#this tale is an affront to all the senses

[what-do-you-mean-theyre-evil]

The worst part about the Dorian Asra tale is the fact that it's not even good.

Like if it was actually good then maybe I could get over it but it's so bad, ooc, and it constantly grasps onto the little fandom in jokes and turns them up to 11 to drive the story rather than maybe learning about their character in order to write them properly.

[drabblesandimagines]

Nettle Soup

Halsin x female reader 5,776 words of fluffy nonsense

--

It had started as an innocent tickle at the very back of your throat, something you’d barely given more than a moment’s thought to - fair enough due to the fact you had a tadpole squirming around in your skull to contend with. A day or so later, it had graduated from a tickle to an annoying and stubborn irritation which very much demanded attention – wouldn’t shift despite how many times you’d tried.

It would clear, surely, you thought, especially since the curse had lifted from the land and you were on your way towards Baldur’s Gate at last.

Except it didn’t.

If anything, it got worse - like you’d swallowed handfuls of crushed glass, the way it stung with every swallow – accompanied by heavy limbs and growing fatigue, no matter how much sleep you managed. Perhaps that was hardly surprising after the number of fights you’d undertaken recently, not quite as young as you once were. 

Although not comfortable with the hitchhiker in your skull, you were at least confident it wasn’t the first sign of ceremorphosis, though the concern that Lae’zel may try to slit your throat if you voiced any notion of feeling unwell remained, so you kept silent.

You powered on, as you always do.

Gale frowned when you didn’t finish your portion of stew that evening, all sat around the campfire. He prided himself on keeping the party well-fed and anything but clean bowls appeared to be a personal affront to his skill. It wasn’t that you felt nauseous, just a lack of appetite made the quarter you had managed sit too heavy in your stomach.

“Was it not to your liking?” The wizard hovers over your shoulder. “While I’ll admit it is a repeated recipe from a few days ago, you enjoyed it well enough then.”

“No, no, it’s wonderful, Gale.” You smile, trying to appease his anxieties by laying a hand on your stomach. “It’s just filling – I’m stuffed already.”

“I recall you had second helpings.”

Oh, he had you there. Think.

“We had just fought Ketheric Thorn too, quite a difference from the day’s leisurely pace.”

“Hm.” His pout remains, and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach has been joined by guilt.

“Hardly a repeated recipe, though. I’m sure I noted something different on the palate?”

That did the trick, a wistful smile now gracing his face. “Ah, yes, I did stumble upon some splendid wild garlic that I thought would enhance the flavour profile – how kind of you to notice.”

You nod along, politely, as Gale tells his tale – something about how it elevates the spices - not noticing the wood elf staring at you curiously from across the circle.

You’re thankful it’s not your turn to keep watch as the githyanki takes her place in the centre of the camp, sword laying ready in her lap. You don’t wish to dawdle around the campfire like you do most nights, worried she might sense something off about you and jump to conclusions, so you bid the remaining members of the party goodnight and walk at a brisk pace to the safety of your tent…

..only for an icy cold grip around your elbow to jerk you into their own, your back now pressed against a firm chest with a thud.

“Surprised, darling?” Astarion murmurs into your crown, his other arm wrapped around your waist. “I thought you better than that. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Bed.” You reply as brightly as possible, overcompensating for how rotten you’re now feeling.

“Oh, but the evening is still so young! I have a fine idea that will while away the hours, if you would be so very kind.” He drops his grip on your elbow and ghosts his hand up your side, making you squirm.

“Not tonight, Astarion.” You shake your head. Maybe it had been a mistake to let him feed off you after that first night. “I’m tired.”

“I can wait until you’re asleep, my sweet.” His hand finally reaches the back of your neck, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’ll be sure not to disturb any of your pretty dreams.”

“No.” Your tone is firm, maybe a little too firm as the vampire stiffens against you and drops his hand, causing your stomach to squirm with guilt once again. “Another night, I’m all yours – I promise.”

Astarion spins you around and you nearly lose your footing – a fact not missed by the vampire as his face transforms from annoyance at your denial to mild concern.

“My, you are out of sorts.” He sighs, before he plasters on a smile that you know to be fake. “Very well, darling. Off to bed you pop.”

You nod a thanks and hurry out of his tent, casting your eyes to the ground in the hopes of keeping steadier footing, only to collide into something firm.

A large, solid chest, covered in familiar druidic garb.

“My sincere apologies,” two warm hands grasp your upper arms, steadying you once again. “I am afraid I did not see you there. Are you all right?”

Your scalp tingles from the gravelly tones of Halsin’s voice, a warmth flushing over your cheeks as you look up at the former archdruid, his brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m fine, Halsin. And I should be the one apologizing - I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

He chuckles at your concern. “Of course. Although you have remained polite by not yet mentioning my stature, I am sure you have noticed the comparison between us, little one.”

Although one to lose your temper with the use of such pet names in inns or in combat, there is something entirely different when Halsin says it. You know it is not meant to be patronizing, more a sign of his age, really – it’s wholeheartedly sincere, affectionate, perhaps even… loving? Well, you could still dream, couldn’t you? Even though he’d kindly turned you down at the celebration for the tieflings at camp all those weeks ago, you’d be a liar if you didn’t still kindle a flame of affection for the large elf. You smile, wryly. “I suppose I have.”

“Forgive me for prying, but is anything the matter? You seemed in quite the hurry after supper. I confess I’d hoped to catch you for a moment.”

Your throat stings again as you swallow. Halsin is a healer - he would be the one to mention it to…

But you don’t want to be a bother, especially so soon after Thaniel. What was a sore throat in comparison to being trapped within the Shadowrealm for near on a century? Pathetic, really.

You shrug it off, “A little tired, nothing an early night won’t sort. What did you wish to speak about?”

He smiles at your response, though you notice it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wish you weren’t so observant of him to be able to identify which are real and which are polite.

“Ah, no, nothing of urgency. Please, do not let me keep you from your well-deserved rest any longer.”

You eye your tent in the distance, but hesitate all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.” He squeezes your upper arms, gently, before letting go. “I bid you sweet dreams and a peaceful sleep.”

--

You don’t even fall asleep deeply enough to dream – tossing and turning for hours, one moment feeling too hot and then another too cold, periodically drinking from your waterskin trying to ease the rawness of your throat.

You give up at dawn, quickly dressing in your armor. Instead of waiting for your companions to rise, you set your sight on climbing the hill not far off from camp - it should provide a good vista of the road ahead to Baldur’s Gate. It shouldn’t be a long walk either, you’ll be there and back before even Karlach has roused, usually the last to do so.

You had only made it a quarter of the way up the admittedly gentle incline when you start to feel unusually winded from the exercise – it feels as if you are not quite breathing deep enough, oxygen stagnating at the top of your lungs. Perhaps you’d laced your armour too tight that morning in your haste to get moving? The sun is still only a little over the horizon, given the earliness of the hour, but you feel so very warm, a sheen of sweat already on your brow.

You raise a weary hand to wipe it away, but your vision swims in response and you stumble, all reflexes abandoning you and your face meets the dirt.

--

Halsin lets out a sigh as he rubs his back against the bark in his bear form, the ridges appeasing an itch that had been bothering him since he had wildshaped. It has been a while since he’d indulged the bear for purely pleasure and not combat – it hadn’t felt right to do so when traveling through the shadow cursed lands.

He’d woken early, as usual, and decided to take advantage of an hour or so to patrol the area before the plan would be to head towards Baldur’s Gate. Heading to the city wasn’t something he was looking forward to – to be cut off from the nature he so adored made he feel uneasy - but he’d made a vow that he intended to keep.

A familiar, invigorating smell crosses his snout, carried in the gentle breeze. He inhales it deeply, being drawn him from his thoughts.

White violet, jasmine, a touch of sandalwood…

You.

It is too strong a scent to have drifted in from camp, which must mean you’re close by. He drops down to all four paws and begins to follow the trail, curious as to what has brought you out so early and, perhaps selfishly, hoping to take advantage of your company.

He doesn’t have to travel far, though, lumbering a hundred or so metres out of the wood that lines the path. His stomach sinks when he sees you sprawled out on your front down the incline, unmoving, eyes open in a blank stare in his direction.

The next thing you were aware of was thundering paws on the earth, a flash of gold and then warm, heavy palms turning you over to face the dawn sky. A very concerned wood elf soon fills your vision, pressing a hand to your cheek as his eyes scan you over, frantically.

“What is it, my heart? Speak to me.” Heart…? The world goes black.

--

You wake up slowly. Your eyelids feel heavy, drifting in and out of consciousness until, finally, you manage to crack both eyes open to find yourself swaddled in unfamiliar furs and blinking up at an equally unfamiliar ceiling.

No, not ceiling, but the inside of a tent and one that is not your own. Various herbs and flowers are hung from the support pole across the top, seemingly set out to dry, dotted between other hand-made trinkets. There’s a scent of wood smoke, flowers, freshly cut grass, and something enticingly sweet...

You sit up in alarm, trying to work out where you are, panic rising in your already tight chest when your eyes meet those of the large wood elf’s, sat only a little way to the side of the bed roll.

“Ah-ah,” Halsin chides with a sympathetic smile, pushing you back down easily with one large palm upon your shoulder. “Please - you must rest.”

“This isn’t my tent.” Your voice is painfully hoarse, but you lay your head back on the pillow in defeat and watch as he tugs the furs back up to under your chin - the brief moment you had been upright a chill had prickled across your skin, almost down to your very bones.

“That is true.” The former archdruid nods, looking a little bashful. “We were camped at quite opposite ends this time round.” Your party did tend to spread the tents out across the ground you used, rather than all cluster together. “I thought it best to bring you here, where I have everything to hand to easily prepare, rather than go to and fro whilst I oversee your recovery.”

“Recov-” You don’t reach the end of the word as a horrendous, wracking cough emerges deep within your chest. You sit up again in panic, hoping it will cease. Halsin assists you with one hand on your arm and an arm around your waist, before he begins to rub large circles on your upper back.

“Easy, little one. Easy. I know it is uncomfortable, but it will pass.” He says, softly. It doesn’t feel like it will – the pain is sharp, a tightness in your chest, a burn in your lungs, heart pounding as you feel more and more breathless with every cough.

Tears burn at your eyes but, true to his word, slowly but surely, it begins to settle, allowing you to catch your breath at last and left feeling exhausted.

The hand leaves your arm then but one remains on your back, keeping you steady, before a waterskin is brought up to your lips. “Take small sips. If you drink too quickly, it might trigger another fit.”

You nod, reaching up a hand to hold over his as he tips the liquid into your mouth. It’s soothing on your raw throat, but only for a brief moment. When he deems you’ve had enough, he pulls the waterskin away, placing it back down to the side of the bedroll before pressing a hand to your forehead, a poorly concealed frown soon gracing his lips.

“You have a fairly high fever.”

“Can’t you…?” You reach out to mimic cure wounds – a spell you’ve seen him and Shadowheart cast many a time - but it seems even your depth perception has abandoned you as you brush up against the wood elf's firm chest, before snatching your hand back and circling your wrist in what you think looks a somewhat magical motion. Halsin lets out a chuckle that makes you feel flush – your temperature varying sporadically by the minute.

“Wounds and other injuries indeed, as can Shadowheart, but I am afraid for such illnesses as this the only treatment is rest for a few days, supplemented by herbal remedies to alleviate symptoms.”

“No,” you shake your head and immediately regret how it makes your vision and head swim. “We must press on - the Absolute are already in the city.”

He looks at you in alarm. “You cannot mean you wish to go and face them? You know I admire your unwavering resolve and strength to do what is right, but at the moment I fear a light breeze would be more than enough to knock you prone.”

“But-”

“No. I cannot allow it.” His tone is firm, a growl at the back of his throat – it reminds you of how he had spoken to Kagha once he’d returned to the grove. "You will rest. Lie down,” he doesn’t even need to push you back this time with a heavy hand, you’ve gone quite limp against the arm that had been supporting you, shrinking back at his tone of voice and nestle back down amongst the furs.

 “Thank you.” Halsin replies, sincerely, the tension dropping both from his shoulders and voice. “I… I apologise for my manner of speaking, but I know of what I speak - you must rest in order to make a full recovery.”

“I’ll try – I promise.”

He looks down at you with a smile before brushing some loose hair from your face and then cupping your cheek with a large palm and calloused fingers. If you’d had more of your wits about you, if you could think clearly, you would’ve noticed the flash of gold in his palm as he cast sleep upon you.

--

You wake up to a hand pressing a damp cold compress against your forehead and your chest feeling tighter than before. You can’t help the wince as you open your eyes, the light smarting despite it being somewhat dim inside the tent. Halsin is sat cross-legged by your side, a frown in place.

“I am sorry to have woken you, but I am afraid your fever has developed.”

“Oh.”

“I have prepared something that will help. Allow me to sit you up.” Somehow, he manages to slip his arm beneath your head and around your shoulders, assisting you upright to lean back against a pile of firm pillows. Once he is satisfied you are settled, he produces a bowl from his side – a waft of steam emitting off the top.

“Here. It has cooled enough to drink.”

“What is it?” Your voice is still awfully hoarse, a raw sting as you talk.

“A staple in every healer’s repertoire - nettle soup. Adept at reducing fevers.”

You take the bowl carefully from his hand, though his follows closely as you guide it up to your mouth lest your grip fail.

You gulp down a mouthful, but it’s absolutely foul upon your tongue, burns your throat as you swallow it down. It feels as if you’ve taken a gulp out of a particularly filthy pond, one thick with algae.

You hold the bowl back out with a shake of your head, hoping he’ll take it. “That’s disgusting.”

Halsin smiles, knowingly – seemingly a complaint he is not all that unfamiliar with hearing. “Whilst I admit the taste is far from what one might call pleasant, it will do you a world of good to drink it.”

You shake your head again, trying to hand it back to him. “I can’t.”

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Dare I enquire your age again, little one? The children in the grove manage it just fine.”

“I’m not a child,” you pout – too feverish to realise the contradiction of your actions. “And they surely do not.”

“They do…”, he retorts, a wistful smile crosses his lips, “albeit with the promise of something sweet after they’ve rested. Would that suffice?”

“Something… sweet?” Your mind drifts off to somewhere it should not as your eyes drop down to focus on the druid’s mouth.

“Mm. They are quite partial to honeycakes, does that appeal?”

You shake your head, placing the bowl down on the floor between the two of you. Though a fan of sweets, the idea of eating anything at the moment doesn’t entice at all.

“No? Well, perhaps you have something else in mind. I’m sure Baldur’s Gate itself will have something to your tastes.”

“I want a kiss.” You mumble.

He must have misheard. “What was that?”

“A kiss - that’s the sweet thing I want.”

“Ah,” if it wasn’t for the dim light within the tent, you would’ve sworn the druid was blushing. “Now, that’ll be the fever speaking.”

“No.” You gaze up at him, wishing you had the strength to curl your fingers in his hair and pull him in for the kiss you crave. “It’s not. I’ve wanted one since that night at camp, the celebration with the tieflings. I swear I’ll drink all the nettle soup in Faerun for a kiss.” “Since…” He trails off. “No, I couldn’t, little one.” He shakes his head, truly looking apologetic. “I won’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why?”

He cups your cheek in a large palm, a small smile on his lips. “I do not believe you are quite aware of what you are requesting, given your current ailment.”

You purse your lips in thought, trying to seek a compromise. “What about when I’m better, then?”

He removes his hand and nods. “When you are recovered and if you recall this conversation and still desire it, then… yes, you may claim your sweet.” He mumbles towards the end, not quite believing what he was apparently promising. “However, you will still need to drink the nettle soup now.”

“Deal.” You acquiesce, and Halsin picks up the bowl in offering.

It burns as it goes down – all four or five remaining mouthfuls - but you manage the whole bowl.

“Good girl,” the wood elf murmurs with a smile – it makes the discomfort feel worth it for a moment - as he inspects the empty bowl, swapping it out for the waterskin once again.  

“Now, try and sleep some more. By the time you wake, it will have done its work and you’ll be feeling much better.”

You lie back down without protest, closing your eyes. The furs smell like Halsin and you soon drift off back to sleep, a feverish thought of being wrapped up in his arms and the kiss you hoped to claim come morning.

--

Day turns into night and then day once more, the hours passed with numerous bowls of nettle soup that still burn at your throat with every swallow, vegetable broth for more sustenance and countless naps to no improvement. Halsin has been trying to distract himself with whittling, but it is not proving successful – lopping off half of the duck’s beak when you stir momentarily. He’s checked your temperature with the back of his hand too many times to count. There’s a taunting rattle from your lungs between bouts of sharp coughing fits that doesn’t seem to be easing either. The nettle soup should’ve broken your fever at least – he hadn’t encountered one in all his years that it had failed to do so – but you seem to be growing worse by the hour.

He watches as you toss and turn, brushing your hair from your face. You’ve done so much for him – freed him from the goblins, ensured the safety of the Grove and its occupants, defended him whilst he recovered Thaniel, freed a realm from the shadowcurse of beyond a century and yet he cannot return a simple favour by ridding you of a fever?

“Is she sick?”

“Thaniel.” Halsin’s starts at the sudden appearance of the spirit. The boy is knelt besides him, staring down curiously at your slumbering form. “What are you doing here, my friend?”

“Your party hasn’t moved on - I wondered why. Is she sick?”

Thaniel remained as curious as ever, it seemed.

Halsin sighs. “Yes, I am afraid so. The fever and cough proves most stubborn – I fear I am depleting this area’s supply of nettles.”

“Nettles?”

“For the soup – it reduces the fever. Or it should.”

Thaniel frowns, leaning over you and taking a cautious sniff. “But she smells of spolar.”

“Spolar?” The word seems vaguely familiar, though it sparks a sinking, sickening feeling in his stomach.

“It will have been a long time since you’ve had to treat it.” The boy shrugs. “A large purple mushroom, remember? Its spores line the lungs – its growth accelerates if surrounded by nettles.”

“No…” It’s as if a hand is squeezing at his heart. “I don’t recall seeing any on our travels out. It would grow so quickly?”

“Nettles are sturdy enough even for the shadowcurse, so when it was lifted it had probably laid dormant beneath the soil until the time came. How long have you been treating her?”

“Nearly two moons – numerous bowls of nettle soup.” Halsin’s face has drained of all colour. “By Silvanus, I’ll have been nourishing the infection itself.”

“You did not mean to,” Thaniel replied, patting Halsin on his thigh. “Do not fret. Vapours from a wilted Sussur Bloom will clear the lungs when inhaled, suspending any further spread. Then she will just need rest.”

“A wilted…” He gets to his feet, his mind whirring with the next steps. “I must make haste back to the Underdark – I could be there and back by night fall with the aid of sigil circles.”

He hurries out of his tent, finding Gale sat outside of his, camped a stone’s throw away, and a large tome in his lap.

“Halsin,” Gale starts cautiously, setting down his book at the wood elf's urgency. “Is something the matter?”

“Everything.” The druid drops to his knees and empties out his pack – planning to stuff it full of as much Sussur Bloom as he can lay his hands upon. “I made her worse. She’s inhaled the spore of the spolar.”

“The spore of what? And how could you have made her worse?” Gale quirks an eyebrow, trying to keep up. He has never seen the wood elf so flustered. “I don’t understand.”

“Spolar… the spores line the airways. It feeds and thrives upon other vegetation – I’ve been giving her nettle soup. She told me it burnt and I insisted she eat more. And she did, because she trusted me.”

“Oh. Well, you didn’t know-”

“I should’ve known!” Halsin explodes in response, his voice echoing around their encampment. “I need to go to the Underdark, I-” He gets up to his feet and immediately stumbles, catching himself before he could fall. Gale is quick to stand in front of him, hands held up to try in a feeble attempt to stop the wood elf leaving.

“Halsin, when is the last time you rested?”

“It matters not-”

“It very much does.” Gale chides. “Look at you – you are in no fit state to look after yourself, let alone gallivant off to the Underdark.”

“What the hells is going on?” Astarion appears the other side of Gale, drawn out by Halsin’s outburst.  

“I must set this right. I cannot allow her to suffer a moment longer due to my negligence-“

“Okay, I’m sensing there’s a lot more to your feelings here, but allow me to assure you that we all care about her. Allow us to assist you, to aid you in whatever you need in this moment.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Astarion almost stomps his foot, never one to be ignored.

Halsin sighs, running a large palm down his face. Gale is right – he is exhausted, unable to enter a state of reverie in the past days in fear of you needing him.

“A Sussur Bloom. I need to retrieve one from the Underdark.”

Gale frowns. “But they don’t work outside the Underdark.“

“Wilted ones, they-"

“Wilted, you say?” Astarion looks at his fingernails for imaginary dirt. “I’ve got a handful in my pack still, I’m sure.”

Halsin sets off running in the direction of the vampire’s tent and his pack, Astarion hot on his heels.

“Now, wait a moment!”

--

Halsin won’t look at you.

You’d woken up, confusingly, back in your own tent two days later to Gale sat by your side and your fever broken. Your voice was still a little hoarse and walking around the camp left you all but winded, but that was meant to pass in another day or two, then the plan was to finally set off towards Baldur’s Gate.

You’d felt bad for holding the party up for so long, but everyone has been rather kind about the delay, doting on you a little more than you’d like.

All but Halsin, really, who stares over your head – not a hard feat given his height, true – but still, it smarts when you cannot catch his eye, especially when it was something you used to achieve so easily. He appears to leave the campsite before dawn and returns for supper, though he moves away from the campfire when you take your place, thanking Gale for the meal before hurrying off.

It’s driving you mad.

Tonight, though, you have a plan. You took supper back to your tent, feigning the need for an early night to your companions and lying in wait for Halsin to depart the camp once more.

You find the elf stood at the very edge of the lake, standing in the shallow waters as it laps to and fro, hands held behind his back.

You approach cautiously, conscious of disturbing a meditation or ritual the ex-archdruid might be partaking in, but it seems he is already acutely aware of your presence.

“There’s a chill in the air tonight.” His voice is firm – you can imagine him using the same tone when he was chairing heated discussions amongst the other druids back at the Emerald Grove. “You should go back to camp and keep warm by the fire at least if you find yourself restless.”

“Halsin,” you choose to ignore him as you wring your hands together and take another step closer. “Have I… offended you in some way?”

“Offended? Never.” Still, he keeps his head turned away from you.

“I apologise sincerely if I said something that upset you whilst I was sick. I’m afraid I don’t recall much of the time in your tent – it’s all a bit of a haze.”

“That’s understandable. You were…” His breath hitches, as if it’s painful to remember. “..quite unwell. But, no, you did not say anything malicious or cruel – it is not in your nature.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

His biceps tense as he brings his arms back in front of him, his shoulders heaving up with a breath before dropping back down as he swings round on his heels. He meets your eyes for a second or two before his gaze moves back above your head, as if something was extremely interesting in the distance.

“There.” A forced smile – it doesn’t reach the wood elf’s eyes by a mile. “Now, will you go back to the camp?”

“No.” You huff, taking a step closer.

“Please. Your lungs are not fully recovered yet and the chill tonight will do you no favours.”

“I’m not going back until you look me in the eyes and tell me what I’ve done to be treated this way.” You stand firm, stubborn.

He sighs, seemingly exasperated at the conversation. “You have not done anything, my h… friend.”

“I must have done something.”

“You are mistaken.”

 “No, I’m not.” You retort back, placing your hands on your hips. “Ever since you healed me, you’ve been-”

“Healed you?” He scoffs, derisively, meeting your eyes at last with a furrowed brow. “Healed you? I did no such thing - I made you worse!”

You stare for a moment, bemused. “What? Worse how?”

“You said the nettle soup was burning your throat, you told me multiple times and I dismissed you saying it for not liking the taste, not of a symptom. Every time I had you drink it, I was giving the infection what it needed to thrive. I was killing you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I don’t remember that.” And you don’t, everything’s hazy – vague memories of cooling compresses on your head, a supportive arm around your waist as you drank from a waterskin. “Why would I keep drinking it if it hurt?”

“Because,” he takes a shuddering breath, “we made a deal.”

“A deal about what?”

“I beg of you not to make me relive my shame.” Halsin sounds defeated, but you continue to push.

“A deal about what?”

“I… I told you of how the children in the Grove took their medicine under the promise they would receive something sweet when they were better. Honeycakes, candied fruits, the like. You…” His voice grows tight. “You asked for something else sweet.”

You feel your face flush, a hazy, whisp of a memory now becoming crystal clear. “A kiss.”

The wood elf’s shoulders shudder. “I took advantage of your trust in me.”

“Advantage?”

“Of your feverish state.”

“I’m the one who suggested the kiss.”

“And I’m the one who agreed due to my own selfish desires, ignoring what my patient was trying to tell me.”

“No, you thought you were doing the right thing. We all make mistakes, or misinterpret. I’m fine.” You wrap your hand around his forearm as best as you can, trying to tug him forward. “Besides the whole tadpole in my head, of course…”

He smiles, wryly, at your poor joke, though you see tears burn at his eyes. “I just… I cannot stand the thought that I have caused you harm, little one – intentional or otherwise.”

“You haven’t, Halsin.” You place your other hand tentatively on his chest and look up, feeling his heart beat beneath your fingertips. “I am well and, if you were still willing, I’m ready for my sweet.”

He shakes his head. “As much as my heart desires it – and it does - I do not deserve it.”

“Am I not allowed to be the judge of that? And I say a deal is a deal.”

“You… truly wish for it still?”

You stand up on your very tip toes and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, as far as you can reach. “More than ever.”

A firm arm wraps delicately around your waist – cautious of squeezing you too firmly – and heaves you up easily against his firm chest, his other hand cupping your cheek as he captures your lips in a kiss. It is soft and delicate, as if he’s worried you’ll break, but when you lift your hand to tangle in his locks and tug to bring him closer and deepening the kiss, there is no mistaking the growl that emits from his throat when your tongues intertwine.

As soon as you drop your hand from his hair, he retreats too, dropping you back down carefully to the ground, eyes scanning you in concern.

“You’re breathless, my heart.” You feel your cheeks prickle with heat at the term of endearment. “And flush too. Please, I insist you go back and keep warm-"

You cut him off, pressing your fingers against his lips, exhaling breathily. “Two things. One, I’m breathless because of your kiss. Two, I’m flush because of your words - what sort of reaction am I meant to have to you calling me that?”

He lifts his own hand then to hold yours in place so he can kiss the fingertips pressed against his lips, before tugging your hand back down and interlacing your fingers.

“My heart, my love, my sun, my moon, my stars - so many things I wish to call you whilst I lavish you with affection from dusk till dawn, and dawn till dusk… if you’d allow me, that is.”

“Allow?” You smile, “I encourage – heartily.”

It happens too fast to comprehend, a gentle twist of your arm to twirl you in front of him before one arm wraps around the back of your knees and you are swept off your feet, the wood elf commencing large strides back towards the camp.

“Then I insist we return to your tent where you will have as many sweets as you desire.”

“Oh, my tent now, is it?” You tease. “I thought I had to go and stay warm by the fire.”

 “Yes, but, lucky for you,” he smirks, “I am known to run quite hot.”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[writingrock]

the tale of two lovers [2]

pairing: barbarian! katsuki bakugou x reader (female) summary: a bard approaches a lone barbarian in search for a story to tell. Who could have known that the barbarian end up being such a romantic tale.

notes: fantasy au, fluff, strangers to lovers, slow burn, bakusquad, barbarian bakugou, mentions of injuries, expletives

word count: 8.9k

part list

part one: chapter list

a/n: part two is here! Feeding time !! I love it when they hate each other >:)

Bakugou was annoying. That was the one word you’d use to describe him— though it hardly seemed enough to capture the sheer exasperation he stirred in you. The journey to Niniel’s Veil should have been the easy part, a straightforward trek across familiar terrain before delving into the real danger that awaited in the Veil’s depths. The path was well-charted, the landscape mostly predictable, and you had the map etched into your memory. By all accounts, this leg of the journey should have been smooth sailing, the calm before the storm. But Bakugou knew exactly how to rile you up, turning even the simplest task into a battle of wills.

“We're moving too slow!” Bakugou’s voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the quiet morning air. “If we keep dragging our feet, we’ll take weeks to get to Niniel’s Veil.”

“The risk is going through ogre territory,” you replied, trying to keep your voice even. “We do not want to use our resources on a big fight like that.”

“Karshoj Arnahk.” Bakugou spat the words, frustration etched in every syllable. You knew enough Draconic to recognize it as an expletive, something along the lines of “for fuck sake.” He was losing patience. He didn’t have time to argue with some prissy mapmaker. “We can take them and get to Niniel’s Veil quicker.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest, the map in your hand crinkling slightly. “Or we could avoid them entirely and save ourselves the trouble. Not every fight needs to be fought, especially when there’s a safer way around!”

It didn’t help that he was constantly questioning your decisions, his deep voice laced with scepticism every time you suggested a route that didn’t involve charging headlong into danger. You could see the distaste in his eyes when you advocated for the safer, slower path, as if he considered it a personal affront to his abilities. It was infuriating. Here you were, with years of experience under your belt, and this hot-headed barbarian had the audacity to second-guess you at every turn.

The two of you stood at a crossroads— literally and figuratively— each staring the other down with a mixture of stubbornness and conviction that crackled in the air like a brewing storm. Your gazes locked, neither willing to concede an inch, the tension between you palpable. The rest of the group lingered a few paces back, caught between amusement at the spectacle and concern over what it might mean for the journey ahead. You could sense their unease, their nervous glances exchanged behind your backs, but no one dared to intervene. They knew better than to step into the middle of a clash between two such strong-willed personalities, especially when both of you seemed determined to win this battle of wills.

Kirishima shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “They’ve been at it all morning. Think we should step in?”

Denki shrugged, a small grin playing on his lips. “Eh, let ’em go at it. It’s kinda entertaining, don’t you think? I’ve never seen anyone stand up to Bakugou like that.”

“Yeah, but we’re not making any progress like this,” Sero added, glancing between you and Bakugou. “If they keep arguing, we’ll be stuck here all day.”

Kirishima frowned, his gaze flicking to Bakugou. “He’s just worried about time. You know how he is— always pushing forward, no matter what.”

“True, but our guide’s got a point,” Denki chimed in. “I’d rather not get into a brawl with ogres if we can avoid it. Those guys don’t mess around.”

Mina nodded, her eyes on you as you squared off with Bakugou. “I think they’ll figure it out. They’re both stubborn, but they’re not stupid. Hopefully.”

Bakugou’s voice broke through the murmur of the group, his frustration boiling over. “If you’re so scared of a fight, maybe you shouldn’t be leading us in the first place!”

You bristled at the insult, taking a step closer, your eyes narrowing. “Scared? I’m being practical! It’s called strategy, you dimwit. You don’t just charge in blindly and hope for the best.”

It's not that you were averse to fights— far from it. You understood the value of brute force, and there were times when a show of strength was exactly what the situation called for. But in your mind, there was always a safer, more calculated path to take. One that didn’t involve charging headfirst into danger or risking unnecessary harm. Brute force might solve problems quickly, but a well-thought-out strategy could avoid them altogether, or at the very least, mitigate the risks. 

For all his bluster, Bakugou wasn’t reckless— at least, not in the way you’d initially thought. He was driven, yes, and often too eager to prove himself, but there was a method to his madness. He wasn’t just charging into battle for the thrill of it; he was doing it because he believed it was the fastest, most efficient way to get the job done. And in his own twisted way, he was looking out for the group, even if his methods were more brute force than finesse.

Still, that didn’t make him any less annoying.

“Strategy?” He scoffed, crossing his arms in a mirror of your own stance. “Your ‘strategy’ is to waste time and avoid every challenge we come across. Our progress is at snail pace.”

“This is about being smart,” you snapped back. “It’s about surviving long enough to get to Niniel’s Veil in one piece. Or do you plan on dragging a half-dead group through the forest because you couldn’t wait a few hours to go around?”

“But I guess that’s asking too much from someone who thinks brute force solves everything.”

Bakugou’s eyes flashed with anger, but there was something else there too—something like shock, buried deep beneath his stubbornness. He wasn’t used to being questioned like this, especially not by someone he barely knew. But you weren’t backing down, and that seemed to catch him off guard.

“You think you know everything because you’ve got a map and a compass,” Bakugou growled, stepping closer. “But out here, it’s not just about what you know. It’s about what you can do. And what I can do is get us to that Veil faster than your slow, ‘safe’ route.”

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. “And what I can do is make sure we get there without losing anyone along the way. If you’d stop being so damn reckless for five minutes, you might see that.”

The tension between you crackled like a live wire, each of you daring the other to back down. Yet neither of you flinched, standing your ground with unwavering resolve. It was a standoff, a stubborn battle of wills where neither of you was willing to give an inch. Neither of you would ever move.

Finally, Bakugou huffed, breaking the silence. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low but still laced with irritation. “We’ll do it your way. But if we get ambushed because of this detour, it’s on you.”

You let out a slow breath, relief mixing with the lingering frustration. “Deal. But if we avoid a fight, you owe me an apology.”

Bakugou snorted, turning on his heel as he started down the path you had pointed out. “Tch. Don’t hold your breath.”

"Bastard," you muttered under your breath as you walked with the group. You made sure the insult was just loud enough for him to hear. As you passed by Bakugou, you deliberately bumped his shoulder, a subtle but unmistakable show of defiance.

As you walked past Bakugou, muttering the insult under your breath, he stiffened, his jaw tightening. The faintest twitch in his shoulder betrayed his irritation, and he shot you a sharp, sidelong glare. Despite his attempt to maintain his composure, the anger simmering just beneath the surface was unmistakable, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to keep his temper in check.

Denki and Sero exchanged glances, both grinning now as they walked behind you. “I think they’re gonna get along just fine,” Sero whispered.

“Or kill each other trying,” Denki added with a laugh.

Bakugou marched forward with determined strides, his shoulder colliding with yours in a harsh, deliberate bump. The force of it nearly threw you off balance, but you quickly steadied yourself, glaring at his back as he put himself slightly ahead of you. He didn't even glance back, his focus fixed on the path ahead as if daring you to react. You rolled your eyes, the irritation bubbling up as you let out a scoff, but you held your tongue. It wasn’t worth it— at least, not right now. 

Still, the tension between you crackled in the air, a silent reminder of how easily the two of you clashed. 

But as you watched Bakugou’s back, still bristling with barely-contained energy, you couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the last time the two of you butted heads. And while it was exhausting, a part of you couldn’t help but admire the fire in him. Even if the fire gave you the urge to strangle him. 

But for now, as the group continued on the safer path, you found a small measure of satisfaction in knowing that you’d held your ground. And if Bakugou had to learn that not every fight could be won with brute force, well… you’d be more than happy to teach him. And rub it in his face. But as far as you were concerned, you doubted that he’d let you teach him anything. In the end, the group did not get ambushed. And Bakugou never apologised. 

You were insufferable. Bakugou couldn't stand you. Every word that came out of your mouth seemed designed to get under his skin, and it worked—too well. You challenged him at every turn, never backing down, never letting him have the last word. It was infuriating.

He could feel his blood pressure spike every time you smirked at him, that infuriatingly calm look on your face as if you knew exactly how to push his buttons. It wasn’t just your words, though they were bad enough. It was the way you matched him, blow for blow, never letting him dominate the conversation or the situation. You were always there, a thorn in his side, ready to counter his every move with some clever quip or an infuriatingly smug retort.

Bakugou often enjoyed insulting people in Draconic, relishing the way it let him vent his frustrations without anyone understanding a word he said. There was something undeniably satisfying about watching someone’s clueless expression as he spat venomous words right to their face, knowing they couldn’t decipher the meaning behind the growls and hisses of his native tongue.

But then there was you. Of all the people to cross his path, you just had to know Draconic. It grated on him that every time he let a curse slip, you not only understood but fired back with equal venom. It was as if you revelled in the challenge, matching him insult for insult, and sometimes even besting him at his own game. It drove him up the wall, especially when you threw insults at him in a language he couldn’t comprehend.

"Maurg wux gashtik," he hissed at you as the two of you walked side by side, leading the group down the winding road. His eyes gleamed with irritation, the insult dripping with venom. He was trying to get creative with his insults now, pushing to see if he could get under your skin. The group sighed at his insult, a familiar one they had heard more than a few times before. It was his go-to jab whenever his patience ran thin.

 

Without missing a beat, you shot back, “Syyulq iw haf'ry zmy aldh kyiwz voraflv, la zmilcw.” Your words were smooth and confident, dripping with the kind of sarcasm that only comes from knowing you’ve got the upper hand. You smirked as you finished, casting a sidelong glance at him, knowing full well that he had no idea what you’d just said. 

Mina, walking behind you, suddenly burst into laughter, clutching her sides as she tried to keep up with the group. In that moment, she was more than relieved that she could understand both Bakugou’s insult and yours. Silently thanking you for cursing back at him in infernal. Her laughter was contagious, and the others glanced around, curious about what was so funny. Bakugou's scowl deepened.

"What the hell did you just say?" he demanded, turning to you with a glare, clearly not pleased with being left out of the joke. He hated being in the dark, especially when it was at his expense.

You simply shrugged, feigning innocence. "Wouldn’t you like to know?" The teasing lilt in your voice only fueled his irritation.

Mina wiped away a tear, still giggling. "Oh, Bakugou, you don’t want to know," she teased, which only made him growl in frustration.

"I do want to know, dammit!" he snapped, his eyes narrowing. But neither of you gave him the satisfaction of an answer, continuing down the path as if nothing had happened.

Kirishima grinned, joining in on the fun. “Kats, I think you’ve met your match.”

Bakugou growled, his frustration mounting. It wasn’t just that you could keep up with him in Draconic—it was that you had the audacity to use another language entirely, one that left him in the dark. It was infuriating, and he hated how you seemed to enjoy pushing his buttons.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Bakugou muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, as he tried to think up his next move in this strange verbal chess game the two of you had been playing since the journey began.

But for now, you had the upper hand, and the smirk on your face told him you knew it. The group continued their journey, the road ahead long and winding, but the air was lighter with the banter that lingered. 

It gnawed at him, the fact that he couldn’t just ignore you or dismiss you like everyone else who got on his nerves. You were too sharp, too quick, always two steps ahead, and it drove him mad. It was like you were put on this earth specifically to test his patience, to see just how far he could be pushed before he snapped.

Bakugou might have been annoyed, but a small part of him— buried deep beneath the frustration— couldn’t help but admire how you never let him have the upper hand for long. That, he thought grudgingly, was something he could almost respect. Even if it did grind his gears to no end. The journey to Niniel’s Veil was far from over, and the challenges ahead would test all of you in ways you couldn’t yet imagine. 

Maurg wux gashtik: Go fuck a beast. Syyulq iw haf'ry zmy aldh kyiwz voraflv, la zmilcw: Seeing as you’re the only beast around, no thanks. 

If the annoyance wasn’t enough, Bakugou didn’t trust you either. It was understandable, in a way— trust wasn’t something that came easily, especially not in a group formed under the pressure of necessity rather than choice. But the combination of mutual dislike and a lack of trust was a volatile mix, one that threatened to undermine the cohesion of the group at every turn.

The fire crackled softly in the heart of the forest, sending small sparks up into the darkening sky. The gentle warmth of the flames was a comforting contrast to the cool night air. The group sat in a loose circle around the fire, the orange glow illuminating their faces as they chatted quietly. Kirishima was recounting a funny story from one of their previous adventures, his laughter infectious as the others listened, occasionally adding their own comments or chuckles.

Mina leaned back against her pack, her eyes half-closed as she enjoyed the moment of peace. The night was calm, with only the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a nightbird to break the silence. The woods felt alive, but not in a threatening way—just the usual sounds of nocturnal creatures going about their business under the watchful gaze of the stars.

After a while, the conversation began to taper off, the weight of the day’s travel settling in. One by one, everyone began to prepare for sleep. Kirishima stoked the fire one last time before lying down, while the others rolled into their blankets, their breaths gradually slowing as they drifted off.

You lay still for a few moments, listening to the soft, steady breathing of your companions. The fire had burned down to embers, casting a dim, flickering light over the campsite. The forest around you seemed to hold its breath, the quiet only deepening as the night wore on. 

But your mind was restless, thoughts swirling like leaves caught in a storm. Sleep was slipping further away with each passing minute. After what felt like hours of lying there, you silently rose from your bedroll, careful not to disturb the others. The urge to move, to clear your head, was too strong to ignore.

You stepped away from the camp, the night embracing you with its cool, familiar stillness. Your eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, allowing you to see the path ahead with ease. It was a gift you often kept to yourself. It was your nature, after all, to hold things close, to keep your secrets guarded.

As you walked, the forest seemed to whisper around you, the leaves rustling softly as if in conversation. You breathed in the crisp night air, feeling it clear your mind with each step. The solitude was a welcome relief, a chance to gather your thoughts away from the group.

But before you could get far, a firm hand suddenly gripped your shoulder, halting you in your tracks. You turned to find Bakugou standing behind you, his expression hard and unreadable in the shadows. His eyes, however, were sharp and searching.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice low and edged with suspicion. “Ditching us in the middle of the night?”

You shook your head, surprised by his sudden appearance but not entirely shocked by his suspicion. “I’m not ditching anyone. Just needed some air. A walk helps me think.”

Bakugou didn’t release your shoulder, his gaze narrowing as he studied you. “In the dark? Humans can’t see a damn thing out here without a torch.”

You paused, at his words. Bakugou’s hand tightened slightly on your shoulder as he pieced together the implications. “Humans don’t have darkvision,” he muttered, almost to himself. His mind was clearly turning over the possibilities, trying to figure out what you really were. 

You rolled your eyes, the tension between you and Bakugou palpable in the dim light of the forest. “I’m a half-elf,” you said, your tone edged with impatience. “Half-elves have darkvision. I never claimed to be human.”

Bakugou’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he quickly masked it with his usual scowl. He studied you with renewed scrutiny, as if trying to reconcile this new piece of information with everything he knew— or thought he knew— about you.

“Well, that explains a few things,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Half-elves, huh? Didn’t see that coming.”

You met his gaze steadily, unflinching. “I didn’t see the need to announce it. Besides, I’d rather not make a big deal out of it. I’m here to help, not to broadcast my heritage.”

The truth was more complicated than you cared to share at the moment, especially with someone as guarded as Bakugou. He wasn’t someone who trusted easily, and you doubted he’d start now.

After a moment of tense silence, Bakugou finally released his grip, though his eyes remained wary. “Whatever. We’re not out here for a midnight stroll. Let’s go back to camp.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and started walking back toward the campfire, clearly expecting you to follow. You hesitated for a moment, then sighed and fell in step behind him.

As you walked, Bakugou’s posture remained stiff, his mind clearly still turning over what he’d just discovered. You had given him an answer, but he wasn’t sure if he trusted it. Then again, would you lie about something like that? The doubt lingered in his eyes, though he didn’t ask any more questions. The silence between you was heavy, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. It was clear that, for now at least, the matter wasn’t settled in his mind.

When you both returned to camp, the fire was still glowing faintly, and the others remained asleep, unaware of the brief exchange. Bakugou didn’t say anything as he resumed his spot by the fire, but his eyes followed you as you lay down once more.

As you closed your eyes, you could feel his gaze lingering, the unspoken question hanging in the air. It seemed that trust, for now, would remain elusive between you— but at least you knew where you stood.

The morning sun filtered through the dense canopy above, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor as the group prepared for another day of travel. The air was crisp and fresh, a welcome change from the damp chill of the previous night. As everyone readied their gear, you decided to take a backseat in the day's journey, letting Bakugou take the lead. The prospect of another argument with him seemed exhausting, so you followed behind with Kirishima, who had readily offered to walk with you.

Kirishima’s cheerful demeanour was a stark contrast to Bakugou’s usual intensity, and you found the company pleasant. The two of you fell into an easy rhythm, your footsteps crunching softly on the forest path.

“So, Kirishima,” you began, trying to steer the conversation toward a topic you’d been curious about. “What’s Bakugou’s story? I mean, I know he’s skilled, but there’s something about him that seems like there’s more.”

Kirishima gave you a thoughtful look, his usually bright eyes narrowing slightly as he considered how to respond. “Bakugou?” he said, his voice taking on a thoughtful tone. “He’s got quite the history. He’s a dragonborn prince, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the revelation. “A prince? That’s… not something I expected. I mean, he doesn’t exactly come across as the royal type.”

Kirishima chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that was warm and friendly. “Yeah, he doesn’t exactly fit the typical prince mould. But he’s got a lot of responsibilities back home. Being a prince isn’t just about wearing a crown—it’s about carrying a whole lot of weight.”

You glanced ahead, where Bakugou was striding with his usual determination, his back straight and his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “So, what’s driving him to adventure like this? It seems like a pretty big change from royalty.”

Kirishima hesitated for a moment, his expression becoming more guarded. “Well, that’s not really my place to say. Bakugou’s got his reasons, and he doesn’t share them easily. Let’s just say he’s on a quest that’s important to him—something personal.”

You nodded, sensing that Kirishima was being intentionally vague. “Fair enough. It’s clear he values his privacy. But it’s good to know he has friends like you backing him up.”

Kirishima’s smile returned, a look of genuine warmth in his eyes. “Yeah, we go way back. I’m his chosen advisor, and it’s my job to support him, no matter what. We’ve been through a lot together, and I trust him more than anyone.”

You smiled, appreciating the loyalty and camaraderie that Kirishima clearly felt for Bakugou. “It sounds like you two have a strong bond. I guess that’s why you’re always so ready to jump in and help him out.”

“Definitely,” Kirishima agreed, his tone filled with sincerity. “We’ve got each other’s backs. That’s what matters.”

The conversation drifted to lighter topics as you both continued along the path, the forest surrounding you both serene and welcoming. There was a sense of unity and purpose among the group. As you walked beside Kirishima, you felt a deeper understanding of the dynamics within your travelling party and a little bit of Bakugou. 

Your mind drifted back to the night’s encounter. Bakugou had thought you were going to run off, his suspicion evident in the way he confronted you. It wasn’t just that he didn’t trust you— he was actively wary, as if expecting you to betray the group at any moment. The weight of his doubt lingered with you, and you couldn’t help but wonder what you could do to earn his trust.

You hadn’t lied when you told him you were a half-elf. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t the full truth either. There were parts of your heritage you hadn’t revealed, things you weren’t ready to share with anyone— not yet. That unspoken part of yourself hung between you and Bakugou like a shadow, a barrier that kept him on edge. You knew the dangers of revealing your true identity. The consequences could be far-reaching, and trust was a fragile thing. So, for now, you would keep it hidden for as long as you could, hoping that time would eventually build the trust you needed to bridge the gap between you and Bakugou.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the forest floor, Bakugou and Mina worked together to set up camp. The crackling of the fire was the only sound for a while, save for the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees. Bakugou was unusually quiet, his sharp gaze focused on the task at hand, but his mind was elsewhere. 

After a moment of silence, he glanced at Mina, who was busy laying out bedrolls. “Oi, Mina,” he started, his tone gruff as he tried to sound casual, “how close are you with that cartographer?”

Mina looked up, blinking in surprise at the sudden question. She tilted her head, considering. “We get along fine,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “She's easy to talk to, but… I wouldn’t say we’re super close. Why?”

Bakugou shrugged, his expression carefully neutral, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Just wonderin’. She ever open up to you? Y’know, about her past or whatever?”

Mina shook her head, her antennae twitching slightly as she thought back. “Not really. She’s pretty secretive, honestly. I know She’s a cartographer—travelling all over the place for work. But outside of that, she doesn't share much. She usually keeps to themselves.”

Bakugou frowned, his brows knitting together as he absorbed this information. “So she doesn't talk about where she’s been or what she’s seen?”

Mina shrugged, her expression a mix of curiosity and understanding. “Not much, no. I think she prefers to keep her distance. It’s like she’s here, but her mind is always somewhere else, always on the next map, the next destination.”

Bakugou grunted in response, his gaze drifting towards the trees where the others had gone to collect water and firewood. “Figures,” he muttered, almost to himself. He couldn’t quite place why it bothered him that you were so closed off. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stand not knowing what made someone tick, or maybe it was something else entirely—something he wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself.

Bakugou thought back to that night. You had said you were a half-elf, but something about it didn’t sit right with him. There was a nagging feeling in his gut, a sense that there was more to your story than you were letting on. He couldn’t shake the feeling that you were holding something back, something important. 

But then again, it was still early in the journey. Maybe he was just overthinking it, letting his natural suspicion get the better of him. He huffed, brushing off the unease with a scowl. He was probably just being stupid, reading too much into things that didn’t matter. There was a long road ahead, and he couldn’t afford to get distracted by his own doubts—not yet, anyway.

Mina noticed the thoughtful look on his face and smiled softly. “You’re curious about her, huh? It’s not like you to take an interest in someone’s life like this.”

Bakugou scowled, quickly masking his curiosity with a gruff snort. “Don’t get any ideas, Mina. Just tryin’ to figure out what makes ‘em so damn secretive. It’s annoying.”

Mina chuckled, giving him a knowing look. “Sure, sure. Well, maybe she’ll open up eventually. Who knows? We’ve still got a long journey ahead.”

Bakugou didn’t respond, but the frown on his face deepened as he returned to his task, his mind still turning over the mystery that was you. The more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him. There was something about you that didn’t add up, and Bakugou wasn’t the type to leave a puzzle unsolved.

You returned from gathering firewood with Sero, engaged in light conversation as you both made your way back to camp. Sero was animatedly discussing his latest idea for improving the camp setup when your eyes happened to meet Bakugou’s across the clearing. The moment your gazes locked, the interaction quickly soured into a glare.

Bakugou’s voice cut through the calm evening like a blade. “What are you looking at?” he growled, his tone sharp and challenging.

You met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, your own expression hardening. “I’m just bringing back the firewood, Bakugou. If you’ve got something to say, just spit it out.”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed, his irritation barely contained. “Oh, I’m just admiring your talent for being annoyingly friendly all the time.”

“Better than being a grumpy jerk,” you shot back, your tone crisp and biting. “At least I’m making an effort to get along with everyone around me.”

Bakugou snorted, his defiant expression unwavering. “Getting along doesn’t mean I have to like you.”

“Well, too bad. You’re stuck with me for the long haul,” you retorted, your eyes challenging as you turned back to Sero.

His scowl deepened, the lines on his forehead etched with frustration. “It’s not my fault if you’re always skulking around like you’re up to something.”

You took offence, the bundle of wood in your arms feeling heavier as your grip tightened. “Oh, spare me. Maybe if you didn’t jump to conclusions all the time, you wouldn’t be so damn paranoid.”

Sero, sensing the escalating tension and the heat of the moment, stepped in with a nervous laugh, trying to defuse the situation. “Hey, let’s just focus on setting up camp, alright? No need to turn this into a fight.”

The two of you exchanged one last, lingering glare before turning away, the bitterness of the encounter still hanging in the air. It was clear that, despite the forced civility, there was a lot of ground to cover before any semblance of mutual respect could be established. The journey ahead was long, and whether you liked it or not, learning to get along would be a necessary part of the road ahead. Both of you would have to navigate your way through this tension, finding common ground amid the bickering and suspicion, if you were to make it through the trials of the journey together.

The tavern’s warm glow flickers over Bakugou’s face as he recounts the early days of the journey to the bard. The firelight dances across the rugged lines of his features, accentuating the gruffness of his expression. His voice, though rough and often brusque, carries a hint of amusement as he describes the mishaps and close calls of their travels. The corner of his mouth curls into a rare, fleeting smile, betraying a sense of camaraderie and nostalgia as he relives the stories of the group’s early adventures. 

“So, let me get this straight,” the bard chuckles, leaning forward, “you two couldn’t stand each other from the start?”

Bakugou snorts, a rare grin tugging at his lips. “Hated each other’s guts. She was too careful, and I was too reckless. We annoyed the hell out of each other every chance we got.”

“We couldn’t stand each other,” Bakugou admits, his tone gruff but tinged with amusement. “Always bickering, always on each other’s nerves. Hell, I thought we were gonna tear each other apart before we even made it halfway.”

The bard chuckles, shaking his head. “Sounds like quite the pair. How’d you manage to get anything done?”

Bakugou laughs, a low, rumbling sound. “By sheer stubbornness. We hated each other, sure, but I’ll give her this—she knew what she was doing. Eventually, we figured out how to make it work. Mostly.” He added with a knowing grin.

The bard laughs as well, eyes twinkling with interest. “And now?”

“Now?” Bakugou leans back, a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. There’s a hint of sadness in them. “Now, we still argue like crazy. But somehow, we make it work.”

It had barely been two weeks of relentless bickering with Bakugou, and every moment felt like a battle you were losing. His sharp words, constant challenges, and the way he always had to have the last word grated on your nerves. You couldn’t stand it. The tension was suffocating, your patience wearing thin with every snarky exchange. The urge to scream clawed at your throat, desperate for release.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the dense canopy of trees, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The air was cool, filled with the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves. A gentle stream gurgled nearby as Mina and you filled water skins for the camp, the soothing sound doing little to quell your growing frustration.

“I swear, Bakugou is impossible!” you huffed, shaking your head as you dipped another skin into the clear water. “He acts like nothing can touch him, diving into danger for convenience!”

Mina glanced at you, an amused smile playing on her lips as she finished tying off one of the filled skins. “You know he’s just being Bakugou. It’s kind of his thing— punch first, ask questions later. But it has worked out before.”

You rolled your eyes, the irritation evident in your voice. “Yeah, but it’s only a matter of time before it doesn’t! He needs to learn to slow down, think things through. When we reach Niniel’s Veil, it’s not just fighting monsters out here; we’ve got traps, puzzles, who knows what else. He’s too reckless!”

Meanwhile, deeper in the woods, Kirishima and Bakugou were trudging through the underbrush, fallen branches crunching underfoot as they gathered firewood. Bakugou’s expression was as stormy as ever, his grip on the axe handle tight as he vented his frustrations.

“That damn guide is a pain in the ass,” Bakugou grumbled, swinging the axe down with a fierce chop. “Always so careful, double-checking every damn thing like I’m some kind of idiot. We don’t have time for all that crap!”

Kirishima chuckled, hoisting a thick branch onto his shoulder. “But isn’t that why you brought her along? To make sure we don’t walk into some ancient trap or something in the Veil? I mean, you’ve got to admit, her method has been smooth sailing.”

Bakugou scoffed, his eyes narrowing as he chopped through another log. “Doesn’t mean she has to question every move I make. I’ve got instincts, damn good ones! She just needs to keep up and stop second-guessing me.”

The complaints overlapped in the forest air, each of you venting to your companions, the words crossing paths but never reaching the intended target.

You shook your head, handing a full water skin to Mina. “He’s so stubborn. I don’t know how he thinks he’s going to survive if he keeps acting like he’s invulnerable. One of these days, he’s going to get us all killed.”

Mina tied off the skin, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe you just need to find a way to work with him, instead of against him. I mean, you’re both pretty set in your ways, but maybe that’s why you butt heads so much. You balance each other out, you know?”

Back with Kirishima, Bakugou grunted, shouldering a bundle of firewood. “She thinks that she knows everything, like she’s got all the answers. But I’ve been through worse, and I’m still standing. She needs to trust that I’ve got this.”

Kirishima adjusted the weight of the branches, his tone calm. “Maybe it’s not about who’s right, but about making sure we all get through this together. You both care about the group, even if you show it in different ways.”

“Urgh..! He’s such a pain! I can’t stand him. He’s such a—”

“She’s such an uptight, overcautious nag! Always acting like she’s got a stick up her—” 

“—reckless, hot-headed maniac! Charging into everything like it’s a damn arena fight! Why can’t he just—” 

“—shut up and let me handle things without acting like I’m gonna blow us all up every five seconds! It’s not like—” 

“—he ever listens to anyone but himself! If he’d just stop and think for one second, maybe we wouldn’t be—” 

“—stuck wasting time because someone has to check every leaf and twig like it’s gonna explode!” 

“—risking our necks because he’s too stubborn to admit he’s not invincible!”

Mina and Kirishima exchanged knowing glances if they were next to each other. They watched the barbarian and the cartographer vent their intense frustrations. The raw display of annoyance was almost comical— both of them so stubborn, so convinced they were right, yet so blind to how similar they really were. Mina chuckled softly, shaking her head at the irony of it all, while Kirishima couldn’t help but grin at the familiar scene. They had seen this play out before: the clash of two strong-willed personalities who, despite their constant bickering, somehow managed to keep the group moving forward.

Neither of you would hear the other’s words, each too wrapped up in your own complaints. The journey ahead was fraught with dangers, and though you couldn’t see it yet, those opposing qualities might just be what kept the group together when the stakes were highest.

There were definitely times when your methods worked best, especially in situations that demanded careful planning and a steady hand. Navigating treacherous terrain and leading with caution—all tasks where your meticulous approach and attention to detail had saved the group from wasting precious resources early in the journey. You were determined to conserve energy and supplies for the challenges that awaited at Niniel’s Veil. 

But there were also moments when Bakugou’s approach was undeniably effective. His instinct to charge forward, to confront danger head-on with raw strength and unwavering confidence, had turned the tide in battles where hesitation could have been fatal. His ability to make quick, decisive moves in the heat of the moment had saved lives more than once.

The early morning air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the faintest scent of dew and pine. The camp was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of awakening birds. The sky, just beginning to blush with the first hints of dawn, cast a soft, golden light over the landscape. You and Bakugou were the only ones awake, the rest of the group still wrapped in the comfort of their sleep. An unspoken tension lingered between you.

Bakugou sat by the embers of the now-dying campfire, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared out into the growing light. You approached him, your footsteps muffled by the soft ground. The air was crisp and cool, a welcome relief from the stuffy confines of the tent.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the underlying strain. “Since we’re both up, I figured I might as well come with you to scout ahead.”

Bakugou glanced up, his expression a mix of surprise and reluctant approval. “Fine. Let’s go.”

You nodded and fell into step beside him, the two of you moving out of the camp and into the dense underbrush. The forest around you was bathed in a soft, early morning light, the trees casting long, slanting shadows on the ground. The silence of the woods was punctuated only by the crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional chirp of a waking bird.

The awkwardness between you was palpable, each step feeling like a small, deliberate choice in a game neither of you wanted to play. Bakugou’s posture remained rigid, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a vigilance that spoke more of habit than relaxation. You walked beside him, your own gaze alert but focused on maintaining a semblance of peace.

Bakugou was quiet, the weight of unspoken tension hanging between you. He knew that for this journey to work, you both needed to reach some kind of understanding. Begrudgingly, he decided to start the conversation. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew it had to happen.

After a few minutes of strained silence, Bakugou finally broke it. “Why do you hate me so much?” His voice was low and gruff, cutting through the quiet.

You glanced at him, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. “Hate’s a strong word,” you replied, keeping your tone measured. “I don’t hate you. I just think your approach is reckless and puts everyone at risk.”

Bakugou’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing. “Reckless? You mean taking risks to get things done faster. You’re the one who always plays it safe, wasting time and taking it slow while we’re stuck in the same spot.”

“Oh, come on,” you shot back, a hint of frustration seeping into your voice. “It’s not about playing it safe. It’s about using our heads and avoiding unnecessary danger. If we take shortcuts without knowing what we’re up against, we’re just asking for trouble.”

“Trouble that we can handle,” Bakugou retorted. “If we keep taking the long way, we’ll never get anywhere. Sometimes you’ve got to take a chance to get ahead.”

You shook your head, exasperated. “And sometimes those chances come with risks that could be avoided. It’s not worth jeopardising everyone’s safety for the sake of saving a few hours.”

As you argued, Bakugou’s eyes fell on a narrow path winding through the woods. He pointed to it, his tone challenging. “Look, there’s a shortcut right there. We could cut through and save a lot of time.”

You pulled out your map and studied it, your brow furrowing. “That shortcut is infested with bandits. I’ve marked it as dangerous. It’s not worth the risk.”

Bakugou’s frustration was palpable. “The group can handle bandits. We’ve fought worse. Why waste time taking the long way around when we can deal with the problem head-on?”

You glared at him, your patience wearing thin. “Because it’s not just about fighting. It’s about making sure we don’t run into more trouble than we can handle. Sometimes avoiding a fight is the smarter move.”

The argument continued, the exchange heated but ultimately inconclusive. Both of you were too entrenched in your own viewpoints to reach an agreement. When you finally returned to camp, you were both visibly frustrated.

The group was still asleep, the peaceful morning broken only by the soft murmur of the wind and the distant chirping of birds. You and Bakugou sat down, waiting for the others to wake up. The lingering tension between you was undeniable, but there was also a sense of shared purpose—an understanding that, despite the disagreements, you both had a role to play in the journey ahead.

As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, the rest of the group began to stir. Kirishima was the first to sit up, rubbing his eyes and glancing around sleepily. He quickly noticed the strained silence between you and Bakugou, who sat apart from each other, both looking tense and frustrated.

“Uh… morning, guys,” Kirishima said cautiously, trying to gauge the situation. He shot a questioning look at Sero, who was now waking up beside him.

Sero stretched and yawned, then raised an eyebrow as he took in the scene. “Morning. Everything… okay?”

Denki, who had just rolled out of his blanket, leaned in closer to Mina and whispered, “What’s up with them? It’s too early for them to be fighting already.”

Mina, still half-asleep but alert enough to pick up on the tension, whispered back, “I don’t know, but you can feel it from here. They must’ve had another argument while we were asleep.”

“Again?” Denki replied, shaking his head. “You’d think they’d save it for when we’re all awake at least.”

Kirishima stood up and started gathering his things, trying to break the awkwardness. “Alright, let’s start packing up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.” He shot a pointed look at you and Bakugou, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Mina and Denki exchanged a knowing glance before following Kirishima’s lead, quietly packing their belongings while sneaking curious glances at you and Bakugou. Sero sighed and muttered under his breath, “Great, just what we needed. Another day of this.”

As everyone started to pack up, the camp buzzed with quiet activity, but the atmosphere remained heavy. Despite the early morning chill, the tension between you and Bakugou lingered, a silent reminder of the ongoing clash of strategies and personalities.

You had spent the morning turning over Bakugou’s and Mina’s words in your mind. Your aversion to danger wasn’t born from some crippling fear. It was more a matter of practicality, honed by years of travelling alone. The safer, longer paths were the ones you’d come to rely on, not because you couldn’t hold your own in a fight, but because most threats didn’t come alone. As a lone traveller, risking an encounter with a group of enemies wasn’t a gamble you could afford to make. 

You couldn't deny that the idea of taking shortcuts was tempting—who wouldn't want to shave time off a journey? But the longer routes had become second nature to you. They offered a sense of control, a way to avoid unnecessary risks, even if it meant the journey took longer. After all, the longer path had kept you alive this long. But now, you weren’t alone. 

This time, you were guiding a group capable of working together in fights, each member bringing their own strengths to the table. While you understood the weight of responsibility for your choices and the lives of those around you, you also had to acknowledge that they were strong. Maybe it was time to trust in their abilities as much as your own instincts.

So, you decided to give in to Bakugou’s methods. It wasn’t easy—your instinct was to err on the side of caution, to take the longer, safer route. But you couldn’t always reject Bakugou’s ideas. He wasn’t stupid; if anything, he was frustratingly competent. Maybe, just maybe, his method would work out this time.

“Alright,” you said, catching up to him as the group prepared to move out. “Let’s take the shortcut you suggested.”

Bakugou turned to you, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You’re agreeing with me? No complaints about how dangerous it is?”

You shrugged, gripping your sword staff a little tighter. “No, no complaints. If we manage to get through, it’ll get us to Niniel’s Veil quicker. I can see the benefit in different methods.”

He gave you a long, searching look before nodding. “Good. Then let’s get moving. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when we run into trouble.”

You met his gaze, your voice firm. “I’m not scared of trouble.”

The group set off, the atmosphere tinged with a mix of tension and curiosity. Bakugou led the way, his confidence clear in his stride, while you stayed close, your sword staff at the ready. The path was narrow, overgrown, and clearly less travelled— a clear indication of why it was considered a shortcut. The trees loomed overhead, their thick branches casting long shadows on the ground as the sun filtered through in patches.

This shortcut was infamous for the number of bandits lying in wait to ambush travellers. It was certainly a quicker route, but it came with a reputation for trouble, especially in this part of the woods. 

You kept your senses sharp, every sound and movement drawing your attention. The quiet was unnerving, each snap of a twig underfoot sending a jolt of anticipation through you. You could feel the others’ unease too— Mina kept casting glances at you, while Sero and Kirishima’s usual banter had died down, replaced by a focused silence.

Sure enough, as the group pressed deeper into the shortcut, the ambush came. A gang of bandits emerged from the underbrush, their weapons drawn and eyes gleaming with malicious intent. It was clear they’d been lying in wait, expecting easy prey.

“There they are!” one of the bandits shouted, raising his sword. “Get ’em!”

Your grip on the sword staff tightened as you instinctively fell into a defensive stance. “Here we go,” you muttered to yourself, your eyes scanning the bandits for any weaknesses.

Bakugou, however, was already on the move. “Stay close and don’t hold back!” he barked, his voice commanding as he charged forward, his weapon drawn and ready.

The fight was intense and chaotic. The bandits were skilled, but your group was more than a match for them. Bakugou’s aggressive approach caught the bandits off guard, his attacks swift and brutal. You found yourself coordinating with him, your defensive techniques complementing his offence as you fought off the attackers.

“Watch your left!” Bakugou yelled, his voice cutting through the din of battle.

You pivoted, blocking an incoming strike with the shaft of your sword staff before delivering a sharp counterattack. “Cover the right!”

Bakugou grunted in acknowledgment, his movements fluid as he took down another bandit. The two of you moved in sync, your strategies— though different— working together to keep the group protected. Mina and Denki used their abilities to create distance, while Sero and Kirishima provided support, ensuring no one got overwhelmed.

Despite the initial tension, the fight went smoothly. The bandits were eventually routed, their numbers no match for your combined strength. As the last of them fled into the trees, one of them managed to knock you to the ground.

Bakugou was quick to stride over, grabbing your arm and hauling you back to your feet with a force that left you slightly off balance. “Can’t even stay on your feet?” he quipped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Whatever,” you retorted, shaking your head as you brushed the dirt from your clothes. “Thanks, I guess.”

Bakugou chuckled, the sound a low, gruff rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “What was that?” he asked, leaning slightly closer, the smirk widening. “Didn’t quite catch that. Why don’t you say it again?”

You shot him a glare, pausing in your task to look him squarely in the eye. “Don’t push your luck, Bakugou. I said what I said.”

His smirk only grew, clearly enjoying the reaction he’d provoked. “That’s what I thought. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes, slotting your sword staff into your pack. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“And you’re welcome,” he repeated, the teasing tone unmistakable.

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but smile a little as you adjusted your backpack. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to be grateful every time you play hero.”

Bakugou’s eyes glinted with amusement as he rolled his shoulders, preparing to continue the journey. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But you might want to work on that ‘thank you’ anyway. We’ve got a long journey ahead.”

You shook your head, but the corners of your mouth twitched upward. “Keep dreaming.”

There was a pause as the both of you caught your breath, the adrenaline of the fight slowly ebbing away. The forest around you was quiet again, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the soft breeze. You both stood there, a few feet apart, the tension that had filled the air earlier now replaced by a tentative calm. 

Bakugou looked at you, his gaze steady as he wiped a bit of dirt off his arm. “Told you it’d work out,” he said, his voice gruff but surprisingly even. “Sometimes, you just have to take the risk.”

You couldn’t help but grin, albeit begrudgingly. There was something about his blunt confidence that, for once, you couldn’t argue with. “Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. “But next time, we do it my way.”

Bakugou snorted, a sound that was more amused than dismissive. There was no malice in it, just a hint of teasing. “We’ll see about that. But admit it— my way wasn’t so bad this time.”

You chuckled, a strange sense of camaraderie settling between you, easing the usual friction. “I guess I’ll give you that. But just this once.”

Bakugou’s eyes glinted with a mix of satisfaction and challenge as he crossed his arms over his chest, a small smirk still playing on his lips. “Once is all I need,” he replied, the competitive edge in his voice unmistakable.

The tension that usually hung between you had softened, replaced by something that felt almost like mutual respect. The group, though tired, seemed more cohesive after the battle, the tension of the shortcut replaced by a sense of accomplishment. As you resumed your journey, the atmosphere was lighter, the lingering animosity between you and Bakugou beginning to thaw—if only just a little.

previous chapter

next chapter

a/n: maybe you guys can make out instead of fighting. Every Twosday yall !! @chocogoldie @l0kisbitch @devils-adversary

border credits: @enchanthings & @adornedwithlight

[helloliriels]

"Do you think The Doctor exists?"

Sherlock asked John.

The question came out of nowhere as he was hanging a stocking up by the fire.

There were three, side-by-side. One for John, one for little Rosie, and one for Sherlock.

It took a moment for John's brain to catch up to what Sherlock was asking?

"Sorry ...? The doctor?" John asked, tilting his head as if trying to recall what they had been discussing previously? "What doctor?"

His hand hovered over the tree as it held a snowflake ornament, midway to hanging it on its waiting branch.

"You know ...?" Sherlock shrugged, "The Doctor." He waved his arms to indicate all of the Christmas decorations. "The one who shows up while you are sleeping and delivers christmas toys?"

John's eyes went wide.

"You don't mean ... are you ... ? Are you talking about Santa somehow?"

"No, John," Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes, leaving all but the word 'idiot' out. "Everyone and their dog knows Santa Claus isn't real! He could never make deliveries on a global scale with just a sleigh and handful of reindeer?!"

"No," John chuckled to himself, "course not. Silly me!"

"He doesn't even have a time machine," Sherlock muttered, sounding a little affronted.

Then he was stepping back to admire his handiwork on the mantle before picking up a strand of garland from the box of decorations, and lifting out a packet of fairy lights.

"Hang on a mo-"

John carefully hung up the ornament - mind still reeling with thoughts - as he made sure he would not drop and shatter anything, before climbing down the stepladder to face Sherlock more directly.

Once he was on firm ground, he came over and turned Sherlock around.

Sherlock froze. Staring down at the closeness of John, at the warmth of his hands touching him ... blinking both at it, and then up at John's now glittering eyes.

"You mean to tell me ...? John asked, voice tinkling with mirth, "...that you grew up ...? With tales of Doctor Who delivering your Christmas presents??!"

John was barely containing his enthusiasm.

"Doctor who?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Oh my God," John was now laughing with his eyes also, "Oh ... my. God! The Doctor?! The timelord with two hearts ... ! The one who travels in a big blue box? That Doctor??"

Sherlock shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and wouldn't meet John's eyes.

"That ... is ... " Sherlock huffed, "isn't that ... how it goes?" He looked around as if he had somehow gotten it all wrong??

Was John making fun of him?

It had certainly made more sense than a giant bearded old elf in red wool sneaking down non-existent chimneys! Or at least he and Mycroft thought so ...

John had stopped laughing. He stepped forward and looked up earnestly as Sherlock, "Will I ever cease to be amazed by how your brain works?" He asked, genuinely amazed.

Sherlock's eyes went wide as John stepped closer and ... his hand brushed the curls away from Sherlock's forehead.

Then he pulled Sherlock in for a kiss.

Now Sherlock's eyes were glittering, looking as if he'd opened every Christmas present early.

"Just know, if I find you kissing any other Doctor on Christmas eve ..." John warned, playfully, "I will be taking back all of your Christmas presents!"

Sherlock grinned, "Doctor who?" he mocked in return, stooping to pull John close again, "I only kiss this one."

John laughed as Sherlock enthusiastically smothered him in kisses. Only pulling away when they heard Rosie coo from the other room.

"Oh, I know what we're watching tonight!" John laughed.

Sherlock pulled John back and placed John's hand over his own heart. "John ...?" he asked, in serious reply to John's teasing, "are you sure you don't have two hearts?"

Just then, Rosie walked in, dragging her floppy bunny behind her ...

"Maybe ... even three?" Sherlock corrected.

John smiled ... knowing his own heart had just melted.

@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @fluffbyday-smutbynight @lisbeth-kk @gregorovitchworld @john-smiths-jawline @topsyturvy-turtely @chriscalledmesweetie @calaisreno @khorazir @missdeliadili @masterofhounds @whatnext2020 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @bewitched-bullet @kettykika78 @discordantwords @bertytravelsfar @inevitably-johnlocked @red-pen-revolution @sabsi221b @sakshisahu @solarmama @janetm74 @a-victorian-girl @blogstandbygo @purplevatican @totallysilvergirl @7-percent @sarahthecoat @inevitably-johnlocked @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @dontfuckmylifewtf @iwlyanmw @saki101 @sgam76 @kabubsmagga @keirgreeneyes @meetinginsamarra @loki-lock @a-different-equation @mrb488 @youcouldcallmegus @amyreadsandstresses @inatshej @dragonnan @tiverrr

[nat-seal-well]

It’s almost the end of my work week and to celebrate surviving my 3 AM shift, I’m posting a snippet from the one-shot I’m working on! The Sewell family is so intriguing to me and I’ve been playing around with them.

As expected, Natalie took to Persian as naturally as she had to every other language that was offered to her. Milton did his best, but like every other young boy, his attention was directed elsewhere: tales of glory and honor, and the maritime stories that only seemed to be rising in popularity.

News of Britain's colonies in the New World ignited fires in the imagination of its people. The continent across the ocean seemed to be full of possibility: pristine nature, opportunity ripe for the taking, if only one were brave enough to take to the sea to get to it. Milton, however, could not have cared less about the wild land that gripped the rest of the nation’s mind. Instead, he fixated on the large, wooden vessels that were needed to get there.

It frightened her, even if she did not speak of it. The ocean took just as easily as it gave. She knew that as well as anyone. The thought of her only son daring to leave dry land was unimaginable, for more ways than one. Thankfully, however, she was not the only one who abhorred the idea of it.

“I want to join the British Navy,” Milton announced one day at dinner, when he was all of thirteen years old. “I want to be a sailor.”

Her response was to narrowly miss choking on her venison, and she took a sip of wine to help recover. It was as red as blood, and the sight of it did little good, but it gave her time to think of what to say that did not betray the wrenching of her heart.

“You will do no such thing,” Lord Sewell said simply, as he sliced away at the meat, seasoned with a blackberry wine sauce, on his fine china plate. “You are the Sewell heir; heirs do not go to sea.”

“I’m not the eldest, though. Natalie is the eldest. Why isn’t she the heir? It doesn’t make any sense,” Milton protested.

“That simply is not the way things are done,” Lady Sewell managed at last. “But even if you were not destined to take your father’s place, you cannot be a sailor—it is far too dangerous, darling. I cannot bear the thought of you boarding a rickety, old boat, and sailing away from me.”

Milton seemed to take it as an affront. With an air of indignance that would only be mustered by a child of thirteen, he said, “They aren’t ‘rickety old boats.’ They’re the British Navy. They’re the finest ships in the world, and I want to command one.”

[hiiraya]

it matters to me

masterlist

pairing: natasha romanoff  x reader; tony stark x reader (platonic) words: 0.6k warnings: mentions of weapons, arguing requested: nope :3 a/n: based on this because it made me giggle

Wandering around the compound looking around for you was definitely not how Natasha wanted to spend her Sunday morning; in fact, if it wasn't for her need to be wrapped up in your embrace for a few moments before she could truly start her day, she would very much still be laying in her comfy bed. Natasha hears you long before she lays her eyes on you, and she waits in the background to see what was so important that you had to leave her all alone in bed just to talk to Tony. "Are you being serious?"

"It's not a big deal, Y/N, I just don't think it matters." There's an affronted look on you face when she finally catches a glance at you, arms crossed over you chest as you sit across the man you've grown to love as a brother. "They're lying to people, and making them believe that what they're teaching to others is true, and you don't care?" Tony sighs as he throws his head back, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. 
"One- they're not technically lying." He says, tapping his fingers on the hardwood table separating the two of you. "Two- so what if they are? Like I said before, it's not a big deal, Y/N/N. And three- you can argue with me all you want, it still doesn't matter to me." Natasha's never seen you look this exasperated so early in the morning, but she can tell that Tony's clearly enjoying toying with you, and despite not knowing what the conversation between the both of you was truly about, she knows that Tony's only objective is to rile you up. The moment is short lived however when you suddenly rise from your chair, a gun materialising from seemingly nowhere, pointed at the older man. "The two main characters in a show called 'veggie tales' are fruits and that doesn't matter to you?" Tony only raises his hands in response, which only seems to annoy you more. "It's not a big deal?" "Y/N, give me the gun!" You both look at her when she makes herself known, hand held out towards you as she looks at you expectantly. "I wasn't actually going to shoot him!" "Now." She hears you mumble under your breath how the show is stupid anyway as you place your weapon in her hand, your bottom lip jutting out slightly as you look at her.

She can never stay mad at you when you look at her like that; and she knows that you know that she can never stay mad at you when you look at her like that (and you play it to your advantage every time, damn you).

If the look on you face tells her anything as you flip Tony off when he waves you off with a smug look on his face, mumbling that it just makes no sense that a cucumber and a tomato are the main characters when they're so clearly fruits on show about vegetables, Nat! She knows she's in for a long morning. "And you." She says, pointing a finger to the man unable to hide the amusement on his face. "Stop pushing their buttons, you know they won’t focus on anything else but this for the next week." As he voices out an apology, Natasha grabs your face in her hands, slowly guiding you to look at her. "Now we are going back to bed, you owe me cuddles for sneaking out to argue with Tony about fruits and vegetables, understood?"

She watches you search her eyes for any sign to say that she was actually upset with you, a satisfied grin appearing on your face when you find none.

"Yes ma'am."

[nalyra-dreaming]

@ the nonny with the two-part ask (which I'm not adding here bc of the references):

The thing is, that the perception of the show characters clashes for some with the more than established (as in 50 years established) version.

The show added an astonishing meta level and social commentary, and if fanfiction does not add that - or does not add it to the satisfaction of some - then that is sometimes seen as an affront.

Now, I do not know the fic you were talking about, and I did not go to check. I am mostly staying in canon myself, because as said before, I waited over 3 decades for my vampires, and I have no need to go AU on them, not when THIS canon exists^^.

However, that is just me.

Given the fact Anne herself wrote a lot of fanfiction (let's be real, the Jesus books? For example? Also I'd invite you to read what Neil Gaiman says about his own writing there, for example....) - it's only logical that people would go and write whatever they wanted with her characters now as well.

There is no "one" lens through which this show and the books can be seen. There's millions. Because every one of us sees it all differently, shaped by life, circumstance and experience.

And if you want to write something that changes stuff in an AU setting - then that should obviously be fine. It's fanfiction.

The ultimate fix-it. The ultimate "I-want-this-to-be-different-so-I-add-to-it-or-change-it".

In the last years the "don't like don't read" has taken a serious dip though, there is a lot of people engaging with media because they hate it, and they feel welcome in groups that share this stance. There is also an uptick of puritanical need to censor.

And that reflects on Ao3 (or other fanfiction sites as well), as well as fandom spaces.

The absolutely correct need to point out fandom racism is conflated with missing knowledge of the source material and what the 50 year old canon actually provides (and maybe especially the newer books). I've been called things, because people just do not know what happens in "Merrick", for example. Or in the last trilogy. They don't know, and they jump to the one explanation that makes sense... to them.

So that is something that one needs to be aware of, I think.

There is a big mix of knowledge right now - and it clashes in a definitely not comfortable way.

And, last but maybe not least - a fanfic is no meta.

It's a fic. A story. A tale. Its own thing. A different thing, too.

It should be treated as such. Imho.

[dragonedged-if]

Author's Tale Entries

So Merry Christmas my lovely Readers! Yes! I know that I disappeared for a long time but to summarize it I took a break and life is very hectic as of now.

Writing is resuming and as you guys wait I decided to this. Ever since I was a kid me and my friends use to to this type of thing plus I can use it as practice. I'm sure you guys already stumbles stuff like this but to clarify I will explain it. This will be your story where the outcome is random based on your choice and my let's say whims. So expect the writing style will change as time goes on and such. So without further ado let us begin.

Close your ey- Wait! Haha silly me, your reading not listening so I want you instead to visualize. (Keep them peepers open now!)

A.T. Entry 1

The sun, a celestial artist, weaves an ethereal tapestry through the verdant foliage overhead. It bathes you in its warm, golden embrace, illuminating the colors of the surrounding flora with an intensity that leaves you mesmerized. You draw in a lungful of the pristine air, letting it fill your senses with the harmony of nature, before releasing it with a contented sigh that mingles with the rustling of the leaves.

Every pore of your skin basks in the sun's affectionate kiss, sending a delightful tingle coursing through your veins, a reminder of the life that thrums within you. Your ears, attuned to the forest's melody, catch the harmonious chirping of the birds, their fluttering wings beating a rhythm that resonates with the very heartbeat of the wilderness, shaking of the branches as their talons find purchase on its woods..

Suddenly, an unexpected sound - the crisp snap of a twig - punctuates the serenity. Whirling around, your boots send a spray of loose earth and pebbles scattering. A figure emerges from the dappled shadows, and a doe steps into your line of sight. It regards you with its obsidian eyes, an epitome of tranquility as it absentmindedly munches on some fresh leaves, wholly unperturbed by your presence.

Now, isn't this a sight to behold? You, alone in the heart of nature, sharing a moment with a doe - something straight out of a Disney movie, don't you think? Except, of course, without the singing animals and magic. But hey, who needs that when you've got the real deal right here, in all its untamed glory? It's almost as if Mother Nature herself decided to roll out the red carpet just for you.

So go ahead, take a moment. Savor the feeling. After all, it's not every day you get to play Snow White in the woods, is it?

Finish? Well, it seems the doe's novelty has worn off, hasn't it? You turn your back on it, slightly affronted by its lack of interest, and, dare we say, its judgmental gaze? Well, no matter, there's a whole world out there waiting to be explored. One foot before the other, you march forward, your path dictated not by choice but by the whims of this narrative.

But wait! What's that lurking in the distance? A structure of some sort emerges from the verdant sea of green, its silhouette a stark contrast against the sunlit foliage. Even from this considerable gap, the infectious melody of mirth reaches your ears, a siren's call that tugs at your curiosity. It appears the festivities have begun without you, you old latecomer, you!

Intrigued and slightly affronted (because who starts a party without you?), you press on, drawn towards the distant merriment like a moth to a flame. The harmony of laughter and joyous chatter wafts towards you, carried on the gentle breeze, a tantalizing taste of what lies ahead.

Isn't it just like you, chasing after the sound of fun and abandoning our poor doe friend? But, who can blame you? After all, who can resist the pull of a good party, especially when the soundtrack sounds like a scene straight out of The Great Gatsby? So, dust off your boots and straighten your collar, my friend, for it seems the night has only just begun. And remember, punctuality is overrated when you're the life of the party!

As you draw closer to the establishment, your eyes eagerly roam about, searching for any signs of life. And there it is, a sign looming atop the building, its weathered appearance only adding to its charm. The words "Nature's Embrace" are proudly displayed, the letters slightly faded but still commanding attention. It's as if the tavern has emerged from the heart of the forest itself, nestled in a place where magic and reality intertwine.

Vines boldly crawl up the sides of the building, embracing it with nature's touch, as if the very essence of the forest has claimed this place as its own. The wooden facade, weathered and worn, tells tales of countless adventures and laughter that have echoed within.

As you approach the entrance, the sound of merriment grows louder, seeping through the cracks of the door and beckoning you to step inside. You can't help but marvel at the warm glow that spills out from the windows, casting dancing shadows on the path before you. Laughter and the clinking of mugs intertwine, creating a collection of joy that resonates in the air.

With anticipation bubbling within you, each step on the worn-out staircase seems to echo through the air, the creaking boards adding a touch of suspense to your ascent. The sound magnifies the excitement building inside you, as if the very steps are teasing you with the promise of what lies beyond. (Oh, the anticipation must be killing you, my dear reader!)

Finally, you reach the doorknob, your hand reaching out to grasp the weathered wooden knob. Its rough surface greets your fingertips, creating a tactile connection that heightens your senses. You can almost feel the stories embedded within its grains and the countless hands that have turned it over the years. With a firm grip, you push the door open, revealing a burst of light and life within.

As you step further into the bustling tavern, the noise that greeted you outside is nothing compared to the deafening orchestra that engulfs you now. The air is alive with the vibrant melodies of musicians stationed on the side, their fingers dancing across strings and keys with unparalleled gusto. A lute is plucked with nimble precision, its melody resonating with a sense of longing and whimsy. A harp is strummed, its ethereal notes cascading through the air like a gentle breeze. And the xylophone adds its own playful rhythm, its vibrant tones punctuating the music with a delightful charm. (Don't be shy now, go one shake that hip, tap that foot and get your groove on!)

In the center of the room, a roaring fire crackles in the hearth, casting a warm and inviting glow. Its flames dance with wild abandon, casting flickering shadows that playfully dance across the walls. And what a sight those walls present! Adorned with the heads of majestic animals, each trophy tells a story of bravery and triumph. The mighty bear stands proud, its gaze fierce and unwavering. The boar's tusks gleam in the flickering light, a testament to its untamed strength. And the wolf, frozen in a ferocious snarl, seems to guard the room with unwavering loyalty. Among the trophies, a bow is proudly displayed, its wood gleaming with a polished sheen.

With a spring in your step, you confidently navigate through the bustling atmosphere of the tavern, deftly sidestepping two men locked in a heated brawl. The sound of bones crunching fills the air as their punches connect. You manage to avoid the chaos and make your way towards a vacant table, before skillfully maneuvering around a stumbling drunkard, his ale swishing dangerously in his mug. Just as he nears collision with you, he trips over a misplaced stool and crashes to the ground, his muffled groans drowned out by the raucous laughter of the patrons.

Finally, you settle into the comfort of a sturdy chair at the table, relieved to have survived the onslaught of what the locals call "Happy Hour." The tavern is alive with conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Amidst the lively ambiance, a voice, sultry and captivating, slices through the noise, capturing your attention like a siren's call.

You turn towards the source of the voice and find yourself captivated by the sight of a woman in her thirties. A mischievous smile dances upon her lips, and her amber eyes burn with a fiery intensity. Her cascading hair, the color of autumn leaves, frames her face like a soft halo. "Come here often, stranger?"

In one fluid motion, she reaches for a frothy mug on her tray and takes a seat at your table. "On the house!" she declares, her voice a velvety purr, before sauntering off to attend to the other patrons. The rich aroma of the freshly poured ale wafts up to your nostrils, tempting your senses with its intoxicating fragrance.

Hold your horses, my adventurous friend, for no journey is complete without choosing your class and assembling your crew! With your mug in hand, you survey the area, searching for potential allies amidst the lively festivities. Your eyes are drawn to the far left corner, where a group of armored figures revel in high spirits. One particularly enthusiastic individual jumps onto a table, rallying his comrades with fervor.

"Come, brothers and sisters! Tonight, we celebrate our initiation as the Lord's instruments of justice!" the helmet-clad leader exclaims, his voice booming across the tavern. The group responds in unison, their voices harmonizing in a resounding chorus of "AMEN…AMEN…AMEN!" Just as the leader raises his mug to drink, he sways precariously, losing his balance and toppling off the table, much to the amusement of his companions.

Curiosity piqued, you continue your search, your gaze now shifting to the shadowy corners of the room. Two individuals stand apart from the revelry, observing the festivities with an air of quiet detachment. Their eyes dart around, filled with a mix of distrust and paranoia. Squinting to get a better look, you notice tattoos adorning their hands, but before you can discern their meaning, the owners quickly roll up their sleeves, obscuring your view.

As you crane your head, your attention is immediately captivated by a group of adventurers gathered around a grand feast. One of them bears an impressive ax strapped to his back, exuding an aura of strength and determination. An elf, with a sleek bow slung across her shoulder, exudes an air of grace and precision. Your keen eye catches the subtle movements of another figure, a nimble thief, his hands disappearing and reappearing in a swift and practiced manner. And lastly, a fair maiden donning a pristine white robe, her head bowed in prayer, murmuring words of protection for her comrades.

Just as you begin to take in their presence, another voice, filled with confidence and charm, reaches your ears. "Listen, lads and lasses, for I shall regale you with a tale of the legendary Sword Dancer!" The speaker, undoubtedly a seasoned storyteller, captures the attention of the entire group. Their appearance suggests they are mercenaries, enjoying a well-deserved respite after a successful mission. Two members of their party, engrossed in a game of Five Finger Fillet, demonstrate their dexterity as the knives dance across their fingertips, the metallic tips dangerously close to their flesh.

As you take a sip of the complimentary ale, its flavors explode on your tongue, a delightful blend of hops and malt that dances across your taste buds. The liquid glides smoothly down your throat, leaving a warm, lingering sensation in its wake. You can't help but savor the moment, feeling a sense of camaraderie with the boisterous crowd that surrounds you.

Now dear readers as you drink your ale in deep thought, let me present to you four enticing classes to choose from. Each class possesses its own unique abilities, strengths, and weaknesses, along with their own unique captivating stories and journeys.

Let us begin with the Paladin class, noble warriors skilled in the art of close combat. Their proficiency with weapons and unwavering strength make them formidable adversaries on the battlefield. These warriors seek honor and glory, their journey driven by an unwavering determination to prove themselves in combat and earn the respect of their comrades. However, their reliance on physical strength may sometimes cloud their tactical judgment, leading to challenges that test their resolve.

Moving on, we have the enigmatic Assassins, masters of stealth and deception. These silent predators thrive in the shadows, executing covert operations with deadly precision. Their agility and reflexes make them formidable foes, capable of infiltrating enemy lines undetected and eliminating their targets with lethal efficiency. The Assassins' journey is one of secrecy and intrigue, navigating a world where shadows hold secrets and danger lurks at every turn. However, their solitary nature can sometimes isolate them from their allies, presenting a unique set of challenges.

The Mercenary Class, our third option, consists of battle-hardened warriors with vast experience in combat tactics. These versatile fighters adapt to any situation, whether it be engaging in close combat or providing ranged support. Driven by profit and the thrill of adventure, mercenaries eagerly take on contracts and revel in the spoils of war. However, their loyalty lies with the highest bidder, and their actions may be fueled by personal gain rather than a sense of honor or duty.

Lastly, we have the Bard Mage, a mesmerizing combination of spellcasting and musical enchantment. These magical minstrels wield both the power of spells and the captivating melodies of music. With their harmonies, they can heal wounds, inspire bravery, or lull enemies into a deep slumber. The Bard Mage's repertoire of spells is vast and diverse, allowing them to adapt to any situation they encounter. Their journey is one of artistic expression and mystical exploration.

As you contemplate these four intriguing classes, the possibilities unfold before you. The allure of glory and honor beckons as you envision yourself as a valiant Paladin, standing on the frontlines of battle. Perhaps the thrill of adventure and the promise of lucrative rewards draw you towards the life of a Mercenary, where each new contract brings both danger and excitement. Or maybe, just maybe, the enigmatic world of shadows and secrets calls to your soul, tempting you to become an elusive Assassin, a master of stealth and deception. Alternatively, the enchanting melodies and spellcasting prowess of the Bard Mage may resonate within you, offering a path of magic and artistic expression.

Dear readers, the choice is yours. So, weigh the pros and cons, let your imagination soar, and select the class that ignites a fire within your heart, guiding you towards the adventure that awaits.

[niqhtlord01]

The War of Blackened Winters

I’m going to tell you a story.

At first you won’t believe it; in fact you’ll flat out deny it is even real. Yet the more you listen to this tale of wonderment the more the things around you might start making, well, just a bit more sense.

This is the tale of a war.

A war not just people and places, but of holidays; that to this very day still rages on. A war that was brought about all by a chappy fellow named Jack Skellington.

Now, Jack was a spirited guy; real top of the party list with a smile from ear to ear. He was the embodiment of the holiday Halloween and lived for spreading fear throughout the world of humanity. But Jack was a curious lad and eventually he began to wonder what else filled the world beside terror and pumpkins.

So he set out one day and stumbled upon the most wondrous of things; a new holiday.

Jack had inadvertently wandered into the realm of Christmas. A realm of colorful lights, voices raised in song rather, presents given to all good children, and tidings of comfort and joy to all.

It was a world like none Jack had ever seen, and he could not help but want more.

One thing led to another and eventually Jack thought he could take over Christmas himself and run it just as good as Santa could. This went tail end up as you might expect and Santa stepped in to regain control of his holiday. At the end of the whole affair Santa and Jack parted ways and swore to remain in their own respective holidays.

Yet Santa was far from done with Jack.

No. The jolly saint of the winter yule tidings had privately raged against the affront done to him. Far from the hope filled eyes of elves and toys, Santa raged with anger over his imprisonment and humiliation at the hands of Jack’s followers. Between meetings for Christmas toy projections and publicity events he plotted with his inner council of elves on how best to get his revenge.

Because Santa had publicly stated that he would not seek retaliation against Jack or Halloween, his options were limited. All of his council agreed that Santa has always, and must always, be a man of his word and that any discredit of that notion could do untold damage to his image. So they needed a way to provoke Jack, or any member of Halloween in general, to make the first move and break the peace so Santa would be cast as the victim.

This was easier said than done.

Santa quickly found that while his elves could create the most complex toy known in the world in under a few minutes, they were lacking in the devious department. They had no sense of subversion or under handed tricks to pull; and they could not reach out to anyone to share their experience as it would surely give away the whole endeavor. So night after night Santa would retreat to his inner office, sit with his elves around a warm fire, and scheme only to leave by sunrise more frustrated by the lack of progress.

That was until one day and idea finally came to him from the most unexpected avenue.

While sitting in his armchair, grumbling over Jack and Halloween, Mrs. Clause entered the room and began decorating for Saint Patrick’s Day.

“Why are you doing that?” Santa grumbled as he watched his wife turn his office green, “It’s not even close to that snake charmers holiday.”

“I thought you could use a change of scenery.” She replied happily. “And besides, you’re never too early to spread holiday cheer.”

Santa opened his mouth when the weight of his wife’s statement stole the words right from his mouth. He leapt from his chair and picked Mrs. Clause up in his arms and twirled her about the room like he was a young man again.

“Well, I’m glad someone’s not in the dumps anymore.” Mrs. Clause laughed; unaware of the spark she had given her husband that would ignite the war to come. --------------

Over the following years Santa’s plan began to take form.

It all started with having Christmas preparation begin a few days earlier than it had been done last year. “We just need a bit more time.” Santa said to Thanksgiving, “With how hectic the season gets, I want to dial back the violence in stores to make things easier for parents to get their children gifts.”

Thanksgiving wanted to protest but they couldn’t deny that Christmas had a violent history. Black Friday had well earned its name and it had often cast a deadly shadow of Thanksgiving. So in the spirit of good relations, Thanksgiving agreed to allow Christmas preparation two days before Thanksgiving; and the beginning of a long road that would eventually lead to all out holiday warfare.

The agreement was the first step in a plan Santa had forecasted to span over generations before it completed itself. Every few years Santa would again approach Thanksgiving, ask for more time, and Thanksgiving would relent and cave in. A few days became half a week, then a full week, then two weeks, and three weeks until finally the beginning over November was deemed appropriate to begin Christmas preparation.

In the humans eyes this had placed Christmas as a higher priority holiday and thus slowly began diminishing the value of Thanksgiving until retail stores would barely have a hand print Turkey for Thanksgiving celebration.

As Santa watched on and saw Thanksgiving slowly recede into obscurity he knew the first stage of his plan was a success. He held no personal grudge against Thanksgiving, but as it was situated between Christmas and Halloween he viewed it as an acceptable casualty.

Now that he knew humans could be trained to erase holidays he began implementing the same tactics against Halloween. Jack was no fool though, and he had watched what had transpired to Thanksgiving with a heavy heart. He had initially sympathized with Christmas over getting extra days of preparation, but now that it had all but consumed Thanksgiving he knew that he and Halloween would be next.

Sure enough, Santa showed up one day at the entrance to Halloween town and requested an audience with all those present. At the town square before the great guillotine of merriment, he asked for Halloween to allow him one day more to prepare Christmas.

The ghouls and monsters were outraged at such a bold demand and cast the jolly fellow from their town with great gusto. It was Jack who stopped them from getting more creative with their frustration and dissuaded them from forming an angry mob; but the damage was already done.

Santa left and proclaimed that Halloween town had assaulted his person when he came in peace to discuss things diplomatically. Naturally the elves were quick to rise in ire over the treatment of their leader followed swiftly by the snowmen, rain deer, and even the notoriously recluse Yeti’s.

With minor stoking of the flames Santa was able to whip his holiday into all-out war against Halloween.

The first strike came when Christmas began preparations in mid-September; well beyond the initial proposal of a single day. Jack Skellington awoke to find humans picking Christmas decorations instead of carving pumpkins and stocking the best candy to hand out. As such he viewed Santa in violation of their agreement and declared their pact void; renewing the hostilities between the two holidays.

Soon the fields of the Holiday plain were covered in battles between Christmas elves and ghastly ghouls while in the mortal realm followers of Halloween began pushing the notion that there was a war on Halloween, not Christmas.

Christmas had long fed upon the extra month they had taken from Thanksgiving and would have overwhelmed Halloween were it not for the rejuvenated return of Thanksgiving to strike Christmas.

The war has been named the “War of Blackened Winters” and still rages to this very day as Jack Skellington and Santa lead their armies against one another to determine the fate of not just their holidays, but all of the holidays to come.

[libertyy-belle]

THE GOLDEN GATE || CHAPTER 1

In my thirteen years, they had always spoken about the east forest as a place I ought to avoid. Tales of savage creatures were often whispered about, and the bastards of Jaezred were no joke. Though I did not believe the stories to be true, for they hadn’t been seen in over a decade.

I trailed up the beaten path toward the lining. Eyes staring down at my feet as to make sure I didn’t trip over the branches that overgrew the dirt road.

The warm rays of the sun beginning to peak over the tops of the trees. It was only morning, but it was getting hot quickly. I pulled my hair back, tying it as neatly as I could. 

The forest felt cramped, ferns lining the bases of the pines. I clamored over the wet ground, part of me regretting the visit. Especially after it had rained the day before. It made the air humid, but the darkness of the dampened ground and trunks made the forest almost homely. If it wasn’t for the heat, I might have considered curling up underneath one.

My mother had told me blueberries often grew a little ways into the forest and though I knew I could easily shop at the square- fresh ones sounded perfect for the pie Marlene and I were to make.

Inhaling the earthy smell,  it settled my nerves. I wondered why people were so afraid to come here; it was peaceful. Grounding.

I wandered and wove through the base of the trunks, enjoying the serenity of it all. The greens of the leaves were vibrant, summer had done them justice.

Taking a moment of pause, I sat down in a small broken up patch of grass and leaves. My palms planted downward as I felt the dirt mold into my grasp. Rolling my shoulders back, I directed my sight above me. The pines offered some shade from the summer sun, the beautiful blue sky peaking through the branches.

This was it. Peace. The vibrations of the earth echoed through my body and for a lull in time I felt like I was connected to the world around me.

After settling, only the whistling of wind against branches and the cooing of birds in the distance could be heard- I closed my eyes. Basking in the meditative connection. I felt the noises gaining distance, almost muted now.

The air had gone silent, the melody of the forest coming to a pause. Suddenly, uncomforting. It was too quiet. 

My eyes opened and the warmness I had just seen prior was no longer affront in my senses.

It had been replaced by a dark eerie tone, the amber colors now hued by a frosty blue. Despite the sun being out only moments ago, I shivered. The warmth of the sun no longer caressed my skin. I stood from where I had been sitting.

I searched around now; the quiet was heavy. Quickly, I gathered my things and began to finish my search for the berries. Something in my tightening chest told me to leave, but I had come all this way. I wasn’t going to just turn away now.

My feet barely carried me as I made my way through the darkening area. I had begun to wonder if time had slipped my mind or if clouds had blocked the sun. I couldn’t force myself to look up at the sky above me. Something drew my eyes in front of me.

A clearing came into view, a patch where there were scarce bushes and trees. 

This must be where mother told me I would find those berries, I thought to myself.

I made strides toward it, though i came to a sudden halt as I heard a crackling in the bushes ahead. Darting behind a tree, I peered around to catch a glimpse of what it could be. 

In the clearing, hunched over, was barely a man. Dark lumps and scales lined his naked back. His skin looked as if it had been charred. Burned. Claws dug into what looked to be the remains of an animal. The sound of ripping flesh like nails on a chalkboard.

I winced, tears filling my eyes as I stared quietly. Fear gripping at my throat, I choked out a quiet sound. Catching the attention of the predator in front of me. 

His head whipped to look in my direction, and even though I was hiding behind the tree, I could see his face. Almost too clear. It was no real man, but a beast. His skin burned irreparably and drooped from his chin. 

The sockets of his eyes sunken so deep, the eyes bulged. I felt as if I were to be sick as his snake-like tongue licked the outline of his mouth. Collecting the blood that covered it.

My gaze fell down to the husk he had devoured. It was no deer. In fact, it was no animal either. A human girl, not much older than I, lay gored among the base of the pines.

 It would be comforting to say that her face was lifeless, but the truth is that I was met with the morphing face of mortification that could only be seen in a human’s last moments staring back at me.

Is that how I am to look after he kills me? 

I wondered as my gaze trailed back up to those eyes.

“Child of the earth, why do you cry so?” The voice spoke quietly and rasped. The lips of the creature hadn’t moved yet I heard him clear as day. I hadn’t even realized I was crying until I felt the trail of warm tears drip onto my chest.

“Are you not starving?” It cooed in the darkness that filled my head. “Come eat, child of Jaezred. He longs for you to eat.”

His gaze held mine, and as I stared into it I felt the despair rotting in my stomach. Every fear I had ever had crept into my throat, burning as I longed to scream. The weight of silence was practically unbearable as I began to pray.

“He sees you. You are the thread in which his cloth he has woven.” Inching closer I felt my bones stiffen as another deep wave of cold coursed through me.

I prayed I would close my eyes and be home, back at the step of the inn. 

His steps carried slowly toward me. Never had I felt so much like prey. The blood from his maw dripped down into the leaves below with each step, his sight unwavering from mine.

“Come child, feast.”

I wanted nothing more than to run, but I was frozen. Paralyzed by the fear that pumped through my blood. I prayed harder. 

“Very well, fearful little worm I shall feast for you.” Suddenly, his pace quickened. I swallowed hard as I closed my eyes. Preparing myself for the inevitable demise that awaited me. A flash of light and a tug pulled me down, slamming my body into the ground.

Death seemed gentler than expected.

I opened my eyes and blinked at the tavern door that stood now in front of me. Jutting my head to the side, I only saw the cobbled street that I knew too well.

I was home, but as I scrambled my brain, I couldn’t recall how I had gotten here.  

Rising to stand, my chest hurt. The heaviness that was held was gone now and replaced by aching. My fingers grasped at my neck, releasing a small hum. I was happy to have my voice back.

Looking at my feet, the mud of the forest still covered the sides. The basket in my grip filled with blueberries. It hadn’t made any sense; I was sure I had been attacked but upon close inspection, there was no sign of aggression on my pale skin.

I sighed an exhale of relief, hand reaching to push open the door I stood in front of. Welcomed by the warm embrace of the interior that was home.

[swallowedbyfandom]

Lord Cowper,

I suggest you put an end to this delusion of demanding satisfaction from my brother over my dear sister's justified defense of her husband. You are to cease your ridiculous claims that our sweet Penelope marred your daughter's marriage prospects.

I should not have to point out that this is Miss Cowper's fourth season without a single proposal to show for it. My sister is not the issue, the issue is your daughter is an affront to common decency. If you want to cast blame I suggest you look in your own home. It is clear your wife raised your daughter abysmally, without any sense of propriety.

That you married a Lady so lacking in maternal instinct is your own failing. That you failed to recognize how dishonorable your daughter grew to be is once more your own failing. I will not have you sully my family name to cover up the fact that you could not manage the two Ladies you are responsible for.

Regards ,

Lord Bridgerton

Lady Cowper,

I just heard the silliest jest. There are tales of you speaking out against my darling daughter. A ridiculous fabrication, I know. How could you be anything but grateful my Penelope put an end to your daughter's vulgar display?

I am sure you are much too busy reeducating your daughter to have time to spread tall tales about my family. As you attempt guide Miss Cowper back from this shameful path, do be sure to remind her that no man wants to marry a Lady that appears so learned. While I am sure she is proud of her experience, as evidenced by the brazen way she rubbed herself against my son in public. She must be made to realize that sort of experience does not lead to marriage. It leads to ruin.

I am sure you will soon talk sense into your Lord husband. The fuss he is making over this entire mess is unbecoming. I am sure we can all agree it is best for your family's standing in society if this matter is quickly hushed over.

I wish you luck in getting your house in order. I would hate to take time away from enjoying my grandchildren to deal with this matter further. We all know how unkind I get when I am away from my grandchildren too long.

Regards,

Lady Featherington

Penelope Anne Bridgerton!

N ever have I felt so betrayed. How could you slap Cressida Cowper when I am not there to see it! I have wanted to slap that wench since she tried blackmailing me! You must tell me every detail, so I can live vicariously through you.

Are you well, Pen? I know when I punched Berbrooke in the face my knuckles and wrist were sore for days after. Did you break a nail on her bony face? Is it true you slapped her hard enough to knock her to the ground? I cannot fathom such a thing. You are such a gentle person.

Oh Pen, I still cannot believe YOU were the first Bridgerton to ever start a physical altercation at a ball. Mama must still be reeling in shock.

Love,

Daphne

Brother,

Thank you for officially making Pen my sister! It is by far the coolest thing you have ever done. Ant, saids you both must lay low for a while until the scandal dies down. That is so stupid! The Queen was not even upset. She was laughing! Although the Queen was quite put out you took Pen away before she finished insulting Cressida. I was too to be honest.

When you finally are allowed to visit, Pen simply must teach me how to slap someone with such vigor. It was most impressive.

Give the babies my love.

Your favorite sister,

Hyacinth Bridgerton

Apprentice

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Curses + Locked in a room

Ah well...there we go. It's the Gondolin OT3 fighting :D

Prompts: Curses & Locked in a room

Pairing: Maeglin x Tuor x Idril

Requester: @jaz-the-bard

Words: 1 115

Warnings: A curse, some bickering, a dark premonition

“Curse you!” Maeglin screamed, his usually deadly pale face flushed an unbecoming, blotchy red. “You self-righteous, self-enamoured creature! You’d be nothing without your father’s name and station—may you find yourself in a place where you’re completely on your own! Now, wouldn’t that be funny?”

Neither his demeanour nor his tone of voice gave any indication of humour or mirth.

“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re so pathetic! Only because you enjoy hiding away in tight, dark spaces, doesn’t mean other people share your proclivities,” Idril replied, smirking coldly.

“Scared?” Maeglin hissed provocatively.

“Not at all,” she laughed. Her joyless chuckle sounded forced and harsh, but it set her cousin’s teeth on edge, nevertheless. “Bring it on, little cousin! I have crossed the Grinding Ice—I’m hardly afraid of being locked in a linen closet! May you share my fate, though, so you cannot worm out of answering my questions!”

She would rue her careless words before long, but—at that glorious moment of triumph—Idril was entirely undaunted by the recklessness of her words and Maeglin’s resulting ire.

Rushing down the corridor in a flurry of billowing robes, the pugnacious princess made sure to cackle in a way she knew would annoy the one she so dismissively left behind.

She knew not why it was so patently impossible to have a conversation with Maeglin without him being visibly offended about one thing or another while stubbornly claiming that he was perfectly amicable and not in the least affronted by anything she had said or done.

Usually, Idril relished being able to get under the skin and into the mind of another person so effortlessly, but—in this specific case—she had to concede that she was irked by it for she invariably found herself blind and disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness of Maeglin’s prodigiously private soul.

“Was that smart?” Tuor asked pensively after she had told him of the new spat she’d just won. “After all, aren’t you magical?”

Scoffing, she poured herself a glass of wine, swirling the golden liquid elegantly in the invaluable crystal goblet, and stared at her intended in amazement.

“My beloved,” she purred. “Maeglin is a furtive, little mole, and I am—if he is to be believed—nought but a spoiled princess. I sincerely doubt that we’re the kind of creatures you’d expect in a childhood fairy tale.”

“Maybe not in yours,” Tuor sniffed expressively. “Let me assure you that blindingly gorgeous princesses in pristinely white towers and stern, aloof princes were very much staples of our more fantastic tales.”

Finally, the veil of misgiving and annoyance was lifted from Idril’s heart and voice, and she gave a chiming peal of honestly amused laughter.

“Oh, how I love you for your steadfast faith,” she grinned.

To her surprise, Tuor remained silent and grave.

“Very well!” she giggled. “Let’s go seek out Maeglin. I shall admit to my flaws and humbly beg for his forgiveness.”

Tuor still felt somewhat uneasy—no matter what Idril claimed, he couldn’t shake the ominous certainty that she and Maeglin held sway over elements he was not even able to fully fathom.

Consequently, the idea that those two fated miracles would curse one another in earnest gave him shivers of dark premonition.

His jaw bunched with nervous tension as he followed his love who was chirping as if she was looking for a lost dog rather than an esteemed prince of the realm, but he sensed that Idril was still in too feral a mood to be challenged or criticised.

“Why is everything about him so tiring?” Idril muttered under her breath as she rounded yet another corner at a truly alarming speed.

“Because you love him too well to allow him to slink away,” Tuor replied in the same muted voice, unsure whether he had even been supposed to have heard the question. “And he’s unused to be being pressed so ferociously.” “Oh? And you could do better?” she asked sharply, turning around to spear him with a burning look of impatience and disbelief.

True to his indomitable nature, Tuor felt the inexorable surge of reckless bravery overtake his mind before his better knowledge could intervene. “Yes,” he grinned.

“Prove it!”

Flinging open a barely visible door, she gave Tuor a forceful shove that propelled him into a narrow, obscure corridor before noiselessly slipping in behind him.

“Idril!” he exclaimed, shocked, and instinctively pushed back.

Turgon often philosophised about what would happen “when push comes to shove”, and the two young lovers were aghast to find out that the answer to that abstract question turned out to be painfully mundane: a door slammed closed, and they were locked in.

“Where are we?” Tuor asked—his strong voice echoed from the vaulted walls of the hidden hallway, and he flinched.

“Maeglin’s favourite hide-away; it once led down to the old kitchens, but the passage has been sealed since. So yes, he does scurry through the walls.”

Staring at his future wife in wordless amazement, the proud son of Huor cocked his head slowly. “And you know that…how?” he asked after a moment of catching his breath and getting his bearings in the sudden chiaroscuro.

“We…Well…” Idril mumbled. “We used to come here to steal some treats or escape my father’s insistent nagging. If you think the King is dour and overly serious nowadays, you should have seen him back then!”

“He’s lost his wife,” Tuor said softly. “He’s lost his sister. And his cherished daughter and nephew apparently took pleasure in terrorising his kingdom by haunting its inhabitants.”

“Haunting? Nonsense, we didn’t make a sound.”

“We were spying, if you want to hear a terrible confession,” another soft, melodious voice resounded.

Tuor whirled around to find Maeglin standing only a couple of paces away from him, a sly smile adorning his handsome face.

“Noiseless,” Tuor whispered and nodded. He accepted that the surprises would never end when it came to the two souls he loved most in this secluded paradise—he was eager to discover more about them and their strange abilities.

“Cousin,” Idril purred. “I’ve come to apologise; I should not have hounded you so. It seems to me, though, that your merciless ill-wishes came true. You’re a proper wood-witch after all, Lómion of the Dark Trees.”

“So did yours, Princess of the Endless Ice,” Maeglin chuckled mockingly.

“Poor Tuor has been enmeshed in our fate, though. May we not strive to love one another better lest all of Gondolin fall prey to our destructive fights?”

Maeglin nodded graciously and invited them to share his private picnic in the damp darkness of Gondolin’s hidden pathways.

“I regret nothing,” Tuor whispered, a fervent but unheeded confession.

@fellowshipofthefics I am on track!

Lots of love from me!

-> 🌟Masterlist 🌟

[inconspicious-random-thoughts]

In terms of overall character, I think Adina would be more similar to Emperor Belos or Judge Claude Frollo than Robot Santa Claws. Having an evangelical sense of righteousness and moral superiority towards everyone around her while ultimately being little more than a sadistic narcissist who uses her self-proclaimed principles to justify her persecution of those she views as evil and an affront to the natural order of things. Most of her depravity would be aimed at demons, but I wouldn't be surprised if she's willing to target angels that don't fit her idea of virtue and purity.

Greetings!

Your right. I only mention Robot Santa as he had such high standards, no one passes it. I didn't bother to try to find another reference point.

But the characters you mention are more fitting as they match with the who genocide thing for the "righteous" cause that's fronting their own desires and beliefs. They were very good villains.

Even tho Disney version of Hunchback is greatly different from the original tale, it one of my favorite disney movies despite it brings a "flop."

I flippin love Esmeralda. She's my favorite 'princess' (I know she isn't but she deserve to join the other princesses!) She kicks ass and she did it all barefoot. I get moved to tears every time in the scene she freed Quasimodo and stood up to Frollo, defying him and demanding justice.

Goodness I love her.

Hellfire one of the better villain song IMO too. Tho, I pretty much love all villain songs..okay I just love everything.

Belos was a good villain. I had to laugh when Luz said something along the lines that "Belos is up to no good. It seems so obvious but no one will listen." Because as a viewer it was obvious. Hollow Mind had me on the edge of my seat. It was such an intense and great episode. Belos true intentions being shown to the viewer and how Hunter, Belos most loyal and trusted servant that lived to serve Belos and so greatly believed in Belos and his cause just completely shattered by the truth and other reveals.

What's most terrifying thing about these villains, its that they are so very real. Old white powerful men abusing people trust and faiths by manipulating them. Fear mongering the "us vs them" mentality to achieve their agendas. The scary and sad part is, that it works. Creating a masses vs the minority.

The WORST part is, generally the public gives them the power. Its not done typically by force. It's not like the man slaughter a leader and takes the throne and go "Im king now, and my word is law, deal with it."

No

Its generally starts with a charismatic man who usually has the right words to say. The right phases that people want to hear. They lull you trust them. Then some event, most likely staged, to induce fear and panic. Enter the scapegoat and us vs them. The charismatic man will offer promises of a safe future! The masses fearing and worry about their safety and future will follow the de facto leader towards their 'safety'. Not realizing they are being lead to slaughter or not caring its leading a group (them) to their slaughter to ensure their own 'safety'. It breeds racism, bigotry etc. society really leads to own downfall because we are often mislead and willingly follow the wrong people.

It doesn't quite fit what im talking about but at the same time it does. There's a scene in Prequels of Star Wars that always stuck with me because I thought it was so powerful.

When the demarcay of many solar system just voted to have Palpatine (Sith Lord Sidious) to have absolute power. They literally just voted to wavier their opinions and votes away. All because Palpatine was hella good at playing the long con and playing both side. He was a brilliant political manipulator of a villain and he probably the best character because of that.

I actually really suck with politics, but I LOVE political dramas. When its passed off as a good thing but secretly its basically covering for genocide or preparing for genocide.

I got way off track and now its late but long story short, I agree with you. I also really hope that Adina comes to light.

[pen-and-umbra]

Hey, I wonder what would sephiroth do if he wasn’t forced into project S, being a soldier and dealing with Hojo. like what sort of occupation would he choose if he had a xhance NOT take part in shinra's shitty fighting? So depressing seeing him go thru all of that in ec chapters!

Heya.

Yup, his is not a pretty story for sure. And it's a difficult question to answer because Sephiroth's origin, in its most literal sense, defines him as a character. Without the Jenova project, there is no Sephiroth, so for the sake of answering, I'll go with the experiment happening, but then ShinRA either cuts funding or ends the SOLDIER program in favor of Scarlett's arms development.

Sephiroth may then choose a path purely to annoy Hojo, being petty af about what he had to go through as a child, while honoring Gast's legacy. After all, whatever glorified Gast by default reminded Hojo of his place. With that in mind, I believe Sephiroth could devote himself to scholarly study of Cetra, continuing Gast's work. His obsessive search for his own roots helped him develop a habit of meticulously digging for records and documents, handling files, and piecing together the whole picture with only the bits — not dissimilar to a historian or archaeologist. The most basic understanding of the Ancients begins with the origin of materia, so Sephiroth could collect the remaining legends and folk tales that shed light on Cetra's way of life, rituals, beliefs, and so on. He comes across mentions of a mysterious "calamity from the skies" on several occasions, which both intrigues and unnerves him for some reason. Naturally, it would be hard to study Cetra’s belief system without touching upon Lifestream and, consequently, planetology. But if it’s an **affront** to Hojo’s science, then all the better.

He might travel the world, studying artifacts of the Ancients, eventually sticking around the dig site near Bone Village. His prior SOLDIER bootcamp training comes in handy and gives him an impressive edge when it comes to exploring various ruins and caverns. He also takes upon himself protecting the dig site and researchers there from occasional monster or raider attacks, which earns him quite a reputation both among fellow scholars and the local folk.

Eventually he writes a paper on Ancients, detailing the deciphered lore about their spirituality and the concept of Promised Land. It utterly busts ShinRA’s claim of it being a real location and instead reveals it to be a spiritual state of mindfulness and illumination. The paper is prefaced with a dedication to the late Professor Gast.

If he broke free in his late twenties, though, that'd be another story. He’d be directionless and lacking capacity to be anything other than a sword-wielder for a loooong time.

[cosmicjoke]

Lestat as the Outcast

One of the really interesting things, reading “The Tale of the Body Thief”, is watching Lestat’s self-realizations.  I see people often refer to Anne Rice’s vampires as analogous to queerness, to being other, or outcast in some respect to mainstream society, and having to contend with the parts of oneself that make us feel like outcasts, or unwanted by the larger whole.  And Lestat’s struggle with his vampirism in this story seems to line up particularly well with that analogy.

Lestat realizes, after having just about the most miserable time imaginable as a human, after spending the vast majority of his life as a vampire, that he was wrong about wishing to be mortal again.  He wants to go back to being a vampire, to being this predatory, immortal, powerful being, and honestly, who wouldn’t.  If that was what you had become used to, if that state of invulnerability and strength was what you had become accustomed to, I would wager almost anyone would want to regain it.

But Lestat’s epiphany about himself causes him yet more misery.  Because what he had thought was tormenting him was a sense of guilt over the deaths he had caused as a vampire, and it turns out to be something else. 

It isn’t that Lestat was miserable being a vampire.  Being a vampire in itself didn’t make Lestat unhappy.  In fact, Lestat’s horrific experiences in a mortal body make him realize how much he enjoyed being a vampire.  How much he enjoyed the freedom it gave him.  Freedom from vulnerability, freedom from physical suffering of any kind, freedom from fear of death or injury or pain.  He enjoyed the strength it gave him, the courage, the ability to go where he likes and do what he likes and not have to answer to anyone, to not have to beg, or throw himself on the mercy or understanding of others.  To not have to rely on the acceptance of others, even.  It isn’t the killing that Lestat wants to go back to, (though, obviously as a vampire, he DOES enjoy it), but rather, it’s the freedom to be himself that he wants to go back to.

But I think with this realization, this realization that he enjoyed being a vampire, Lestat also realizes that what was making him so miserable all these years was the guilt he felt over that fact.  The guilt he felt over not hating what he was.  Because he felt that he should hate it.  He felt he should despise being a vampire, he should be repulsed and sickened by it, the way Louis seemed to be, for example.  But he wasn’t, and that, really, is the source of Lestat’s guilt.  His lack of hatred for what he is, while everything and everyone around him tells him he should hate it, the idea that he shouldn’t want to be what he is, and yet he does.

“My greatest sin has always been that I have a wonderful time being myself.  My guilt is always there; my moral abhorrence for myself is always there; but I have a good time.  I’m strong; I’m a creature of great will and passion.  You see, that’s the core of the dilemma for me- how can I enjoy being a vampire so much, how can I enjoy it if it’s evil?

Going back to how that relates to the idea of the outcast, the outsider, the other, where one is made to feel as if they should hate themselves for being what they are.  Where they’re made to feel that what they are is some sort of abomination, or an affront to nature, or what have you, and if they don’t feel the proper remorse for that, if they don’t feel the proper disgust for themselves that society tells them they should feel, then that’s just further proof of their wrongness and depravity. 

So with Lestat, I think that’s exactly what he’s been feeling all his life.  Even before becoming a vampire, Lestat felt like an outcast, like there was something fundamentally wrong with him for being what he was, for being the way he was. He was made to feel that way by basically everyone around him.  And yet, he couldn’t keep himself from being that way, and further, he didn’t WANT to be any different.  He wanted to be who he was, even as he felt awful for wanting to be it, even as he believed he couldn’t be who he was without being “bad”.  And there’s something so deeply tragic in that, in someone being made to feel like they’re evil simply for wanting to be who they are, in someone being tormented by guilt over wanting to be who they are because they’ve been made to believe by others that who they are is wrong.  

The sadness of this being how Lestat feels is compounded by his confusion over what it is he really loves about being a vampire.  Again, it isn’t because he’s some malicious, hateful being who takes pleasure in destroying others, who only finds satisfaction in others disappointment or misery or distaste, or in somehow causing others harm.  He enjoys killing because he’s a vampire, yes, but that isn’t a part of Lestat’s personality.  He embraces that aspect of vampirism only because he’s an eternal optimist, making the best out of any situation he finds himself in.  The same way he embraced and thrived in hardship and deprivation when living in Paris with Nicki for the first six months.  He triumphs no matter what, no matter how bad things get.  But hurting others, the ability to hurt others, was never a motivating factor for Lestat.  He loves people, he admires people, and places great value on the thoughts and opinions of others.  Lestat wants desperately NOT to be a disappointment, as evidenced again and again by his fear of disappointing those he loves, his fear of their judgment and disapproval, like Marius and Louis and David.  He’s terrified of their rejection.  What Lestat actually loves about being a vampire is that it frees him from the torment of mortality, and it frees him from the anguish of having to compromise himself, in any way, to anyone.  It gives him the power to be himself.  But he conflates that with loving the evil of a vampire’s nature.  He thinks to love being what he is, is to approve of and admire the predatory instinct of it.  And it feeds into this notion that to love himself is evidence of some inherent evil in him.  It’s not.  It’s evidence only of his humanity.

Lestat says to Gretchen in “TotBT”

“Gretchen, God gave me an individual soul and I cannot bury it.”

Lestat can’t help who he is, and he doesn’t want to be anyone BUT who he is.  But his suffering comes from the fact that he’s been conditioned into believing who he is, is evil, is somehow monstrous and wrong, and the fact that he doesn’t want to be someone else, or any other way, is proof of how bad he is.  That’s what he believes, and it’s what makes him so miserable and so sad.   And this belief that to want to be himself is proof of his inherent evil really is so much like what faces any person who feels like an outcast, or like they don’t belong anywhere.  They want to be themselves, they want to be accepted for who they are, and loved for who they are, but they’re continually faced with the reminder by society that who they are is somehow wrong, and that makes their very desire itself fundamentally wrong, or perverse in some way.  And so they suffer the misery of this reinforced notion of their own badness. 

The more I read “TotBT”, the more impressed with it I am.  I get why some people don’t like it, but again, it’s just such a rich, psychological study of who Lestat is.  He isn’t evil, but he believes he is, and it fills him with a deep sense of guilt.  That struggle comes from the fact that he wants to be himself, and yet being himself requires that he defy what’s supposedly “good”, what he believes to be good.  When he was a mortal boy, that supposed good consisted of obeying his father and brothers, and giving up on his dreams to be an actor, to be a priest, to go to school.  It consisted of him staying in his home village and living a life of deprivation and isolation.  As a vampire, that supposed good consists of him repenting for his vampiric nature by giving it up and making up for the deaths he’s caused by becoming a nurse in a remote jungle somewhere, giving up his immortality, his strength, his power, and the freedom all of that gives him to BE himself.  Again, when he realizes he doesn’t want to, that he wants to remain as he is, it’s the reinforcement of the idea that to be himself is somehow wrong.  Again, it isn’t that Lestat wants to cause harm.  Again, he isn’t malicious.  He isn’t someone who goes out seeking to destroy others.  He even tells Gretchen that if he could, he would create heaven on earth.  But in order to do that, he would have to also give up who he is, he would have to give up the ability to be who he is without apology, without compromise, without being beholden to anyone, without having to beg for acceptance and love.  He thinks because he doesn’t want to give that up, that makes him a bad person.  It doesn’t.  Once more, it just makes him human.  He wants to be loved for himself, not some pretender, and if he can’t be loved for himself by anyone, then so be it, but he won’t let that stop him from being the person he is. 

And yet we see the continued chastisement and criticism he faces for being himself in Marius’ disapproving judgment of him, in Louis’ refusal to help him regain his body, etc...  Lestat faces, with them turning their backs on him, yet another pronouncement of his personal wrongness.  He is, once again, left alone for the crime of being himself.  He’s once again an outcast.

“They had cast me out.  Marius.  Louis.  In my worst folly, they had refused me help... But had I ever dreamed of what it would truly  mean to be stripped utterly of my powers and on the outside looking in?  The others knew; they must know.  And they had let Marius come to render the judgment, to let me know that for what I had done, I was cast out!

... Oh, Lord God, I was no longer one of them.  I was not anything but this mortal man... with no hope of ever regaining his glorious place in the dark Elohim.

And this really is Lestat’s greatest fear.  The fear of abandonment and rejection.  Nothing causes him greater pain than being alone, than being without anyone, than being an outcast.  He wants desperately to be loved.  And so it makes his refusal to be anyone but himself all the more remarkable, for the way he is continually punished for it.

Lestat later tells Gretchen

“Oh, no.  I would make heaven on earth if I could.  But I must raise my voice; I must shine; and I must reach for the very ecstasy that you’ve denied- the very intensity from which you fled!  That to me is transcendence!  When I made Claudia, blundering error that it was- yes, it was transcendence.  When I made Gabrielle, wicked as it seemed, yes, it was transcendence.  It was a single, powerful, and horrifying act, which wrung from me all my unique power and daring.  They shall not die, I said, yes, perhaps the very words you use to the village children.

But it was to bring them into my unnatural world that I uttered these words. The goal was not merely to save, but to make of them what I was- a unique and terrible being.  It was to confer upon them the very individuality I cherished.  We shall live, even in this state called living death, we shall love, we shall defy those who would judge us and destroy us.  That was my transcendence.  And self-sacrifice and redemption had no part in it.”

Lestat made Claudia into a vampire to defy the meaninglessness of her death, to let her live in defiance of that fate.  He made Gabrielle into a vampire to defy death too, and to defy the life of falsity she’d been made to endure as the obedient wife of a marquis, trapped as he had been trapped in a life she didn’t want, so that she could become the person she truly was.

It really shows us, then, what a courageous person Lestat is.  That even in the face of such condemnation, disapproval and rejection, indeed, in the face of his worst fears, he continues to strive to be himself, no matter how much he suffers for it.

[porphyriosao3]

#7 Scary Stories

"You call that a scary story?"  Bilbo snickered, sitting propped up on the couch in the Royal receiving rooms with his pipe and teacup, braced halfway in Thorin's lap where he sat reading... or at least pretending to do so.  Fili and Kili were flopped on the floor in front of the fire, glaring at him, as Thorin snickered and hid his face.

"Bilbo!"  Fili said disparagingly.  "What do hobbits know about scary stories, anyway!"  A motion in the corner of his vision made Bilbo glance over as Thorin quietly put his face in his hands.  What he had just heard sank in, though, and that was all the distraction he needed.  He could barely believe his ears!  Did this dwarf just...?!

"Exactly," Kili huffed, dark brows drawn down in a rarely-seen scowl, rolling his eyes at Bilbo's scandalized expression.  "I don't think you understand just how scary the deep caves can be."

"What do...?"  Bilbo spluttered, setting his teacup on the floor and then lurching upright to glare at the two.  "I beg your pardon?!  What do hobbits know of scary stories?"  A wicked smile crossed his face.  "Have you ever heard of the Witch-King of Angmar?"  The young dwarves glanced at each other, blue eyes meeting black with identical looks of confusion, then they shook their heads.

"Good heavens," Bilbo sighed.  "I suppose I should speak to Balin.  What is he teaching you, anyway?  You clearly need more history lessons."  Both of the youngsters looked ready to flee at this.

"No fair," Kili whined, "you can't make this scary like that!  It's the story that has to be scary, not the threats!"  Fili grimaced but nodded, a certain cast to his face making it obvious he hoped Bilbo was joking.

"Alright, I suppose I will have to tell the whole thing.  Angmar, as you ought to know but clearly don't, started out as a tiny part of the kingdom of Arnor, the northern kingdom of the Island Men of Numenor.  It was the sister kingdom to Gondor in the south; only Gondor is still there, whereas Arnor isn't.  And this is the story of what happened to it."  He cleared his throat and took a sip of tea.  "Long ago, there was a king of Numenorean blood who was deceived and enslaved by a wicked spirit named Sauron, and oh!  The stories I could tell you about Sauron would freeze your blood in your veins!  He was one of the only survivors of the War of Wrath, when the Valar destroyed half the world to kill his master whose name we don't speak even today."  The two boys had gotten quiet but nodded; this part they knew, if only vaguely.  "Now the Valar thought that Sauron was destroyed.  He had been lord of a mighty fortress full of dark things," his voice dropped a bit.  "Terrible things.  Werewolves and vampires, balrogs and dead things.  Sauron was also a necromancer, you see, able to raise the spirits of the dead and make them do... things."  Bilbo noticed that the boys were subtly inching towards each other; apparently they were aware of at least some things from the past, even if only the exciting bits.  "But when the War of Wrath was over... what nobody had expected was that he survived."

"But... how?"  Fili asked, scowling as though Sauron's survival was a personal affront.  "That doesn't make any sense!  I mean, not only Mahal but all his brothers and sisters too went to war, destroyed all the evil things and changed the world and everything else, stepped on Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar like anthills, and he still survived?"

"Well, he was a powerful sorcerer, you see..." And as Bilbo went on to weave the tale of how Sauron deceived the king of a small kingdom into extending his life and learning sorcery, leading him down a dark road until he was only an immortal, invisible shade, the two young dwarves - seeming much younger than their years at this point - were practically huddled into each other.  On and on the tale went, of the rise of Angmar and its now-terrible king.  Crowned with iron like his master, he rode on a horse that breathed fire, wielding a giant flail that could crush a grown man.  By the time Bilbo told of the death of Arvedui and how the Witch-King ruled over the lands with a mailed fist, Fili and Kili were shivering on the floor despite the roaring fire behind them.  Even Thorin had put down his book and given up all pretense of reading, listening spellbound to his husband. "Worst of all," Bilbo went on, waving his pipe dramatically, "even after his victory was complete, the Witch-King worried about treason and persecuted the people who still dared live there himself.  Men who dwelled in that land would sometimes hear a knock at the door, always late at night.  They would ask who it was, but there was only a voice 'Who is the king?'"  Kili groaned, then looked around as if to see who made the noise.  "If they looked out the window, there was nobody there, only blackness.  But if they said anything other than 'Angmar is King', the door would open..." his voice had dropped to a whisper, and even the fire seemed darker.  "And in the morning, they would be gone.  Nothing left but their clothes."

"T-That's r-r-ridiculous," Fili said, his show of bravado ruined by his shivering and the whites of his eyes.  "He's dead an-anyway."  He stopped and looked pleadingly at Bilbo.  "Right?"

"Well, most think he died in the Last Alliance," Bilbo said heavily, making a show of cleaning out his pipe and packing it with fresh pipeweed.  "But it's quite difficult to kill a spirit.  The barrows east of Bree are still full of dead things set there by the Witch-King, and they're not a place to be at night, that's certain."  He sighed.  "Tales come out of Fornost-way down the Greenway that say people still vanish from time to time... but I'm sure it's fine.  That's all ancient history now anyway.  It's late... you two should get to bed now."  The two dwarves got up and stumbled out after saying their goodnights, looking more like worried pebbles than the strong young warriors they were, and Thorin sighed as the two closed the door behind themselves.

"You are a terrible person," the king murmured into the hobbit's hair, grinning.  "They'll be up the whole night, and spend it in the same bed besides."  Bilbo sniffed dismissively.

"If I were truly a terrible person, I'd go knock on their door in an hour or so asking 'Who is the king?'"  Bilbo said, one brow raised.  "That's what we'd do in the Shire.  Besides, they challenged me."  Thorin paused for a moment at the idea, then snorted with laughter.

"You've overlooked one thing, my heart."  Thorin was smiling softly but Bilbo scoffed at his words.

"And what is that, pray tell?"

"Fili and Kili may act like children still, but they are trained dwarven warriors.  The 'Witch King' in the hallway might be in serious danger, even if the boys pissed themselves while bursting through the door."  Bilbo opened his mouth and sat for a moment, then closed it again and turned away from Thorin's grin with a huff.  How dare his husband be right like that?