingdom, allowed her to run it and rule it in all but name. Most importantly he’d given her himself - he’d satisfied her every night, hadn’t he? He knew of that absence in her, of course, but weren’t his efforts enough?

That incredulity slowly gave way to anger and he screamed in frustration. How dare she leave, after everything he’d done for her! Everything had been for her, had been done with her benefit in mind, her happiness the goal by which he oriented the compass of his life.

After all, hadn’t eternity together been their goal? They’d discussed forever, back in their days in the wild. Admittedly never seriously and largely in jest, but still. Days, nights, every moment in between spent in her arms, finally loved and chosen. Finally accepted for who he was, loved for himself and not what he could provide. He’d finally been seen. He had thought that would be it, an infinite span of years in which to love her and be loved by her.

The pain surged again, but he quickly fought it back with a deep, seething rage. How dare she defy her creator, defy the man who had given her eternity and snatched her away from the jaws of death?

A small voice in the back of his head, painfully smug and tinged with pride in Ban, reminded him that he had defied his own master for freedom. He refused to acknowledge the voice’s point, shoving it and its pathetic speaker deep deep down once again. It wasn’t the same. He was not Cazador. All he wanted, all he worked for, everything - all of it was for her happiness. She simply couldn’t see past her issues, refused to look at the bigger picture - what did it matter if he couldn’t be what he was, when he could give her everything else? Was that a sacrifice too great for their love to bear?

He took several deep breaths, willing himself not to dwell on that thought. Throughout the barrage of emotions, however, one reigned supreme, try as he might to ignore it. Pain.

Yet again, he’d lost everything that mattered. Ascendant or spawn, happiness had always eluded him. The fear of falling under Cazador’s yoke had disappeared with the rite, but now he felt like he'd lost something far more vital than freedom had ever been.

He found that his new, living heart was beating so fast it felt as though it might burst out of his chest. He placed a hand over the frantic pounding, feeling his breaths becoming quick and shallow. Am I dying? He tried to breathe deeply but the air felt too thin. Even though he knew he didn’t really need it, it felt like he was suffocating.

You were never enough, were you, Astarion? Too much baggage. Too much pride. Too much. Too willful, so master loved hearing your screams best. Too beautiful, and so you were his favorite toy to loan out. Too untrustworthy, so you had to seduce the leader of your group. Too weak, so you had to ascend. Too cold, and so she has abandoned you.

Too much of the bad, too little of the good. No one ever liked you - not your master, not your siblings, not your companions.

She did, that small voice he’d spent months trying to ignore tried to argue, but the other, more cruel voice laughed at him.

She loved you when you were weak, when you hid away the parts of yourself you knew she would not like. How does she like you now, when you no longer hide all your hard edges? Does she gasp your name like she did back then, as if it was a prayer? Does she crave your presence? Do her eyes shine when they watch you? Does her heart still soar when you approach?

She discarded you the moment you displeased her. She never loved you.

You have nothing of worth to offer, other than your body, and even that wasn’t enough. You could’ve offered your heart, but even that is a shriveled, rotten thing, despised by its intended owner, thrown back at your feet.

Nothing, Astarion. You were nothing, are nothing, and will always be nothing.

Left to die buried in the dirt, and now left in it again. Don’t be surprised, Astarion. You’ve never deserved any better.

She was gone. All it had taken was six months and a drunken night of false frivolity, and she'd gone from his life. He screamed again, this time in agony.

A thought crossed his mind. What if he took Mephistopheles’ gifts away from her? She’d come back then, surely? She’d be vulnerable right now, traveling in the daytime - she’d suffer as he does. He began to reach for that power, then stopped. The image of her burning in the sun, of her beauty marred by her skin charring, kept his retribution at bay. He wondered - had he made her his spawn, would he have compelled her back into his arms? The idea appealed to him for a fraction of a heartbeat, feeling the briefest pang of regret for not having done it, before he was swamped with nausea, that reviled voice rising up from the depths with a vehement no! The voice met no resistance for the first time since the ritual; if he couldn’t even bear the idea of her burning in the sun, how could he bear breaking her will, just as his had been?

She could break his heart every day, could keep tormenting him forever, but he couldn’t imagine ever inflicting the pain of the sun on her.

Her smile, her laughter, her adoration…he knew these were things he would never, ever see again. Yet he wouldn’t be able to bear knowing these things no longer existed in the world out there, somewhere. Somewhere, she’d still smile, if not for him, then for something else. She’d laugh, and someday she’d give that blinding, wonderful adoration to someone else - they’d bask in its glow as he once had.

He knew he’d lost her but he still longed for her. He saw and heard her in his mind’s eye as she’d been, happy, beautiful, his - the anguish was deep and torturous and it grew, filling all of him, excruciating vines of misery wrapping around his withered heart, thorns sinking in with stabbing pain, restricting its beating as it fought and failed to keep its rhythm-

With the last of his composure fading, he reached for her mind before the panic could drown him entirely, desperation overruling all sense of pride.

Ban.

He felt it. His consort’s mind opened to him, her guard down.

She snapped awake. That alien presence was there. Within it, she could sense his rage, but she also felt the shortness of breath, the racing heartbeat - that immense, all-encompassing panic. It was almost enough to make her want to tell him she’d come back. But what good would that do?

She waited, eyes closed. If Gale was right, she was truly free; if he was not, then the Ascendant would most likely break her will here and now. Or, barring that, he would at least rescind his gifts. She contemplated what an immortal life in the darkness would be like, wondered how long it would take for her to yearn for its warmth the way she knew he had. Ban realized she’d have to brush up on her combat skills once more - without his gifts she’d be weaker, more susceptible to monster hunters; without the constant supply of blood she’d have to hunt as well. But none of these thoughts were conveyed through the link; to him she sent only her silence.

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment, the touch of her mind soothed him. She was still there, and his miserable, pathetic heart calmed itself at the contact. A wave of self-loathing rose on the heels of that calm. He ought to be better. Stronger. But his heart had remained the same, try as he might to deny it, and it ached to be parted from her.

I may have power, but it would be nothing without you. You complete me.

He had said those words to her at some point as they’d made love. He hadn’t really meant them at the time; they’d been platitudes he’d known she wanted to hear. Now he fully appreciated the sickening reality of it: that it was true, that it had always been true. His denial of his own feelings had blinded him to it. In rejecting his former self he had also rejected her love, a love he could no longer pretend he didn’t need. In fact, he needed it more than anything else - no luxury, no amount of strength, no amount of lovers, not even power - nothing came close. It was a realization that came too late.

He felt her eyes open, saw her rise from the unfamiliar bed to hold her hand out to the sunlight streaming through the window. She was testing him, and he was elated to feel the wave of relief that flooded her when she realized he hadn't taken away his gifts. He hoped that even given how much she must loathe him, she knew he wouldn’t inflict that hurt on her. Her eyes then focused on the city sprawled below her window, and he realized where he must go.

Waterdeep.

[hyukassubi]

🍪01 | Your Eyeliner Sucks But This Ceremony Doesn't

♡𓂃 Pairing -> (Former) Knight! Huening Kai x Seamstress! Reader

♡𓂃 Synopsis -> Growing up, you never believed in purpose, nor destiny. Simply following the path of life, becoming a royal seamstress didn't at all seem like a bad idea. Only thing is, it wasn't your idea.

Your best friend who just so happens to be the crowned prince knows what it's like to grow up having limited choices, and Prince Kang Taehyun doesn't want the same happening to you. The commander knight, in turn, has other plans for the future. After Huening Kai closes a profound chapter of his life, he seeks refuge from the chaos of his past, opting for a cozier lifestyle instead.

... And it just so seems that those plans wouldn't be fulfilled without you.

♡𓂃 Wc -> 851

Twenty-two years old, having been the Royal Seamstress for the last six years, expert hands when it comes to stitching and sewing together fabrics, beads, jewels, other materials others couldn’t possibly deem as ‘wearable’, crafting together the strongest bulletproof armors for hundreds of knights, and you still can’t do a perfect eyeliner wing.

Dipping, stroking, erasing on repeat for the past hour or so at the prince’s vanity but you can’t cry and rip your hair out because someone is on a stallion coming in from the east at a hundred miles an hour back home where he belongs.

Commander Knight Kai Kamal Huening is coming home, or Kai, for short.

Prince Taehyun, pink haired and silver-tongued, wearing that deep emerald green corset over his white flowy blouse and tight-fitting black leggings designed by none other than you, perched cross-legged on his cloud-soft silk-satin bed, blowing over his black-painted nails. “Y/n, stop.” How endearing of him, truly.

“Not until my eyes look like they can cut through fruits, dramatic and beautiful.”

Childhood best friends, the two of you were, which explains everything.

“Honey.” Taehyun said the word per syllable. “You already look dramatically beautiful without all that cakey face paint junk.” And that was the truth.

Your wing on your left eye had a higher arc than the one on the right, a slight tilt, a ten degree angle difference.

You can’t leave this room until you look like a model, there’s no way. Not after you pieced together an outfit just for this occasion.

You scrubbed that black ink right off. “Taehyun, I can’t unglue myself out of this vanity—”

“—my vanity—”

“—Until my look is complete. It’s a one time thing, okay? Kai’s coming home after like, what? A whole year? I have to look good for his ‘Welcome Back’ ceremony.”

Taehyun threw himself onto his bed completely, arms flailed, sighing, deep in thought.

Some part of Taehyun couldn’t believe this was real, then again, he feels hopeful. Having that burned hole in the trio filled again after all these years feels surreal, to say the least, but wasn’t that all he hoped for all those years ago? Kai’s quick and safe return? So that both you and him wouldn’t have to spend your days under the sun longing for his presence ever again?

You still had Taehyun, and Taehyun still had you. The prince had his seamstress, the seamstress had her prince… but perhaps the palace did feel a little less sunny, a little more spacious without the knight’s presence.

“I wonder if Kai had changed.” Taehyun stared blankly at the high ceiling of his elite bedroom, getting used to the view of an oil painted spring sky. “I wonder if he’d changed after his year-long quest of dragon slaying and all of that… God forbid they made him shave his head and grow a beard like all the other knights that my father have set on extreme voyages.”

You grimaced at the vivid imagination you had in your head, continuing on a more hopeful note, “I just hope he’s okay.”

“He can be bald and bearded up and still be okay.”

“I will actually rip the pink roots out of your hair.” Your left wing swooped the wrong way. Again. “Unless you have anything better to say, stop painting that picture in my mind.”

Taehyun chuckled and you hated how cute he has to look whenever his lips crease up into a smile like that. “Whatever you say love, whatever you say.” The prince can’t help but feel proud for raising his best friend to have a smart mouth, just like him. Perhaps not as sharp or quick-witted, but still an all rounder in sass. “Are you done, by the way? The entire kingdom is literally right outside the castle gates just… waiting… for us.”

“Waiting for Kai.” You corrected, reminding him that the main character of today is Kai Kamal Huening and not Prince Kang Taehyun. “I hope his ten thousand fangirls won’t trample over him and his pony once he arrives.”

“I doubt that'll happen, not when Kai will probably be trampling over you of all people.”

You closed off the half-full eyeliner container. “Taehyun, do my wings look decent?”

“More than decent.” He hopped out the bed onto his feet, walking to the door. “Now, come on, we've got a ceremony to attend to and a knight to meet.” He unlocked the wooden door to reveal a long hallway, as most castles do. “After you, Royal Seamstress.”

You curtsied, fanning your closed eye in the process. “You're very welcome, Prince Taehyun.”

Walking out of the prince’s room, your heels clicking on the marbled floor and down the set of stairs passing the prince’s bedroom and your design studio, the faintest cheer of a crowd from up ahead, your heart races just thinking about Kai’s return.

The last time he'll ever return.

Masterlist | Next

♡𓂃A/n: Taehyun being sassy. That's it. That's the author's note. (proofread this once and dipped but I hope everyone enjoyed this nonetheless! Taehyun may not be the love interest in this story but his sassy bestie energy is unmatched, solomons can't miss this.)

♡𓂃Tags: @imcringebutimfree @i-like-to-read-at-4am @pengningie @marloree

Reblog & review if you like my work !!

[xxsycamore]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐟𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

↬  💌 Nokto has been away for so long, and Emma is alone with her thoughts about him.

Nokto Klein x Emma(MC) • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Reunion Sex; Accidental Voyeurism; Masturbation; Teasing; Dirty Talk; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Some Humor; Aftercare; Fluff and Smut; Couch Cuddles • wordcount: 1,594 • masterlist

a/n: AHH I had the pleasure to participate in yet another amazing ikemen gift exchange hosted by @sunnyikemen and @ikemenlibrary ! My giftee for this round was @nightghoul381 ! GHOULIE!! I squealed when I saw your name in the info message!! Hope you enjoy!🥺❤❤

The night is warm and quiet, every other soul in the palace is fast asleep, distant songs of nocturnal birds make for the perfect background noise to enjoy the company of a good book under soft candlelight…and Emma makes the most of it.

If only she could trade her companion for the night with the one person she misses the most right now.

Tonight too, she prefers being in Nokto's room instead of her own, surrounded by the comforting presence of all things reminiscent of him. The scent on his pillow is becoming fainter with every night he's missing from home and Emma's heart aches for him.

It won't be much longer now. That's what she tells herself as she flips another page.

The letter she used as a bookmark lays open on the coffee table as she'd delayed her pastime just to look at the words inside once again. The evidence of that longing being shared, as Nokto wrote about how much he misses her while he's abroad. How much he wants to kiss her. To hold her in his arms.

He's always been good with words, pressing all her buttons as he selects them carefully to get a desired reaction out of her. The sultry tone of his voice is nowhere to be found yet he doesn't even need to utilize that little curve to the end of his spoken sentences that makes her legs weak; Emma finds out that she can fairly well hear it all in her head as she reads the letter anyway. And Nokto wrote some unspeakable things.

Laying comfortably on his couch now, book held up by a single hand, Emma finds that it's becoming harder to chase after the words in the book. Soon the protagonist takes the visage of Nokto in her mind's eye, and she loses the fight. It's no good when her other hand is unoccupied; it finds the way between her legs all too soon, too easily.

"Ngghh… Nokto.."

It's a small whisper in the night, too weak and too far away to reach the one it's meant for. That's what Emma knows for sure, getting lost in pink-tinted visions produced by her imagination; and so the soft turning of the doorknob falls on deaf ears.

Nokto enters quietly, knowing his Emma well enough to find her in his room - and strangely, knowing her too little to expect she is missing him… that much. Before he knows it, he becomes the bigger pervert in the room as he silently admires the way her fingers would never be enough to resemble his presence. Deep down, he loves that fact more than he pities her. But despite himself, he's soon to coo and reveal himself.

"Are you in trouble, my dear? Those lovely sounds don't sound quite right to me… You need more."

Emma gasps, reasonably startled as she hurries to retrain some decency and pulls down her nightgown where it rode up her waist. Her eyes are big and starry, and Nokto doesn't wait for a reply before he leans down over the couch's back and captures the lips he missed the most.

The kiss comes as a silent 'I missed you' when they both skipped saying it out loud, and quickly morphs into something far less innocent. Almost like a fight to prove one missed the other more.

Emma puts her warm hand on Nokto's face just as he withdraws for air, and she is just as breathless when she attempts to speak out loud. "Are you real?"

Nokto smirks, the red of his eyes stressed by the flickering candlelight. "I might just be real. Or maybe my little vixen's fantasies have become that vivid and tangible."

"Noktooo… don't tease…"

He finds himself tugged down, two hands wrapping securely around his neck until he can't take on the task of removing his coat as planned. It's only fair if she wants more proof of him being real here and now, he'll give her plenty.

It's only after a couple more fierce kisses that Nokto finds himself getting undressed, as Emma makes it up to him by doing it herself. Articles of clothes fall to the ground as suddenly there's nothing in Nokto's way to claim his long-waited prize for being away from home for so long.

"When I found a way to return earlier, I did all in my power to take on the opportunity. I had to see you."

"Nokto…"

"I had to make love to you again before I can forget the taste of your lips. I can't live without it."

Emma's body shudders as Nokto finds the place that aches for him the most, rubbing soft circles on her nub with his slender fingers. She's dripping wet from when she was playing with herself earlier and is quick to whine in protests of not enough.

"Shhh. Be patient. I want to take things nice and slow- Fuck. Emma."

His gaze darkens with lust as he stares her down, from her expression to the hand that mischievously reached down to his crouch to give him a firm squeeze.

"You can't wait to have me either, so why wait? Darling…" Emma asks in a tiny voice that comes out muffled behind her hand. Nokto is fast to capture it in his own and pin it down over her head.

"Why wait, indeed. My clever little Emma."

Taking hold of her leg, Nokto raises it up until it hangs over the edge of the backrest, giving him full access to her glistening pussy. Not even having fully shimmied out of his trousers yet, Nokto leans down until his body is flush against Emma's, and presses his cock against her entrance.

Emma mewls so sweetly as she feels Nokto enter her, her body shivering in ecstasy as she'd prepared it for a much lesser stimulation tonight. Her previous arouse makes Nokto's entry slippery and the noise of their coupling soon begins to fill the night. It's dirty and it's perfect.

Just as Emma gets close, her moans growing in volume, Nokto suddenly halts his movements. She looks at him with a red face and with question marks in her eyes. Nokto is frowning, albeit with a face equally as flushed as hers.

"I thought about this all week. About the possibility of coming to you earlier, and how I'll make our reunion a night you'll never forget. I'd sweep you off your feet wherever you are in the palace, take you back to our room and put you on the bed. I'd take my time undressing you like a present, pressing kisses against all those places that entered my dreams the previous lonely nights. I'd bury my head between those pretty legs of yours and remain there until you're screaming to me all the things you want me to do to you next, making your juices drip down my chin so I can never forget your taste again. And then I'll… then I'll just fuck you. Until we both take our fills."

Emma's breathing grows erratic as she feels herself coming undone, the sensation of him picking the speed up again and his filthy words that her brain barely manages to register, it's all too much. She screams as her walls clamp down on him hard, a strong climax ripped out of her with each thrust of Nokto who just gives her more and more, the way she wanted it and needed it.

"And then I open the door and you're- fuck- you're here touching yourself, moaning my name- and what am I supposed to do other than to claim you on the spot? You turned my plans to dust. You…"

With a groan, Nokto feels himself being dragged over the edge by Emma's pulsing walls, her warm, tight core milking him of all he has. He shoots his load deep inside her, painting her insides white. He remains thrusting into her shallowly, chasing after the last drops of pleasure he can squeeze out of both of them.

They turn into a content pile of entangled limbs on the couch, heavy breaths and soft smooches on whatever part of each other's face they can reach. Emma's pleasure-marred, sore throat voice reaches Nokto's ears.

"Hehe…I'm sorry?"

It takes him a second, all too lost in the sea of afterglow and warm emotions, to realize Emma is apologizing for spoiling his fun. He can tell she's not all that sorry at the same time, and it paints his chuckle a bit sarcastic. There's a hint of teeth to his next kiss, and he finds her mood to be just as playful, despite how blissed out she seemed just a second ago.

"Maybe we can make up for it and go with your version for round two." Emma suggests, putting her hands on Nokto's chest to push him out of her. Once they're both seated up, Nokto caresses the back of her head, his affirmative low humming enough to let her know just how much he's looking forward to that.

"Surely you don't mind if I grab a bite of your dessert before that? Out of all the things I missed about you, your baking is pretty high on the list you know."

"Nokto, no!"

Emma tries to warn him, but it's too late, as Nokto's chewing suddenly pauses, the reason clear as a day - he tasted the carrots in the slice of cake he just forked a bite of.

"N-Nokto, don't frown now! I didn't know you were coming home tonight, remember! God..!"

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[dangermousie]

When an episode opens this way, you know things are either go really glorious or really dark. And this drama does both. But before we plunge into horror, it gives the characters this moment of grace. I especially love when you see her hand on his back, next to the wound he got saving her.

And the voiceover, which combines the scene where they are closest with their talking about their most painful, separated time..

The way her eyes shine watching him sleep.

All that tenderness...

And that moment of grace is over as quickly as it came. JH finding out the Crown Prince is refusing to bring back captives - despite his cynicism and his experience, there is something incorrigibly naive about goodness and hope in JH. But also he got to know CP and he thought he could trust him a little. He does not know that CP cannot bring them back because the mad king views those miserable women, farmers and children as some sort of potential rebel army.

And things get worse - when JH gets them back regardless, they are ambushed and most of them are killed or wounded. People who survived captivity in enemy country, killed by their own, on orders of a paranoid madman. (I don't think anyone realized how far the King is gone - CP didn't want them back to save himself; not even he thought the King would order them massacred, and those who did not either die or make it back to China taken for torture and execution.)

The scenes of JH in the torture chambers - that vivid intelligence and strong will at the end of its rope - ouch!

The bit when he's barely conscious but still grabs her ring, my heart!!!

And I love that her ring is what saves him because she sees his slack hand drop it, when he's being taken out as one of the pile of corpses. Their love is their salvation, again.

The way she finds him (the fact she's in the palace in the first place is to look for him), the way she hides among the corpses, smearing herself with his blood, the way she brains the guard. THIS WOMAN IS EVERYTHING!!! (And I love that this time she rescues him.)

But also what a contrast that embrace at the end of the episode - on a pile of bodies, with him brutalized and dying - to the way the episode opened.

That line from Song of Solomon comes to mind: Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame.

Switching gears entirely, I want to talk about the prince and king. I honestly love how upright both the prince and his wife are. She begs him to save himself and not plead for the captives (once he found out they crossed and were killed or taken to be tortured) but while he knows danger, he goes anyway.

And she goes with him. She may not care about his cause, or at least not as much as she cares about him, but she will follow him. (Seems pretty historically accurate for So Hyeon's Crown Princess and ultimately her doom.)

In an episode full of amazing scenes, my favorite is actually none of the rest of them but the scene between Crown Prince and his mad father. The way CP begs and the King cannot understand but suspects him more not just because he's paranoid but because he fundamentally cannot imagine someone caring for peasants (or for anyone not their dear self), not really. He cannot understand his son because they do not inhabit the same moral universe.

The way SH tries, tries SO HARD even as you see him realize his father is unreachable, even as he knows that jeopardizes his own life.

There is no hope there. (And the tragic thing is the King, paranoid and selfish and monstrous as he is, loves his son. He views not executing him as a kind act of love. My God!)

[egglygreg]

Yet another inexplicably vivid YA dream with an almost coherent narrative structure:

A warm Northern Kingdom, constantly at odds with the cold Southern Kingdom. Both places have extremely advanced technology but it's very old and they don't necessarily know how to use/fix/make more of it.

There have been recent battles over ancient tech, the north has been targeted by the south.

Our POV character is the Northern Princess, a young woman with golden red hair and deep red eyes.

The princess, desperate to get out of the castle and go riding, takes her horse and sneaks out of the secret gate in the gardens behind the palace.

While out riding, she is captured by southerners. They take her back to their city in the icefields, which the northerners have been unable to find for many long years.

The place they take her to is a mechanical structure her people had managed to locate, but had dismissed as just a strange ruin of ancient defunct technology.

Her captors lead her onto it, and the machine activates and begins to shift. Strange walls of energy spring up, which the southerners walk her through. The colour of the energy changes from blue to red, and a loud mechanical voice announces "royal blood recognised."

Her captors seem taken aback for a moment, before they walk her forward to a strange box in the middle of the mechanism. One young man, who has been quite kind to her despite being a kidnapper, steps into it with her, and then suddenly and very quickly they drop

down

down

down

under the ice and through the water, in the small glass-like box.

The Princess becomes terrified and panicked, crying and shaking and absolutely petrified. In her panic she starts lashing out and hitting the walls, desperate to get back to the surface. Her captor tries to calm her down, gripping her upper arms and pulling her back against himself, while speaking gently and kindly to her despite his own confusion over her reaction.

(For him and all his people this was a perfectly normal trip, but she had never experienced anything like a deep sea elevator before).

The box brings them into the centre of a large and fairly busy town square. She is the first northerner in memory to set foot in the southern city, an enormous structure hidden beneath the icy ocean.

It was much colder in the city than she was used to.

She is taken through the streets and into an impressive and strange room. She and her captor stand before a throne, and on it sits the southern king, a middle aged man with brown hair and a very stern and harrowed expression. He asks the young man who the girl is, and seems somehow both pleased and very stressed to hear she is the princess of the North.

While she is technically a prisoner, she is given mostly free reign to wander the city. A young woman is assigned as her guide/guard, though the young man who first brought her down to the city comes around quite often to check in on her.

She feels so cold in this strange place that she takes to wearing a blanket over her shoulders, and one of her favourite places to go is near the city's great engines where the heat is highest. Most of the southerners find the place uncomfortably hot and avoid it.

(Unfortunately story-wise that's all I've got, because that's when I woke up. For me though it was a relief, because being deep underwater in a submerged vessel is literally one of my worst nightmares and I'm also pretty claustrophobic, so that's the reason the princess lost her mind in the deep sea elevator. I was seeing from her pov at the time and I was legit terrified 😅 Even the handsome love interest didn't help)