#thread: when the world burns drink tea

[vegan-peppermint]

Frost and Flour

Pairing: Krampus!konigx reader

Cw: size kink, power play, slight cnc, breeding;

Inspired by this post.

Summery: in your village, men would dress as monsters on Christmas stealing women and children and run around the town. Your krampus had other ideas.

Did not proof read, I saw this post yesterday and tried to speed run this fic for it to be ready before Christmas. Might be bad and rushed. Will edit after new years.

Word count: 4k

The snow fell thick and soft, blanketing the jagged peaks of the mountains like a heavy quilt. The air was sharp and bracing, scented faintly with pine and the smoky warmth of wood-burning stoves. This was the village of your childhood Christmases, a place where the world seemed smaller, quieter, and steeped in old traditions. Nestled deep in the heart of the mountains, it felt like a hidden pocket of time where the modern world dared not intrude.

Traditions are the heart of the holidays, the thread that weaves magic into the season and shapes the way people celebrate. In every corner of the world, they bring warmth and wonder: streets lit up with strands of melted honey, the soft glow of advent candles peaking through the frosty windows and the -oh too comforting- aroma of cookies baking in old family kitchens.

But this village had its own unique tradition, one that set it apart from the glittering cities and quaint holiday fairs elsewhere. Here, Christmas wasn't just about warmth and cheer, it carried a shadow, a reverence for the old ways—

both enchanting and a little haunting.

When winter arrived and snow blanketed the wooden rooftops, the young people who had left for the city always hurried back to their childhood homes. So did you. This year, you came earlier than most, arriving in November to help at your family’s bakery. The holiday season brought plenty of special orders, far too much for your grandmother’s old hands to handle alone.

As your hands kneaded the cookie dough behind the counter, your mind was heavy with thoughts and debates. The life you’d built back in the States wasn’t bad—a steady job, a cozy apartment near the city center—but as the warmth of this small, close-knit community enveloped you, a cold stone pressed heavily in your chest. Before sinking any deeper, the bell on the door jingled.

"Hello! Welcome to Frost and Flour, how can I help you today?" you greeted with a cheerful smile.

The man—who, no doubt, had to bow his head to fit through the doorframe—returned the smile, his lips barely visible beneath a fluffy green wool scarf.

"Hallo," his voice came out muffled, the words soft behind the thick fabric. Snowflakes clung to his blonde hair, drifting down like sugar crystals. He shook his head with a swift motion, trying to flick them off, and the gesture reminded you of a puppy entering your shop on a snowy day.

You recognized him, yet you couldn't really match the face to the name. He was the son of the lovely, old woman living on your street, Frau Lieder. Unlike her son, who resembled the mountains that surrounded your village rather than a man, Frau Lieder was as delicate as a breeze, tiny as an ant. Even though she was always quiet and humble, she'd always sit upright and proud when talking about her son, the colonel.

"It's not too late to place an order, no?" He spoke, taking his scarf off revealing his red, frozen cheeks.

"No, not at all. Come in, come in!" You encouraged quickly running to the tap to wash your hands off. "It's really freezing outside! Would you like anything warm to drink? Coffee, or tea?"

He shook his head in refusal, but the way his frozen eyelashes trembled seemed to tell a different story. "How about a coffee? I made too much for myself already," you patted your hands dry on the apron.

The man opened his mouth to protest, but you didn’t give him a chance. Gently guiding him to an empty table, you set down the coffee before him and sat down beside him, placing your own cup next to his to ease the tension. He didn’t seem eager to speak, so you attempted to fill the silence, though your words came out a little more forced than usual.

"You came a long way, didn't you? You look like a snowman," you remarked, trying to break the ice.

He only hummed in response, a soft sound, and you hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Want sugar in your coffee?"

"It's fine like this, thank you," he said, his voice calm but distant.

An awkward silence settled between you both, thick and uncomfortable. He looked tired so you decided to give up. Not everyone wants to chit-chat, you understood that.

"So, what do you want to order?" You got right to the point.

"Oh, Ja... I need two Stollen," he replied.

"Yeah, we can definitely do that," you said, quickly moving into a list of other things you could offer. You kept talking, listing the flavors and sweet treats, drifting in how they were made and why you made them the best. He seemed taken aback by your sudden burst, but after a while, you saw him relax. He leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs comfortably, and took another sip of his coffee, the steam rising around him like a cloud. His icy blue eyes didn’t leave you as you talked, causing your words to spill faster. They were fixed on you with a piercing intensity, scanning your every expression.

"So I think you should really add the chocolate cookies- we also make them vegan if that's the case-"

"That sounds good," he finally said, agreeing to the order. You jotted it down quickly.

"Great choice, I'll throw in some samples of the others as well!" You grinned, excited for people to try your new recipes.

The cups were filled with coffee still. You lingered as much as you could, writing as to avert his eyes. What's up with people with blue eyes and staring like that? You could still feel his gaze on you as you re-read the same 5 items for the thousandth time.

You shifted in your seat, unsure of what to do with yourself. He seemed to notice, and you caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with a playful tease.

You swallowed, trying to regain your composure. "No, just... not used to quiet customers," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

He hummed, just as you were accustomed. You stood up quickly, feeling the need to escape the weight of the silence, and found something to occupy yourself behind the counter, fiddling with a few stray utensils. The soft clink of ceramic was the only sound until, after a moment, he spoke. "You going to the Christmas fest tonight?" His voice was low, almost secretive.

"Yeah, so excited," you replied with a laugh, grateful for the change in topic. "It’s the reason I came all this way!"

"Me too," he said solemnly, and something familiar downed on you. That’s when it hit you. "You're the one dressing as Krampus, aren't you?" you exclaimed, a bit too eagerly.

The surprise on his face was brief, quickly replaced by an expression that matched your own newfound curiosity. "I—I remember you," you added, turning to face him, a rush of memories flooding back. "Last year, I brought my younger sister too—you stole her and lifted her up in the air—swinging her around. She loved it so much."

"Ah, seems like I did a shit job—kids are supposed to be afraid of me," he chuckled.

You thought about the scary outfit he'll wear tonight, the furs that will coat his big back doubling him in size. How he'll run around, stalking and shouting- you couldn't help but hope he will be chasing you as well.

"Being punished by Krampus sounds pretty good, to be honest—"

You caught yourself too late, the words already hanging awkwardly between you. Maybe if you played dead, he’d just walk away, pretend nothing happened. You refused to acknowledge what you’d said, refusing to even glance at him. Faking a heart attack or any kind of medical emergency sounded plausible—anything to escape the tension creeping up your spine. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable.

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

A Christmas miracle happened right in that moment as an elderly customer entered the shop.

"Welcome to Frost and Flour! How can I help you?" You beamed without skipping a beat, grateful you didn't have to start choking or throw yourself on the floor.

As you listened to the customer and answered his questions, you felt a heavy set of eyes pressing down on your frame. You didn't look at him again, tried really hard not to. He finished his coffee, got up, and left without saying a word. At the last possible moment, the second between the door hitting the frame, his eyes met yours for one last time. And as the door shut with a loud thud, leaving a sudden silence in its wake, you realized you hadn't asked for his name. You looked down at the empty line left at the bottom of his order and wrote:

Krampus.

The sun set down, the sky turned from blue to orange and back to blue again. You had met with some friends at the small Christmas market, wandering around the little wooden shops that lined the square. Laughter and chatter filled the chilly air as you and your friends picked up festive Christmas toys, nibbled on gingerbread, and sipped warm drinks. The air was alive with the sound of the Christmas choir, their voices drifting through the market and adding a touch of magic to the evening.

As time passed and the night grew darker, the atmosphere shifted. The carolers’ songs faded and adults began to gather around the tables, glasses in hand. It wasn’t long before Krampuses started appearing, stalking through the crowd. The sound of children screaming and running to their parents echoed through the square, while some men pretended to be brave, stepping forward to protect their girlfriends. You couldn’t help but laugh as some of your friends found themselves the prey of a particularly mischievous Krampus, who chased them with exaggerated growls, making the whole scene feel like a playful dance between fear and festivity.

"What's wrong?" Your friend asked through laughter. "Come on, why they long face?"

You suddenly became aware of your thoughtful expression and quickly excused yourself. You had been thinking about your Krampus- both embarrassed and hopeful to see him again. "You better cheer up soon, or the krampus will get you!" Another friend teased.

The air was suddenly filled with the deep, resonant thud of drums, each beat like a heartbeat pounding through the square. A group of men pushed their way through the crowd, their rhythmic movements sharp and precise, their boots striking the cobblestones with deliberate thuds. Their dance was primal and hypnotic, an echo of something ancient and untamed. Behind them, two towering Krampuses loomed, their enormous cowbells clanging with a deafening ring that sent shivers through the crowd. Draped in heavy, fur-lined cloaks that swayed with each step, their grotesque masks twisted into demonic faces that seemed to leer at anyone who dared to meet their gaze. The crowd recoiled instinctively, a ripple of nervous laughter and gasps breaking the tension as the Krampuses stalked forward, commanding both fear and awe.

The main drummer, the same one who had parted the crowd in two, struck his drum with a horrendous bang that swallowed all other noise. In unison, the crowd fell silent, their collective breath caught in their chests. Yet, despite the stillness, a distant rhythm lingered in the air—a pulsing thrum that echoed: the rapid, heavy pounding of every heart present.

Thud!

The crowed took a step back in anticipation as the Krampuses looked around hungrily.

Thud! Thud!

The beats served as a count down, a warning and threat before the krampuses will be set free. You were too mesmerized by the show that you haven't realized you were being watched.

Thud! Thud! THUD!

That's when you noticed the taller monster staying still, focusing on you. Shivers creeped unbidden down your spine, cold and sharp, leaving goosebumps as they passed. Your stomach plummeted, a hollow, twisting ache of dread settling deep within you, even before your gaze met his. You didn’t need to see his eyes to recognize it was him—undeniably, inescapably him.

The rhythmic pounding of the drums grew faster, more frantic, but the meaning escaped you, lost in the haze of your thoughts. Blurred figures rushed past, their panicked shouts blending into something you barely registered. Shoulders slammed into you, hands shoved, voices screamed, everything—the chaos, the fear, the blinding motion—blurred and faded, except for that mask. That awful, looming mask. Its hollow gaze pinned you in place, your focus narrowing until it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, like the sharp crack of a pin dropping onto glass, the veil lifted. The muffled roars of the crowd became deafening, the banging and fireworks thundered in your ears, and the swell of scared people pressed against you, pulling you back into reality.

Run.

The word tore through your mind, an instinct louder than the drums, louder than the crazy fantasies you had. Run. You have to run.

The adrenaline hit you in full force, blood pumping hot through your veins as your feet pounded against the uneven ground. The small, twisted streets were making it harder for you, but you didn’t dare look back—you didn’t need to. You knew he was there. You could feel it, like a cold breath on the back of your neck.

You knew in the moment you broke eye contact, the second your body shifted to flee, he was already moving. His feet swept through the mud, closing the distance with the precision of a predator. He wasn’t chasing—you realized, with a spike of fear—he was hunting.

Exhaustion hit you hard, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your legs felt like lead, slowing to a near halt. Your body begged for rest, and you made the mistake of glancing over your shoulder. The street was empty—silent. No sign of him, nothing but the faint echo of your own heavy breathing. As you huffed in relief, grateful for the brief moment of peace, a hand clamped down on your waist, and another shot up to cover your mouth, muffling the scream you let out instinctively.

It all happened so fast, the way he grabbed you and spun you on his shoulder as if you weighted nothing. He ran away with you through the crowds, some people cheered and others ran away in fear of being the next victim. He ran past the crowds, past the houses and the gardens. The snow was getting higher and the lights were getting dimmer as the two of you strayed further from the towns fest.

No matter how much you screamed or how many questions you'd ask, he'd remain silent, eyes straight ahead not minding you at all.

"Please, stop! Put me down!" you begged for what felt like the hundredth time.

This time, he paused. With a grunt, he hurled you onto the snow-covered ground, your body colliding with the icy surface.

"You make so much noise," he growled, his voice low and rough. "I wonder how much louder you can get."

You stumbled onto your feet but the slippery ground betrayed you as you slipped again. Above you, the massive figure loomed, his imposing horns casting jagged shadows across the snow.

Your eyes were getting watery and your lip began to tremble. You were scared- your heart thumping and body trembling, that was fear. But the excitement that grew in your stomach and the urge to rub your legs against each other were something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered as a last plea, curling up as to make yourself as small as possible.

"Don't play dumb with me, little one. You deserve to be punished, you'll take what I'll give you and say thank you," he said.

Your eyes moved frantically from his mask to his muddy boots, then up his legs to the hard erection visible through his black pants before meeting the black holes where eyes were supposed to be.

"Please," you cried out doe eyed not sure what you were begging for.

The beast fell to his knees with a heavy sound making you flinch. You tried to push yourself further, but his strong hand grabbed at your ankle harshly. He dragged you by the foot, your skirt rising up as your ass slided on the cold snow. He let go of your leg, hand moving to your inner knee, slowly dragging his nails up your thigh.

"So sensitive," he coes when your skin reacts so eagerly to his touch. You instinctively grabbed at his hand which hovered above your panties. He paused his movement, seemingly amused at your attempt. "Go on," he leaned closer, covering your body with his own, the mask mere inches from your face. "Fight back," he breathed out a threat. "Try and fight me off, little lamb."

His hand slapped your clothed pussy, the weak attempt at a stopping him completly ignored. You let out a loud moan at the sudden feeling of pain.

His calloused hand started rubbing up and down the thin fabric. The daunting realization of how wet being hunted down like pray made you hit you as the panties became drenched.

"Aren't you ashamed?" He teased, fiddling with the zipper of his pants, tugging them just enough to free his large cock. "Being violated gets you this wet, Schatz?"

You whimper and squirm trying to get away from his touch, thriwing your hands at him- scratching and grabbing at his horns and neck.

Pathetic. That’s the only word for it. You know you’re not trying to escape or fight back. No, you’re just edging him on, hoping he'll snap and take out all his built up anger on you.

He easily grabs your wrists in one rapid motion. No matter how much you'd try, pulling with your whole body and then some, his grip would effortlessly stay the same.

"I'm going to fuck you," he announced pinning your hands above your head with one hand. "You will cry and scream and plead- and you will swallow every inch I give you."

He pulled your panties to the side placing his angry tip at the entrance. In the dead of night, under the midnight sky the lewd, wet sound of his dick spreading your juices was so loud.

No waiting, he pushed himself inside your throbbing cunt splitting you open.

"F-Fuck," you plead. "T-Too big, 's too big!" Your gummy walls stretch around his girth, causing your to choke in pain. The resistance slowly fades away as your cunt leaks more with every shallow thrust as he fills you up in ways you've never thought were possible.

"You can take it," he hissed, allowing you to adjust to his size. His cock was throbbing inside of you, pulsating eagerly. "You feel that? Feel what you do to me? I'm so hard for you, Schatz. Don't you wanna make me feel good?"

"Agh~," you cry out as you feel more of his size slipping inside your wet cunt. He let's go of his tight grip bringing one of your hands down to your stomach. His hand on top of yours as he's bullying his cock inside you. You feel him moving, the buldge in your stomach rising and lowering in sync with his thrusts. He growled loudly as you spammed around his dick so soon, moaning loudly and rolling your eyes in the back of your head, finally allowing him complete access as you cum on his fat cock.

"You're the tightest cunt I've fucked in a long time," he said bringing his hands on your hips angling you slightly better. His balls were hanging on your ass and his tip was pushing twords your womb.

If you could think straight, you'd be embarrassed of cumming just from being filled, of the moans and gasps you made with every inch he gave you. But the warmth of the village is distant and the ground behind your back is freezing, you need him- his warmth- to keep the cold from swallowing you whole.

Through teary eyes, you look at him. The faint light spilling from the village clings to his mask and coat, tracing his silhouette in an otherworldly glow, as if he were carved from shadow and firelight. He is no longer just a man draped in beast's clothes;

And yet, his gaze lingers on you, heavy and unreadable, somewhere between a silent threat or solemn apology.

It started slowly, dragging his member out then pushing it back in with slightly more forced than before. Your whole body was pressed deeper into the ground, head bobbling to his increasing rhythm.

One if his hands reached up to your chest, cupping one of your breast through the cotton material of your dress, the other digging into the side of your hip. He found your hardend nipple with ease, rubbing it between his fingers. He'd pinch and drag them only to see them bounce more viciously.

"Shush," he'd scold through heavy breaths. "If you keep moaning like that people will hear you. They'll see you spread wide getting your pussy stuffed, is that what you want?"

When his words were only getting you more riled up, he'd let go of your hips moving it to your loud mouth. He fell onto of you, his heavy body crushing your smaller frame, one hand desperately pulling at your tits while the other pressing hard on your mouth. He pounded into you like a man starved, abusing your needy hole.

You looked so pretty right now, your Krampus thought behind his mask. Your face was flushed, your eyelashes sticking together from tears. Strands of hair, damp from the snow melting behind you, clung to your face, yet your eyes were hazed with pleasure. He got you like this, so pathetic and cock drunk. You tried to say something but your words were muffled.

"Shut up, just a little- a little longer longer-," he sounded desperate, a change in his steady demeanor. "You'll take all I give you, every last drop of cum- Fuck- I'll pump you full of cum, you horny bitch," he groand against your neck, thrusting into you deeper than before.

He fucked you through his orgasm, cock twitching and slaming hot cum inside your cunt, a white ring foaming where your body met.

He fucked you through your orgasm, his dick barelling into you making sure you won't spill a drop of this gift he had given you.

Your legs were shaking around him, hands dirty and tired from clawing at the ground. His chest rumbled against your own.

After he pulled out, he shoved his fingers in its place- pushing his cum deep into you. You'd lick them clean afterwards, after he pulled you back on your feet. Your eyes tried to find his behind the devil mask, as his fingers explored your mouth.

You didn't.

The night didn’t feel as cold as before, the stars no longer just wishes in the sky, but silent witnesses to everything that had unfolded. You didn’t dare move, or speak—not before he would at least. You tensed, waiting for words that never came, as he grabbed you with an eerie calm, lifting you once more, just as he had in the beginning

[zorostitties]

Aurora; 8 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 9k

A/N: HAPPY ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY TO AURORA!!! I can't even believe I got this far with this fic. Fucking 50k+ words in a month??? Hyperfixation REALLY go boom! It also happens to be my birthday today 🫠 my age is definitely starting to sound WAY TOO SERIOUS now. welp. ANYWAYS - an anon motivated me to create a playlist for aurora, so here it is!!! These are some of the songs that I listen on repeat when I'm writing. Not all of the lyrics have anything to do with the story tho, some just match the vibe of the fic. Though, if I had to choose a "theme song" for Aurora, it'd definitely be Darkness At The Heart of My Love - Ghost. I know metal isn't everybody's cup of tea but in my brain, vampires = metal. And specifically Castlevania = Rammstein for some reason lmao. Anyway!! I hope you guys give it at least (1) listen, as I really think the playlist encapsules the vibes I'm trying to portray in my writing very well. ANYWAYS!!! LET ME SHUT UP!! ENJOY THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

? Years Ago

Jerash, Ottoman Empire

The moon was hidden behind heavy storm clouds that night.

The rain whipped against the walls and ceiling of the humble house. It consisted of only two rooms – the kitchen and a tiny bedroom with simple wooden furniture. One would consider it the house of a common peasant, but the hundreds of books piled over one another indicated otherwise. They were everywhere: over the table, stored on shelves, precarious bookcases and boxes… some looked ancient, some looked new. Some had intricate leather covers, beautiful handwriting and illustrations, while others were nothing but a bunch of pages with incomprehensible scribbles. It was even difficult to walk into the house without stepping over one.

The place smelled of spices. Many types of dried herbs were hanging around the kitchen. Different types of stones of all colors and sizes rested over the closed windowsill: quartz, crystals, amethysts, obsidian, malachites… colorful bird feathers were tied by threads in intricate designs, also hanging from the ceiling. All of that was supposed to provide “protection” against the “evil”, apparently.

Drolta hated that place.

No… hate was too strong of a word. To hate someone or something, you must care about it enough, and Drolta didn’t. She was… disgusted. All the dirt, the simplicity, the cheap magic that wouldn’t even hurt a fly… it was boring.

And the owner of that house was especially disgusting.

That short, bald creature finally appeared from inside the bedroom, carrying a heavy book in hands and an annoying large smile. When all this ended – and hopefully it would end very soon –, Drolta would make sure to kill this little man and take a long, really long bath to take his smell off her skin. She didn’t even plan on feeding off him. He didn’t deserve it. Drolta refused to drink from a neck that wasn’t soft, young and feminine.

“Here it is. The product of all of my researches over the years,” he claimed proudly. What was even his name? Was it Khalil? She didn’t remember. Before looking at her face, his eyes stopped for two seconds on her cleavage. He did it every time and hadn’t been trying to hide it ever since Drolta stepped foot into this thing he called home.

Men… oh, how easy men are. Drolta witnessed multiple changes in the world during her long lifetime. She saw empires rise and fall, cultures cease to exist, philosophies and religions sweep the Earth. But one thing that had never changed over all this time was the simplicity of men. All she needed to do was put on a tighter corset, a deeper cleavage… and she had him on the palm of her hand. Drolta didn’t even need to try much much harder. This little Khalil man was the type she despised the most: the needy type. Never got married. Judged too strange by his fellow villagers. Probably never felt the touch of a woman. He was desperate.

But he had something that Drolta valued after all: knowledge. There was a time when the world was full of magicians. Speakers, priestesses, witches, oracles, shamans, alchemists… actual scholars of the ways of magic. But that was before the fucking Church. Now, apparently, all humans knew how to do was kneel and pray for a God that could not grant them any power.

Drolta was aware that she was partially at fault in all this. However, she would redeem herself soon.

When she finally succeeded in bringing Sekhmet back to life, this Earth would know what a real Goddess is. A Goddess with real power, real impact, who could bring real fear and obedience and adoration.

Soon, she thought to herself. I can feel it. She will come back soon. I will bring her back soon.

So many centuries of preparation. So many sun cycles searching for the right candidate. She had finally, finally encountered someone whose body managed to withstand Sekhmet’s power. Erszebet Bathory grew more powerful every day; the holy blood she drank was slowly but surely changing her body, her soul, empowering her. Drolta could feel Sekhmet’s presence in this world getting stronger. She could feel her goddess through Erszebet, talking through her, striving to resurface through that vessel. Everything was going so well.

And yet – all of her effort was still not enough, because half of Sekhmet’s soul was still missing.

Aside from taking care of the vessel, Drolta and her sisters roamed Earth after the Ba – Sekhmet’s mummy. For some reason, it was always out of reach: stolen from someone, bought by someone, then stolen again, then auctioned… Drolta was always too late. She prayed, prayed, prayed ardently that her beloved Goddess would help her from the other side, give her a sign, maybe twist things a bit so she could have a chance… but oh, she knew her Goddess was too weak to help. Drolta knew she would have to find a way.

And although all odds seemed to be working against her, Drolta found another way. Drolta thought of another chance.

As far as her associates scattered around the world knew, the mummy was lost forever. She completely lost track of it somewhere in the Horn of Africa; the last news she heard about it was years ago. As much as Drolta despised the idea – as much as she’d like to personally torture whoever committed such blasphemy towards the body of Sekhmet –, she had to be realistic and assume that the mummy was, perhaps, definitely gone.

But Drolta wouldn’t let herself be drowned by despair. No. Despair was the enemy of reason. She had to be strong – for Sekhmet, for her sisters, for her goal.

So another idea grew into her mind.

Drolta was under possession of Sekhmet’s blood, the Ka; the Goddess’ Ba, the mummy, was out of reach.

And then there was the third piece of her soul which was also out of reach.

Except… maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe there was a way to reach into it.

Yes, she knew no one had ever managed to do it. Yes, she knew the possibility of failure was high. Yes, she knew that, perhaps, it was all but a delusion. However, Drolta couldn’t be sure without trying first. If there was even the smallest possibility of it working, she would go on with it.

She had to do it – and do it fast. Drolta had never met anyone that could take so much of Sekhmet’s blood, but even her couldn’t take much more; the Goddess needed her other half.She could not lose Erszebet; she would do anything in her power to keep that woman safe.

Which led Drolta to this annoying mortal man.

He was disgusting. He smelled bad. He had the audacity of assuming he was going to fuck her. And still, he was an alchemist – and there weren’t many alchemists in the world anymore. Not good ones, at least. Drolta wasted her time going after a famous alchemist in China months ago, but she turned out to be a charlatan. As far as Drolta knew, this one was real. Maybe not powerful like mortal alchemists used to be, but he could do the job.

“From the information I have gathered, it hasn’t been tried in centuries,” Khalil spoke with amazement and reverence. It truly was the work of his life, apparently. “Not many scholars even believe it happened, in fact… it is under deep discussion. However, the ones that believe it, report that the occurrence happened in Wallachia, when a certain alchemist tried to… well…”

Khalil averted his eyes, seeming embarrassed and hesitant. Oh, the traits of a man that has been laughed at and ridiculed his entire life. Drolta felt grateful that he was this way. Much easier to deal with.

She rested her hand on his forearm and looked at him with round, curious eyes – even though she already knew what he was trying to say.

“Tried to what? Please, tell me,” she asked in a honeyed voice.

Khalil probably had an erection at that moment. His face flushed and he smiled.

“Tried to bring D-Dracula back to life,” he finally let out. “Yeah, I know it sounds absurd. I-I mean, Dracula? The folk tale to scare kids? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t find it absurd at all,” Drolta said, shaking her head softly. “Please, continue.”

The man averted his gaze from hers sheepishly, holding the book just a tiny bit stronger.

“Y-You are the first person to ever take me seriously, Miss Danubia,” Danubia? Oh… it’s the name she made up for herself. She had almost forgotten. “I… I really appreciate it.”

What, are you going to cry? Spare me.

Drolta caressed his arm softly.

“I admire your intelligence. I’d sit with you and talk for hours about all of your discoveries,” the idea sickened her, in fact. But Drolta couldn’t just force him to do anything. As far as she knew, the entire process had to be done willingly, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

For fuck’s sake, it really looked like he wanted to cry. Khalil blinked rapidly and looked down at the book again.

“Apparently, the portal was opened directly into Hell in order to retrieve Dracula’s soul. But it’s entirely possible that, through this same ritual, I could try to reach into other realms, too…” For the first time, Khalil looked hesitant. He gulped. “Though, if I’m to be completely honest, Miss Danubia, I do not believe I have the expertise needed to lead such a powerful ritual.”

Drolta stepped back, letting go of his forearm.

Khalil looked up at her, slightly startled at her sudden lack of touch.

But then, Drolta looked down, putting her hands over her chest and…

Tears welled up her eyes.

“I-I wish you could understand my pain and my despair, Khalil,” she started, voice trembling. “My mother… my dear mother. I could never tell her goodbye before her death. She had such a painful, slow death…” Drolta looked at him again, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “I do not wish to retrieve her soul, Khalil; I understand this goes against the laws of nature. I just want to… talk to her. In my culture, we believe that the souls of our deceased goes to the duat. If I can just get a peek of it… just look at her face once more… you will have my eternal gratitude. I-I can’t let this chance go by…”

Drolta covered her mouth and sobbed. With the corner of her eyes, she saw Khalil rush to put the heavy book over the table and bring her a handkerchief. She didn’t want to put that stinky thing near her face, but took it anyway and wiped her tears delicately.

Khalil pressed his lips together. All the hesitance was gone, being replaced by determination.

“I believe I can do it, Miss Danubia.” He inhaled before speaking. “The g-good feelings I have for you will be my guide and shield.”

Drolta offered him a sweet smile and a fragile thank you.

Khalil took off his coat and pushed the small table to the farthest corner of the room. He then took a piece of white chalk and started to draw something on the floor.

“This is the symbol of Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld… or the duat,” he explained while he drew. As if Drolta didn’t already know it. Yet, she acted shocked, trying to engage him in conversation as he lit a circle of candles around the hieroglyph. She needed him content and willing. Mortals work better when they are in their best feelings; they tend to put much more of their force into what they are doing, and this, in magic terms, was extremely meaningful.

Drolta loathed the fact that she needed this man happy to achieve her goal, but it was necessary. Well, if not happy, then hard. Sexual energy can also be extremely powerful.

After Khalil finished his preparations for the ritual, Drolta approached him and held his hand.

The man visibly held his breath.

It was so easy for her to send him that sweet gaze. So easy to trap his entire attention on her, as if Drolta became the very air in his lungs. She leaned down slightly and pressed her soft lips on his cheek, making sure to stay there a second longer than necessary, before leaning away a delivering a smile that showed quiet sadness and care.

“If you succeed, Khalil, you will have my heart eternally,” she purred in an almost whisper.

He was shocked.

It really looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Finally, he managed to crack a smile. He puffed his chest like a pathetic male bird and nodded as Drolta stepped away.

“I will, my lady. For you.”

She held back laughter.

Finally, Khalil took his heavy book again and stood near the candle ring. The flames projected eerie shadows around the walls; the outside storm was everything they could hear. He placed the book in front of his feet and took a small knife from his pocket.

“Blood is required to initiate the ritual,” he explained. “You can look away if it makes you uncomfortable, my lady.”

Khalil didn’t see when she rolled her eyes this time.

He swiped the knife on his palm, wincing in pain as he did. Weak little human, can’t even stand a cut without crying. He let blood drip over the symbol on the floor before walking back to the candle ring and taking the book in his hands once more.

He took a deep breath before finally initiating the spell.

His pronunciation of Akkadian was bad. Laughable, even. Drolta could barely understand half of the words. And yet, it was enough.

The candles trembled. The air within the house got colder. Drolta felt the floor beneath her feet shake slightly, the air vibrate in a high frequency – the frequency of high magic.

It was working.

A grin slowly grew on her lips. She… underestimated this little man after all. He was an actual alchemist – but the ritual was only working because of her efforts, she realized. Khalil was putting all of his love into the spell. Yes, actual love. How such a naive creature fell in love with her so quickly after a few days of knowing each other was beyond her.

Love is also extremely powerful in magical terms.

The storm grew angrier out there. A thunder so loud and so close shook the entire house, made Khalil lost his focus for a second before continuing to read the spell.

Followed by another thunder – even closer this time.

And another thunder.

The ground shook. Some books fell from the shelves. Khalil lifted his head and looked towards the window.

There was another sound mixed within the cacophony of the heavy storm.

Screams.

What was that out there? Was the house of his neighbor burning?

“W-What is–?” Khalil stuttered.

He hadn’t noticed that Drolta was towering right behind him. How did she get so close so fast?

She held his head with both hands from behind, guiding it down towards the book again.

“Keep reading,” she instructed in a quiet whisper, her mouth close to his ear.

A violent shiver ran down Khalil’s spine.

For the first time, Drolta’s presence made him feel uneasy. Her voice changed drastically; it wasn’t welcoming anymore, or warm, or caring. It was just freezing cold. It… it didn’t even sound much human.

All these talismans he hung around his house for protection – and yet the worst evil he could possibly imagine was standing right behind him, welcomed by him with open arms.

Another thunder. Another fire. Another house burning down. A few more souls to fuel the spell.

Khalil could be a real alchemist, but he was far from being a good one, Drolta remarked to herself. All of those books taught him nothing – again, she had to do most of the job. In the few days she worked on gaining his trust, she also made sure to mark every house in the village of Jerash with the symbol or Osiris. Marked it with virgin blood to make it even more effective.

Every respectable alchemist knew that in order to open a door into the Infinite Corridor, multiple mortal lives were required. That is why most alchemists weren’t brave enough to do it.

Khalil wouldn’t be brave enough to do it too if he knew what it’d cost. That is why Drolta lured him into it and made the preparations behind his back.

Drolta chuckled. How he must had been feeling at that moment, knowing he sacrificed hundreds of lives of his fellow villagers in the hopes of sticking his tiny penis inside of her?

“I told you to keep reading,” she repeated, and this time her voice sounded like a dangerous hiss.

Khalil’s hands trembled. He gulped. His voice wasn’t as confident anymore, but he had already initiated the ritual; there was no coming back from there.

The floor shook as more souls were reaped into the spell. Suddenly, the windows opened all at once; the ceiling cracked and was swiped away by a violent gush of wind. Drolta looked up in time to see a funnel of souls converging into a single streak of red light, being attracted by the symbol of Osiris on the floor; they made a twister within the circle of candles that were somehow still lit despite everything.

Wind and rain whipped Drolta and Khalil, made his books fly in all directions. None of that bothered Drolta. She had a maniacal grin on her lips, eyes locked in the chaos unveiling in front of her eyes.

Finally, finally, finally, a white crack slashed the air inside the candle ring. A crack in reality itself.

Freezing cold wind came out of it. The crack was slowly but surely getting wider. It made Drolta’s eyes widen, shivers run her body; few times in her life did she witness magic so powerful, so strong, so chilling.

It was working. It was finally working.

She stepped aside from a shell-shocked Khalil and extended her arms in a wide movement, the smile never vanishing from her lips.

A door to the Infinite Corridor, opened right in front of her eyes.

And yet – her work wasn’t done. This door needed to be redirected; it needed to be aimed at the right place.

“Oh Sekhmet, Eye or Ra, Lady of Terror, Mistress of Dread, She Who Mauls; hear mine calling, let thou be guided by the voice of thy loyal servant!” Drolta chanted with all her might, raising her voice as to be heard beyond the storm and the magic and the weeping souls.

The crack got a bit wider. Insurmountable amount of energy escaped from inside. Drolta didn’t even know if Khalil could stand in front of it much longer, given how weak he was, so she needed to rush.

“Hear mine call, Your Magnificence!” Drolta continued, gesticulating in wide movements. “Let mine voice guide thee through the waters of the primordial abyss; let thy Akh resurface in the land of the living. Oh Sekhmet, Lady of Slaughter, She of Ten Thousand Names; walk back into thy rightful realm, retake the throne unfairly taken from thee, wear thy rightful crown once more!”

The crack got wider, wider, wider. It was difficult to understand what could be seen inside of it; it looked like a confusing kaleidoscope. Different images jumped in the blink of an eye, landscapes not even Drolta could understand. And yet, she kept chanting, hoping her energy would be the necessary guide. The mark of Osiris burned in bright red.

Finally – the image within the crack seemed to stabilize itself.

Drolta’s eyes widened.

She saw a… calm river. A temple made of gold in the distance, sitting atop of an island. A pyramid. Purple trees adorned it; the tip of the pyramid shone with a blinding light. The most beautiful sky she had ever seen.

That was it. It was the duat.

Drolta got even more passionate in her speech; her throat ached from screaming.

“Hear mine voice, Lady Sekhmet! Hear mine voice! Come to me!” She begged. Finally, finally, finally, her goddess was right there; after years and years of searching and fighting for her and protecting her legacy and trying to find ways to revive her, after so many frustrated attempts of retrieving her mummy... Finally, Sekhmet’s Akh was right there in front of her eyes.

Finally, Drolta had succeeded.

All she needed to do was cross the door. Drolta couldn’t enter the duat, but Sekhmet could cross it towards the land of the living. Drolta held a small shabti made of pure gold in her hand, the holy object in which she could safely store the third part of Sekhmet’s soul. From there, Erzsebet would only need to incorporate it.

Come to me, Sekhmet; come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me–

Something happened.

The image twisted.

“What?” Drolta gasped.

The sight of the duat blurred.

Suddenly, the winds that whipped the house got stronger, more violent. The soul twister got more chaotic. Now, everything that could be seen within the door was the kaleidoscope of colors again, passing rapidly.

It… started to get black.

“No! No! What are you doing?!” Drolta turned to Khalil, her wrath so big that made him tremble. But the man was frozen in place, tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain.

“I-I-I’m not doing anything!” He stuttered. “It wasn’t me!”

Drolta turned to the door again.

The air was getting even colder. Colder, colder, colder… freezing. The Osiris symbol suddenly started to burn in black – and then everything else was black. The souls, the flames of the candles, the energy rays that poured from the door.

The air smelled of coal and sulfur.

“No! Stop! Stop!” Drolta yelled at whatever was interfering with the ritual. “I don’t want you here. I didn’t call you!”

But it was too late.

A second before the explosion, Drolta saw a dark figure walk out of the door.

She had time to protect her face with her arms. She did not care about Khalil.

Boom.

The shockwave destroyed what remained of Khalil’s house; he was sent back flying meters away. The reaped souls let their final, painful yell before dissipating in the air. The candles were extinguished in a gush of wind.

Drolta was the only thing to remain standing in place.

She lowered her arms slowly. It seemed that even the heavy storm got timid after such an unnatural occurrence. The neighbor houses still burned; the fires spread down the hill. As it wasn’t magical fire anymore, the rain started to quiet them down. No voices were heard. No more screams. No live witnesses anymore. The village of Jerash became nothing but a burning cemetery.

Drolta fell to her knees.

A shrilling scream of pure anger crossed the air.

She had failed. She got so fucking close and failed yet again. The duat was right there in front of her and she failed.

She turned around to see Khalil’s body on the floor.

Drolta got up, red anger clouding her gaze. He was still alive – hurt, bleeding and crying, but still alive.

“You stupid piece of shit!” She kicked his stomach so hard that the men rolled a few more meters away. “Useless little man. I submitted myself to your disgusting presence for days and you still didn’t serve me anything!”

Khalil coughed blood. He refused to look at her, shrinking into his own body, crying like a child.

She should skin him alive. This, at least, would serve as a way to calm down.

And yet – she stopped in her tracks.

Rain still fell over her head. She was entirely drenched. Drolta stopped and inhaled, letting her anger quiet down.

There was someone talking to her.

Something.

The air still smelled of coal and sulfur. It had nothing to do with the burning houses.

Slowly, she turned back to the circle of candles.

Her eyes widened.

There was someone laying on the floor inside the circle. She rushed towards it.

It was… it was a woman.

For a moment, overwhelming joy and excitement rushed through her veins. Could it be who she thought it was? What if she had actually succeeded, but in a different way than she first expected?

What if that was Sekhmet incarnate?!

Drolta knelt down beside the woman. She was unconscious, laid on her side, completely naked. With care – even hesitancy – Drolta turned her body around, making the woman lay on her back. She took some strands of drenched hair away from her face.

It was a young woman. Her chest moved slowly, as if she was simply asleep.

Drolta frowned.

She pressed two fingers over her neck. A regular pulse. The scent of… regular mortal blood.

Her frown deepened.

“This is no Sekhmet,” Drolta said through gritted teeth. “This is just human woman.”

Then, she lifted her gaze – and finally noticed what was talking to her.

It was nothing but a strange, tall shadow; Drolta could barely make sense of what she was looking at. But yet, that grin was very much recognizable. The entity seemed weak, vibrating in a low frequency, making the entire area around it even colder.

“Did you bring her with you?” She asked. The entity answered. It didn’t use… words. It spoke into her mind with intentions instead. Perhaps, it was way too weak to vocalize.

Drolta huffed with disdain. “And what use would this mortal have?”

The entity moved slowly, circling around them.

Drolta froze in place.

“How do you know this?” She asked in a cautious hiss.

The entity’s grin seemed to get even wider, now knowing that it had Drolta’s full attention.

It continued sliding around Drolta. The vampire lowered her head, looking at the human woman once again.

She looked and looked and looked and looked and…

She remembered.

Slowly, Drolta’s eyes widened as realization hit her.

This… wouldn’t solve all of her problems. She still needed to find the other half of Sekhmet’s soul. And yet… it could also serve her plans, in a way.

Drolta once again lifted her gaze towards the grinning shadow.

“I know you wouldn’t be offering me this out of the goodness of your heart,” she started with suspicion. “What do you want of me in return?”

The entity trembled. Drolta leaned her head slightly.

“An easy task. And if I fail?”

The entity grinned at her quietly. Drolta chuckled.

“You won’t have it, for I won’t fail.” She got up to her feet again. “But this sounds like a fair deal.”

A fair pact, in fact.

Drolta extended her arm towards the entity. It approached her; the shadow extended too in what resembled an arm. It revolved around her hand with a chilling touch.

When the shadow retreated, there was an icy object over Drolta’s palm.

A ruby necklace.

Drolta nodded at the entity; it sent her a last eerie grin before disappearing into the shadows of the night.

It was done.

Drolta looked down.

She took the cloak off her shoulders and covered the woman’s naked body with it. She leaned down, taking her into her arms, before straightening her posture again.

It… wasn’t a complete failure, after all.

Her Goddess never left her without a way out. She was always kind to send Drolta another option, another strategy, and that’s why Drolta managed to survive and move on after every problem.

“For every suffering, a wisdom is gained,” she said quietly. The mantra that had been keeping her sane for centuries.

Khalil was still weeping some meters away from her. Drolta paid him no mind. He wasn’t totally useless in the end, which meant he gained the right to keep living.

Drolta walked away from the burning cemetery of Jerash with the unconscious woman in her arms, the ruby necklace safely tangled around her palm.

The heavy storm clouds opened a small breach for the first time; the moon peeked through, being the only witness of the horrors that had unveiled that night.

Present time

Paris, France

The sun had hidden behind the horizon at least three hours ago.

You looked out the window at the full moon reigning sovereign in the sky from the tiny inn bedroom. There were barely any clouds to hinder its view. Stars adorned the space around her, creating a breathtaking view.

And yet, the air was… eerie.

Maybe because you knew what was about to come, and the fact that the rest of the city didn’t know yet made the situation horrifying. So many people were probably having dinner with their families, resting their heads over their pillows, having no idea of the hell that was about to burst upon them.

What made the situation even more difficult was that you were, well, useless in the middle of it all.

Richter and Annette were hunting nests of vampires. Alucard was about to leave to talk to the leaderships of Paris in order to organize the defensive lines. The three of them, much obviously, were ready to fight.

And you? All you had was a useless golden scepter.

Maybe you had your hopes way too high after what happened at the Louvre. You remembered what Annette told you when you first met – you might be a witch, Ruby; you just don’t remember it. You thought that, the moment you put your hands over the artifact again, you’d have some sort of epiphany. Your past would unveil itself in your head, you’d finally understand Erzsebet and Drolta’s interest in you, you’d know why you were needed to summon eclipses…

But nothing happened.

The scepter was just heavy and very impractical to carry around.

Alucard had no idea what language the inscriptions were. He advised you to not read them out loud, as it wasn’t clear the effect it could cause. You also didn’t magically understand what these words meant. So… just another frustration to add onto the pile.

“Ruby, I’m talking to you.”

You jumped and turned your head around. Alucard was standing in front of the door, searching for something in the inside pocket of his coat and eyeing you with curiosity. You adjusted your posture where you were sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I… wasn’t paying attention.” You said sheepishly.

The white-haired vampire paused for a moment.

“Are you scared of being on your own?” He asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No! Not at all. I’ll be fine.” You reassured.

To be honest, being alone wasn’t exactly an idea you liked. The last three days were the safest you’d ever felt in your life, and that was because you were around them. You tried to avoid picturing the horrifying image of Drolta in her new night creature form breaking through that window and dragging you back to the chateau. There’s no way this is going to happen, not now that she retrieved Sekhmet’s mummy… I’m not needed anymore.

But the idea you liked even less was of being a burden, and you knew you’d be a burden if you kept hanging around uselessly while they fought. Annette almost died due to your mere presence. You were sure everyone would’ve handled the fight much better if you simply weren’t there. So… it’d be better if you just stayed hidden at the inn for the time being.

Alucard shrugged slightly and approached, finally revealing what he was searching for in his coat: a… red string?

He sat by your side on the bed, eyes glued on it. The only source of light came from the moon outside and a single candle holder over the desk. The light of the timid flame created a golden silhouette on his delicate features.

“The Revolutionary Commune is reunited some blocks away from here at this moment,” Alucard explained while his fingers worked on measuring the string. You watched him in silent confusion. His voice always dropped even quieter when he was close to you like that. It was… comforting. He was so close that his arm brushed on yours. “I must go warn them about the incoming fight. There will most definitely be vampires roaming the streets right now, hence why you must stay hidden for the time being.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

You watched as Alucard tied the red string around his own left wrist skillfully. How did he even manage to tie something with a single hand? That was quite impressive. “I won’t take more than two hours, however. After I assure your safety within the Revolutionary Commune, I will come to pick you up.”

Then, he brought his wrist close to his mouth; he put the remaining length of the string between his teeth and cut it using his sharp fangs.

Oh.

You couldn’t help but feel shivers run your spine whenever you remembered that Alucard had vampire fangs. He was half vampire, in fact. It was a bit strange how, as you grew comfortable around him, this “detail” became less and less relevant; you always associated vampires with the worst things possible, while Alucard was much the opposite. Perhaps that’s why it was a bit surprising to remember part of him was one.

You also had noticed that Alucard didn’t open much of his mouth when he talked… and it seemed to be a very conscious act when he was in public. You payed attention to how he talked to those boys earlier. Was it an attempt to make his fangs less obvious?

“Give me your left wrist.” He asked. You promptly obeyed. Alucard tied the remaining string around yours this time. “If anything happens, anything at all, untie this string. Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.”

You nodded, a bit surprised. “This is impressive.”

Alucard chuckled and tilted his head slightly. “You were effortlessly summoning eclipses and this is what surprises you about magic?”

The words got caught in your throat.

“Well– it is impressive.” He looked at you with a quirked eyebrow, which did not help you organize your thoughts better. “A-And I wasn’t summoning them, not exactly.”

“You’re not sure about that, are you?”

No, you weren’t.

Your shoulders dropped. Alucard chuckled again.

He finally let go of your wrist and a tiny part of you immediately missed his touch.

“Remember. Two hours. No more, no less.” He got up from the bed again and walked towards the door. “I might be asking too much from you, but I’d advise you against sleeping, too.”

“As if I’d be able to close my eyes at all,” you whined quietly to yourself.

Alucard opened the door and looked at you.

Once again, it seemed that he was about to say something. He looked… hesitant. His expression wasn’t as nonchalant as usual, but you couldn’t tell exactly why. You looked at him expectantly.

Then – this small glimpse dissolved in seconds.

“Lock the door,” he said, pointing at it with his head.

Oh.

You got up in a jump. At last, he left. You safely locked it and kept the key in the pocket of your vest.

Then, you were alone.

For the first time in your life, being alone didn’t bring you relief. You’d usually look forward to the moments you’d be locked inside your quarters again, recovering from your wounds; despite the pain, it were the only times when you had some peace. Now, however, you’d wish someone was here. You hoped Annette and Richter were safe, wherever they were…

You laid on the bed and faced the ceiling. The scepter was also over the bed, right beside you.

And you just… stayed there.

Your fingers fiddled with the red string on your left wrist mindlessly. Alucard didn’t make a complicated tie as to keep it easy to undo, so you took care to not untie it by accident. This little piece of braided wool had magic in it… but you didn’t feel anything strange while touching it.

You remembered how Alucard felt that the scepter was magic just by touching it, while for you it was just a normal object. You remembered how Richter could summon elements with his bare hands and Annette could see spirits as easily as people…. Perhaps you had no aptitude for magic at all. Perhaps they made you read that book because they needed a human to complete the summoning of an eclipse, not because you had some sort of hidden power.

You touched the scepter again without bothering to look at it. Cold and lifeless as usual.

Maybe it had that reaction – shining, the rust disappearing – because it needed someone to… awaken it. Anyone. Not you specifically.

But it must had been touched by someone before, isn’t it? Of course it was. It didn’t walk into that crate. Someone put it there.

You groaned and turned to your right side.

Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. You were on high alert, so your eyelids didn’t feel heavy with sleep.

You laid on your stomach and brought the scepter close to your face.

These characters… you recognized them.

Alucard told you to not read them out loud, but he didn’t say anything about writing them.

You got up and rushed to the desk. There was a small drawer there with a piece of paper and some charcoal. You laid on your stomach again and started to translate the characters into the common Latin alphabet. Alucard might not recognize the characters, but what if he saw the syllables in a language he could read and the words made sense to him?

As the scepter had a lot of text and you didn’t have much paper, you tried to keep the letters as tiny as possible. You broke the charcoal a bit to make a sharper point. Your hands and the sheets got dirty with the black of the charcoal, but you couldn’t care less.

You didn’t pay attention to the time now that you had something to busy yourself with. Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. An hour. Half an hour.

You had little free paper left and a lot to translate still when a sound out there immediately brought you back to your senses.

You froze and looked towards the window.

The street was very quiet up until that point – you even wondered if nights in Paris were always so peaceful. That sound, however, was impossible to ignore; was impossible to not make your heart immediately race.

A scream.

You got up in a jump and approached the window slowly, peeking at it with caution.

The scream came from a nearby street, followed by fast steps. Another scream. It sounded female.

No… it sounded childish.

Maybe it’s nothing. Just a kid spooked by a dog or a rat. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn’t get on your nerves every time you hear a scream.

You stood by the window for some more minutes, your heart thundering nonstop… and nothing appeared. You sighed, tried to calm your already irregular breathing. Focus on a single thing, a simple thing, to muffle everything else–

Someone running down there on the street.

You eyes widened. Your breath got completely caught in your throat.

It was a kid. A small kid, desperately running away from something. A boy. You recognized the worn out clothes and the curly black hair.

The lily in the pocket of your vest seemed to get hot.

It was Oliver.

When he disappeared from your sight, you saw what he was running from: three men. They laughed as they pursued him.

Three vampires.

You grabbed the scepter, the piece of paper and without taking a single second to think, you were already running out of the room.

The only things you could hear were your deep breathing, your thundering heartbeat and your boots rushing on the wooden pavement, then on the stone street as you rushed out of the inn. You almost fell when taking a sudden turn in the direction you saw Oliver running to. The street was completely empty and cold, but your body already felt hot from adrenaline.

You ran as fast as your legs could take. Please let me not be too late please please please please please please please please please–

Another strangled scream followed by more voices coming from an alley nearby.

You didn’t take a second to consider what you were going to do, how you were going to save him from this situation.

You just rushed into it.

“Oliver!” You screamed, stopping on your tracks.

The scene unfolding in front of you made your blood boil in a mix of anger and fright.

Oliver, the little boy, had fallen; his back was pressed against the wall. It was a dead end. His knee bled – he had probably fallen –, tears streamed down his cheeks, his pants were wet. He was shaking; his eyes, the most widened you’d ever seen.

The three vampires cornered him. They wore simple clothes, but all of them shared a similar trait: the symbol of an eclipse burned into the skin of their foreheads.

They immediately turned around at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, everyone was shocked – you, Oliver, the vampires. They were the first ones to recover.

“M-Madame!” Oliver stuttered in a strangled, horrified voice.

The vampire in the middle smirked.

“What do we have here?”

“This is even better than that bastard,” the one on the right laughed. “No one told you to not walk around at night by yourself, sweetie?”

“Leave him alone,” you blurted out. You didn’t sound that frightened, at least, because your body hadn’t properly processed what the hell you had gotten yourself into yet.

“Oh, we might now that you’re here.” One of them said with a disgusting smirk. “And what is it that you’re carrying with you? Looks interesting.”

They started to approach at slow steps.

You knew how vampires acted. They didn’t see you as a threat, so they would not use their inhuman speed. No; they wanted to savor your panic, to make you think you’d have a way out the way they did with Oliver. Vampires acted as cruel hunters, not as animal predators that acted purely on instinct and hunger.

That’s why they didn’t notice when you put your left wrist behind your back and swiftly untied the string.

I’m sorry, Alucard, you thought as the reality of that moment finally hit you. You… you did it again. You put yourself in danger again, exactly the opposite of what Alucard told you to do. But if you had waited for him, if you had untied the string at the inn and then explained what happened and then hoped that Alucard caught the vampires in time, would Oliver still be alive? Would he have an extra minute of luck?

Whatever these vampires were about to do with you – it didn’t matter. You could take it. Oliver couldn’t. The same way Annette wouldn’t have taken the night creature’s bite.

“M-Madame, run!”

His voice caught your attention again.

That little boy had wet himself in fear. He could barely stand. And yet, he was telling you to run. He was worried about your safety.

That little boy.

So small and so fragile and wearing those worn out clothes and shaking and hurt.

It brought forward an instinct within you. Perhaps that same instinct you felt when you looked at Richter’s sad expression. A will to take care. To protect. Something that run deep into your soul, something very familiar in ways you couldn’t explain, as if you had been in a similar situation in the past, as if you had felt this desperate need to protect someone small and fragile and dear to you.

These men were going to kill that little boy and he wouldn’t even be able to fight back.

This strange instinct to protect and the anger towards these men and the revolt because you had been in similar situations too, countless times, and you couldn’t do anything to fight back against a force tenfold stronger than you made your mind go blank.

Blank, blank, blank, devoid of any thought. Any fear. Any hesitance. At that moment, there wasn’t anxiety anymore. Your fingers didn’t shake. You didn’t think of any consequence.

All that existed was the need to protect that little boy.

One of the vampires approached and grabbed the scepter roughly. Instinctively, you held it with both hands, trying to pull it back.

And then – the vampire screamed.

A sizzling noise filled the alley.

“Let me go! Let me go!” He screamed.

The scepter was burning his hands. He couldn’t take them off.

Your mind didn’t register well everything that happened in the following seconds.

The moment you held it with both hands, it started to glow again – but in a different way than before.

The inscriptions started to glow. That same glow traveled from one end to the other – to the tip of the scepter; the image of the sun.

It started to shine.

The light was blinding. You had to tighten your eyes. It was hot hot hot hot, you almost dropped it on the floor, but something told you to keep holding it. So you held it with all your might. You felt a strange wave of energy flow from your body towards the scepter.

The little sun of the scepter shone, brightening the entire alley as if day turned to night–

And the three vampires yelled in agony.

They tried to cover their faces, tried to run away – but it was already too late. Their skin began to burn as if they were set on fire. Their muscle, their clothes, their scalp, their bones, everything was burning. The vampire that tried to grab it was the first to fall on the floor, agonizing, until he finally stopped moving. The other two screamed, yelled with nowhere to run. Their limbs were way too damaged to move.

You felt that your heart was burning, too.

Finally, the burning was too much for you to take. With a scream of effort, you dropped the scepter with a loud metallic noise and fell back on the floor.

The light extinguished.

You panted. You supported your body on your arms. Finally, the screaming stopped.

There were three dead vampires on your feet.

Their carcasses completely burned, unrecognizable. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Smoke clouded the alley.

You started shaking again.

What– What just happened?!

But then, you heard another tiny voice besides yours and you remembered that there was someone you still needed to take care of. You got up from the floor, not daring to touch the scepter again, tip toeing to avoid stepping over the bodies.

You knelt in front of Oliver and held him by both arms.

“What are you doing here at this hour?!” You lashed out. “Alucard told you to not get out at night!”

The boy sobbed.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry, m-madame,” he stuttered between his cries. “I-I-I was t-trying to help. I-I was t-telling people to g-get into their houses. I was already g-going back home…”

You wiped his tears with the sleeve of your blouse before hugging him. Tight. Oliver cried on your shoulder, his little body shaking against yours.

A hand touched your shoulder from behind – which caused you to gasp loudly.

Alucard had the most shocked, confused expression you’d ever seen. It was one of the rare moments when he wasn’t being subtle.

“What happened?” Was all he asked, but it sounded like a demand.

No no no that’s not what you should ask right now. Oliver is the priority.

The boy leaned away from you and you held his shoulders again. “Where do you live?”

He sniffed and rubbed his nose. His little face was all puffy and wet. “T-Two streets away from here.”

You got up and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Ruby–“

“Let’s go,” you interrupted Alucard. “I need to take him home.”

Take him home take him home take him home. Yes, this is what I need to do. This is all that matters.

You walked on a beeline with a rushed pace towards the exit of the alley – both the scepter and the piece of paper with your translations completely forgotten on the floor. Alucard followed you closely, but in silence. Oliver’s little hand was still shaking. You held it tightly.

After no more than five minutes of walking, he pointed towards his house. You leaned down and hugged him again.

“Don’t leave your house. Did you understand? Do not walk out under any circumstance. Tell your parents about it.” You repeated in a serious authoritarian tone you didn’t recognize yourself. Have you ever spoken that way before?

Oliver nodded and apologized again. Finally, he waved a last goodbye and entered the house.

It seems that you just started to breathe again when you heard the sound of the door locking.

A few seconds of silence went by.

“Ruby.”

You shivered and turned around.

Alucard looked down at you with frowned eyebrows. Was he angry? Oh fuck, of course he was angry. You put yourself in danger again. You did what you shouldn’t. You got out of the inn without his permission.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt your mission. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble for you,” you started while avoiding his gaze vehemently. Your fingers were trembling again; you hid them behind your back.

“Can you tell me what–“

“Oliver was being chased by vampires. I saw them running through the window and I couldn’t hold myself back. I’m sorry, I know you told me to not put myself in danger. B-But I couldn’t just stay still, you see?” You couldn’t shut up. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why was your voice shaking? “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“And then– the scepter– it did that thing again. I don’t know how that happened. It– it got so hot out of sudden, and then the vampires were burning too. I d-don’t know if I was the one to do it. I just didn’t want Oliver to die. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“You didn’t, Ruby.”

“Oh– I left if on the floor, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I put you through all the trouble of going back to the Louvre only to drop it at the alley. I s-should take it back. Oh! And I was translating the writings too. I think I dropped the paper… well, I wasn’t translating anything, I was just writing the words in our alphabet, and I don’t know it’ll be useful at all but I wanted to help somehow–“

“Ruby.”

The words got stuck in your throat.

Alucard cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him and nothing else.

He frowned. “You’re burning.”

You blinked rapidly. “What? N-No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it through the gloves.” Alucard used his teeth to take the glove off his right hand; he pressed it over your forehead. He was probably trying to help, but that action made you feel even hotter on the inside. “We need to do something about it.”

“No!” You blurted out. “No, there’s no need. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll heal. I always do.”

“Ruby.” He called again.

Alucard shoved the glove inside his coat and held your face with both hands again; he lowered himself slightly to get closer to your eye level.

“I am not angry at you.” He started in a slow and quiet voice. “You didn’t interrupt me. You did nothing wrong. But I need you to understand that you are spiraling, and I need you to calm down first.”

S… Spiraling? You were spiraling?

You gulped and nodded.

“Breathe with me.” He instructed patiently.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. You followed his slow pace.

Adrenaline dissipated in your bloodstream; your head got quieter again. Your heart stopped running and went back to walking. Your hands, however, were still shaking.

You lowered your head, desperately trying to avoid his gaze, when you felt tears well up your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a weak tone.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alucard’s voice was even quieter than usual… even gentler. He didn’t step away. His thumb caressed your cheek with care.

“I got so scared. I thought Oliver was going to die.”

Why did you even confess that? You weren’t sure; your brain wasn’t working properly anymore. But yes, that was true. You were scared of getting hurt – you were just used to pain, you didn’t like it – but you were even more scared of seeing that boy die in front of you. So small and so innocent and so familiar for some reason.

Why was that familiar? Why were you so confused? What the hell just happened?

You had no answer to any of these questions. All you wanted to do was cry at that moment – but not in front of him. Never in front of him; it’d be too humiliating. You wanted to step away, to have some space to recover. You wanted to hide from him.

Alucard had other plans.

When the first stubborn tear streamed down your cheek, Alucard pulled you closer to his body. His hands let go of your face; instead, he wrapped his arms around you. He was delicate. Hesitant, even.

Your face was then hidden in his chest.

Alucard didn’t say anything. Perhaps there was nothing he could’ve said at that moment, so he decided to act.

You froze at first. This… this was the closest you’ve ever been to him – at least while fully conscious, a proximity Alucard established willingly. You didn’t even know you had the right to stand that close to him.

When was the last time someone offered you comfort like that?

If it had happened before, you didn’t remember.

Slowly, your body melted under his. Your tense members softened. His sweet scent enveloped you. With much hesitance, you wrapped your arms around his body too, under his cape – and in the moment Alucard realized you accepted his embrace, he held you just a little tighter, a little more comfortable. One of his hands caressed your hair, while the other wrapped around your back.

You did your best to swallow any incoming sobs, forcing yourself to cry in silence. If Alucard even noticed you were crying, he didn’t show it. He just kept his arms around you protectively… affectionately. It made your insides feel warm in a way not even that strange scepter could.

None of you said a word, though there was much to be said. Both of you understood the gravity of what just happened. The three burnt carcasses were there at the alley, waiting to be inspected.

But that could wait for now. Nothing had the right to pierce through the small bubble of peace you shared.

You just stayed there in each other’s embrace for longer than your confused brain could register.

The bright full moon, reining sovereign in the sky, was your only witness.

[arkaiveofurown]

Between Thrones and Ashes - Part I

Pairing: Sabo x Celestial Dragon!Reader

Part 2 SOON!

A spoiled Celestial Dragon, used to getting everything with a snap of her fingers. A reckless Revolutionary, defying the world with every step. What would happen when their worlds collide?

tags: series, enemies to lovers

my masterlist here ♡

——

There were three kinds of people in Mary Geoise: those who served, those who groveled, and those like you—who never had to lift a finger unless it was to point at something you wanted.

You lounged on a throne-like chair, legs tucked beneath you, surrounded by an entourage of attendants. One brushed your hair with a golden comb. Another held a chilled drink to your lips. A third waved a fan carved from phoenix feathers, despite the temperature being perfectly controlled.

“It’s too quiet,” you sighed, snapping your fingers.

Within seconds, a pair of violinists emerged from behind a silk curtain and began playing something soft and expensive-sounding.

You rolled your eyes. “Not that again. Play the one I heard in the Rose Ballroom last week. The one with the sparkle.”

The violinists flinched. “Y-Yes, Lady Y/N!”

At your feet, two maids knelt beside your jeweled slippers, ready in case you decided to grace the corridor with your presence. Behind you, silent guards stood with their heads bowed, hands resting on the hilts of ornate weapons���not to protect you, not really, but to remind everyone else what happened if they disrespected a Celestial Dragon.

Not that anyone dared. You were a Holy Noble, a World Noble—one of the so-called gods who lived above the clouds.

You didn’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. Literally. A clear glass bubble helmet sat beside you on a velvet pillow, polished daily by the same maid who washed your sheets with milk and flower oil. You wore it any time you descended to the “lower world”—the Red Line or, heaven forbid, the Blue Sea below.

That helmet was your inheritance. A symbol of status. A barrier between you and the filth of the outside.

And you hated it.

You hated the way it fogged up your vision, made your nose itch, flattened your hair. It turned you into a walking snow globe, admired but untouchable.

“Lady Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you—your head maid, gentle and a little too observant for your liking. “Shall I summon the bathing fountain? Or perhaps the exotic pet parade? The squirrel-lions arrived from Totto Land this morning.”

You flicked your nails. “No. I’m bored of panthers. And squirrel-lions are so two seasons ago. Bring me something fluffier. Maybe from Wano this time. None of that North Blue trash.”

“Yes, my lady.”

A butler with graying hair and shaking hands stepped forward and bowed so deeply you thought his spine might snap. “You have a poetry recital scheduled in the East Wing with Saint Charlotte.”

You stared at him. “Cancel it. Tell her I’ve fallen into a sugar-induced coma.”

His face paled. “A-ah, very good, my lady.”

Once he scurried off, you laid your head against the silken cushions and closed your eyes. Everything smelled like perfume and honeyed tea. Too sweet. Too still.

You were surrounded by luxury—cherry blossom incense burning from dragon-shaped censers, fine gold-thread carpets from Dressrosa, imported desserts so rare entire villages starved to grow the ingredients—but it all felt dull lately. You didn’t know why.

Maybe it was just the silence. Or maybe it was the way no one ever spoke to you like a person. You were always “my lady,” never “you.”

Even your own family treated you like an object—something delicate and glittering that couldn’t be let out in the rain.

You liked nice things. Shiny things. Compliments. Attention. But you didn’t like cruelty.

No, you’d made that decision very early.

You didn’t own slaves like your uncles did. You refused to attend the Human Auction, no matter how many invitations you received. Your cousin called you “soft,” “silly,” “a girl playing princess instead of goddess.”

But you preferred your servants paid, your animals pampered, and your furniture not made from people.

You were spoiled, sure. But not evil.

“Lady Y/N,” the maid said again, “shall we prepare the sky garden for your afternoon nap?”

You exhaled. “Has it been re-perfumed with the jasmine fog?”

“Yes, my lady. As requested.”

“Fine,” you muttered, standing slowly. They draped you in a soft robe of sunspun silk and slipped your slippers on like a coronation. “Bring the strawberry milk. And the parasol shaped like a koi fish.”

As you were escorted through the palace halls, walking on plush rugs embroidered with family crests and history you didn’t care about, your slippers made no sound—just like everyone around you.

It was a life of softness. Of silk and silence.

And somehow, it was still never enough.

——

You walked, your thoughts drifting idly, as your entourage followed closely behind—just as they always did. But today, the weight of being constantly observed felt heavier than usual.

“Leave me,” you muttered under your breath, already irritated by their proximity.

“My lady?” one of the guards asked, stepping forward.

“Leave,” you repeated, sharper this time. “I wish to be alone.”

After a moment of hesitation, they bowed and scattered, disappearing behind the rows of hedges and fountains. Finally, silence. Alone, you felt the tension in your shoulders ease for a brief moment.

You were about to take a seat when a figure caught your eye—an unfamiliar face stepping out from behind a pillar, his presence unmistakable in the otherwise empty space.

You froze.

Without hesitation, you called out. “Who the hell are you?”

He didn’t flinch, but the slight shift of his eyes told you he’d heard you loud and clear. Slowly, he raised his head to meet your gaze, his posture casual, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes.

“Didn’t think I’d run into someone like you here,” he muttered, his voice smooth but with an edge. “This garden’s a bit too perfect for my taste.”

You stood taller, narrowing your eyes. “This is my garden. Who are you, and why are you here?”

He took a step forward, his hands tucked in his pockets, like he was in no hurry. “I’m just looking around. What’s it to you?”

Your gaze sharpened. “You’re trespassing. Leave.”

A small, almost amused smile tugged at his lips. “I’ve got a bit more time to kill, and I don’t take orders from people who think their titles mean something.”

You felt a flicker of anger in your chest. “You’re speaking to a Celestial Dragon. You think you can talk to me like this?”

“And you’re proving my point.” he replied coolly. “Entitled. Arrogant. Completely disconnected from reality.”

His eyes darkened, but his tone didn’t shift. “People like you hide behind power and titles. But all I see is someone who thinks they can walk around acting like the world owes them something.”

You could practically feel the judgment in his words, and it stung. The audacity. The arrogance. He was just another person lumping you in with all the other Celestial Dragons, assuming you were no different than the rest.

“You think you know everything about me?” you said sharply, stepping closer. “You don’t.”

He scoffed. “I know enough. You people don’t lift a damn finger unless it’s to point at what you want.”

“You don’t know me.”

There was a beat of silence. He looked at you for a long second—long enough to maybe question you, but not long enough to care.

“No,” he said flatly. “And I don’t need to.”

——

You stormed back into your private quarters, the doors swinging shut behind you with a thud. Your maids stood at attention, but you waved them off without a word. You didn’t want company. You didn’t want anyone. Not after that.

That man. That arrogant, presumptuous man with his sharp eyes and sharper mouth. Who even was he? How did he get in? And who had the nerve to speak to a Celestial Dragon like that?

You paced, arms crossed tightly, the hem of your silk robe dragging behind you. The words echoed in your head:

“I don’t need to.”

So smug. Like he knew everything. Like he had the right to judge you.

You didn’t own slaves. You didn’t scream at servants. You didn’t punish people for breathing too loudly in your presence. Sure, you were spoiled—what of it? You were raised with everything handed to you. That was normal. It didn’t make you cruel.

Still, his words lingered. The way he looked at you—not with awe or fear, but with… disgust.

You frowned, then marched to your balcony and leaned over the marble railing, trying to cool off. That’s when you saw him again.

Down in the courtyard.

You blinked.

The same man.

He wasn’t skulking around this time. He was just walking, like he belonged there. Like this place wasn’t crawling with guards who’d kill an intruder on sight. Except—there were no guards. You’d told them all to leave earlier. That was on you.

Your hands curled into fists.

Without thinking, you threw open your balcony doors and yelled, “You again?!”

He looked up, completely unfazed. “Huh. You live up there. Figures.”

You nearly threw your glass at him.

“What the hell are you still doing here?!”

He shrugged. “Walking.”

“This is private property!” you snapped. “You’re lucky I haven’t called anyone to throw you in the sea!”

“Then call someone,” he said calmly. “I’m not stopping you.”

You stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. “You’re asking to be arrested?”

“I’m asking you to think for yourself,” he replied coolly. “Not just fall back on the guards and the status and the stupid bubble.”

You clenched your teeth. “You are the most infuriating—!”

“Good. You needed it,” he said and turned to leave again, as if you weren’t worth his time.

You raced down the steps barefoot, fury boiling in your chest. You caught up to him in the next hallway, breathing hard. “You don’t get to walk around here and insult me like that! You don’t know anything about me!”

He stopped, slowly turning. “Then show me I’m wrong.”

Your chest heaved, but the words caught in your throat. You wanted to argue. Scream. Prove him wrong. But all you could say was:

“Why are you even here?!”

He paused.

A flicker of something crossed his face—calculation, maybe—but he covered it fast. “Because someone has to see what’s really going on behind these gilded walls.”

You blinked. For a moment, you heard more than just the insult. Behind these walls. As if your entire world—your life—was something shameful. Something fake.

Your brows furrowed. “You’re not just a trespasser…”

He huffed a breath, low and cold. “No. I’m someone who’s sick of the way this place pretends the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”

You bristled. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know enough,” he snapped. “I know what it looks like when people live in gold palaces and the rest of the world burns for their comfort.”

Something in your chest twisted—sharp and unwelcome. “You think I asked to be born here?”

“I think you’ve never questioned it,” he said, stepping in close, his tone still hard. “I think you wear that bubble helmet and walk past people like they’re decorations.”

You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. You had nothing to say—not because he was right, but because you didn’t know if he was wrong.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:

“…Then take me with you.”

He stopped dead.

“What?”

You stepped forward, voice lower now but steady. “If you think I’m just another sheltered noble, prove it. Take me outside these walls. Show me how wrong I am.”

He looked at you like you were insane. And maybe you were. But you held his gaze anyway.

“I don’t do charity,” he said flatly.

“Good,” you shot back. “I’m not asking for a favor.”

He let out a cold laugh and turned his back on you. “Stay in your palace, princess. You wouldn’t last a day.”

This time, you didn’t stop him. But your hands stayed clenched at your sides long after he was gone.

——

He disappeared around the corner, coat swaying behind him like a challenge. The hall felt too quiet without his voice cutting through it.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

No slippers, no guards, no reason. You just stormed after him, fists tight, steps echoing off the pristine floor. You caught him at the foot of the west garden stairs, already halfway to the lower terrace.

“Hey!” you called.

He didn’t stop.

You picked up your pace. “I’m talking to you!”

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder. “Changed your mind? Gonna summon your guards now?”

You reached him in three long strides and shoved his shoulder. “What is wrong with you?!”

He barely moved, just raised a brow. “You’re really not used to people saying no, are you?”

“I’m not used to people insulting me without even knowing me.”

“I don’t need to know you,” he replied, eyes narrowing. “I’ve seen what people like you do. How they live. That’s all I need.”

“You keep saying people like me,” you shot back. “But you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smirk. “Then why don’t you educate me, princess?”

You ignored the sarcasm. “You think I’ve never seen outside these walls? I’ve been to other islands. I’ve seen what the world looks like.”

He tilted his head. “From inside a bubble helmet and a guarded procession? Spare me.”

You stepped into his space. “You don’t scare me.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not here to scare you.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough to make you feel like the marble under your feet might crack.

“I’m here to make sure people like you don’t get to keep playing god while others die for scraps.”

You flinched. Just barely.

Then you gritted your teeth. “So that’s it. You see one noble and assume the worst. You’re not here for justice. You’re here for revenge.”

The look in his eyes changed. Just for a second.

You didn’t wait for an answer. “Fine. Go ahead. Run your little mission, spy on whoever you’re here to spy on. But don’t act like you’re some kind of saint. You’re judging me for things you’ve never even seen me do.”

He stared at you. Then finally—finally—his voice dropped to something almost thoughtful.

“Why are you following me?”

The question hit harder than it should’ve.

You paused.

“…Because I’m tired of everyone pretending I’m like the rest of them. And you’re the first person who’s had the guts to say it to my face.”

He studied you again. Longer this time. The edge was still there, but something behind his eyes shifted.

He turned away.

“If you follow me again,” he said, “you better mean it.”

Then he was gone—into the garden shadows, coat trailing behind him like a closing door.

——

Two nights passed.

You didn’t tell anyone what happened. Not the guards, not the maids. You just sat in your chamber, ignoring the pearls and silks they tried to dress you in, staring out at the edge of the garden where he vanished.

You met again in the garden. This time you didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He was already there when you stepped into the moonlight. Sitting on the edge of the fountain, arms resting loosely on his knees, watching the stars like they owed him answers.

You stood a few feet away, arms crossed. “You’re brave. Coming back again.”

He looked over, that same amused expression twitching at his lips. “Or maybe I was waiting to see if you would.”

You stepped closer. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“And you still haven’t kicked me out.”

You huffed. “Don’t mistake that for kindness.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He straightened up, facing you fully. His voice dropped, not threatening—just serious. “Why are you really talking to me?”

Your fingers tightened over your arms. “Because I want to. Does that bother you?”

“No. But it surprises me.”

You stayed silent.

He kept watching you. “Most Celestial Dragons wouldn’t waste a second on someone like me.”

“I’m not most Celestial Dragons.”

He tilted his head. “No. You’re not. But you still live like one.”

You bristled. “Is that your problem with me? That I have more than you?”

He leaned forward slightly, voice steady. “No. My problem is you don’t question why.”

That hit harder than it should’ve.

You looked away, swallowing the flare of shame before it could rise.

“I didn’t ask to be born into this,” you muttered.

“Neither did the people you’re standing above.”

The silence stretched again.

Then, quietly, you said, “I don’t own slaves. I don’t hurt people. I don’t even let my guards punish the staff. That’s more than you expected, isn’t it?”

He blinked. It was the first time you’d seen his expression falter.

“No,” he said after a pause. “But it’s not enough.”

You stepped closer, now only a foot apart. “Don’t pretend you know everything just because you’ve seen the world from a gutter.”

He didn’t flinch. “And don’t pretend you understand it just because you’ve read about it in books.”

Your eyes locked.

Neither of you moved.

Not a breath of wind between you, but the air crackled—tension, challenge, and something else. Something neither of you dared name yet.

You spoke first. “You’re infuriating.”

“So are you,” he said, almost fondly.

But then the fondness was gone, hidden again under his calm.

You took a slow breath, your words coming out carefully. “I want to leave here. Just for a while. I want to go with you. See what it’s really like out there.”

His brow furrowed, the surprise barely visible in his eyes. “You want to go with me?”

You nodded, your voice soft but firm. “Not forever. Just… I want to know what it’s like beyond this place. What it means to be free. I’m tired of being stuck in here.”

He regarded you for a moment, silent. “You don’t think it’ll be dangerous?”

“Maybe,” you said, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “But it’s better than staying here.”

He stood, taking a step closer. “I can’t promise it’ll be easy. You won’t be able to go back to the way things were.”

You didn’t flinch. “I don’t want to.”

He studied you for another long moment. Finally, he let out a small sigh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Is that a yes?” you asked, almost daring.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. For a while, at least. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A small grin tugged at your lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The tension between you two lightened, just slightly, but it was enough. Something had shifted, and maybe for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were about to do something real.

——

You managed to make some excuses—said you needed time alone to reflect, maybe take a short trip to another island for a change of scenery. It wasn’t perfect, but it would work for now. No one would question it for a while.

“Just don’t get caught,” He warned, his gaze sharp.

“I’ll be careful,” you assured him, feeling the tension of sneaking away for the first time in your life.

The night air was cool against your skin as you and the man you met slipped out of the luxurious estate. You stuck to the shadows, careful to avoid any patrolling guards. The further you got from the center of Mary Geoise, the lighter the weight on your chest felt. For the first time, the shackles of your title seemed miles away.

“You sure you’re okay?” He asked, glancing at you.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steady though the uncertainty still lingered in the pit of your stomach. “It’s just… different. I never thought I’d actually leave.”

He let out a low chuckle. “That’s the point. You don’t need to stay tied to something that’s never been yours to begin with.”

He offered a knowing smirk. “You’ll get used to it. Trust me, there’s more to the world than your gilded cage.”

As you walked side by side through the quiet streets, your thoughts raced. You were outside the walls, a step closer to freedom, but the fear of getting caught still gnawed at you.

“Are we really doing this?” you asked, mostly to yourself, as you glanced back toward the estate.

“We are,” He replied without hesitation. “No turning back now.”

You gave a small, shaky laugh. “Guess not. So, what’s the plan? How do we get out of here without making too much noise?”

His eyes flickered ahead, and for a moment, you could see the strategist in him, calculating the safest route. “We’ll take the back roads to the nearest port. I’ve got a ship waiting. After that, we’ll decide where to go. But for now, the less attention we draw, the better.”

You hesitated. “You’re sure no one will notice I’m missing?”

“They might, eventually,” He admitted. “But we’ll be long gone by then.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his expression softening for a moment. “Don’t worry. You wanted out. This is your chance.”

Your stomach flipped, excitement and fear mixing in equal parts. “And what happens if I want to go back?”

His smile was small, almost unreadable. “When you’re ready, we’ll figure it out. But right now, focus on getting away.”

The two of you continued walking in silence, the weight of your decision sinking in as the walls of Mary Geoise receded into the distance. It wasn’t a perfect escape. There were too many risks. But for the first time in your life, it felt like you were doing something for yourself.

The world beyond those walls was waiting. And you were finally free to explore it.

[k-nayee]

In Silence, In Strategy The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

wc: 3.3k a/n: been a while since I uploaded and decided to go ahead and post this beaut. hope y'all like!!

Traveler M.List

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

You awoke to the sound of knocks—three precise taps against the heavy mahogany doors of your room.

The sunlight was already breached the tall latticed windows, pouring across the cold marble floor in gentle gold.

Morning had arrived without permission.

The door creaked open before your voice could find shape; three maids entered. Always three of them. Always silent except for what was necessary.

They moved like ghosts dressed in soft Capitol blue, each step echoing in the hollow space of your suite, their presence already set in motion.

“Morning Miss Ithecian,” the eldest said gently, carrying a steaming porcelain cup of tea, head bowed with a grace that still felt like mockery when it came from Capitol tongues. “It’s time.”

You sat up slowly without word. There was no need to respond—they would carry on regardless. Their hands knew what to do, and your body had long since learned to surrender to their rhythm.

You stared ahead as the morning ritual began.

One maid, small and soft-fingered, took off your sleeping bonnet with reverence, setting it aside before moving to your hair. She began to undo each twist by hand, fingers working with a practiced rhythm—unraveling each coil, combing from the base to fluff out volume, smoothing a light moisturizer between each pass.

Another began unlacing the night-corset you slept in, tugging at the back with firm efficiency. She pulls your nightgown off and lets it pool to your feet, exposing the soft, unblemished expanse of your skin.

A scent of  jasmine and neroli clung to you, the lingering trace of last night’s bath oils still strong.

The third maid approached with a polished black box cradled in her arms. When she lifted the lid, a faint shimmer of silk caught the morning light—unnecessary indulgent silk line the inside to protect the day's uniform like it was heirloom glass.

You raised your arms without a word, allowing the blouse—pure white, short-sleeved with gently puffed shoulders and a stiff starched collar—was drawn over your head.

They buttoned it from the front with care, smoothing it flat down your chest before carefully pinning the blood-red tie beneath the collar. Affixed at its center was the brooch: your family’s crest—a ship with a serpent carved along the hull. It glinted faintly, silent and watchful.

The red pleated skirt came next; drawn up your hips and fastened at the side with an invisible hook. It fell just to the knee, precise in length, every crease pressed as if by law. The black stockings—soft as breath—were rolled up your legs by practiced hands, their silken texture catching briefly at your knees.

You step into the lacquered red Mary Janes waiting near the foot of the bed. The silver buckles caught the light as the maid knelt to fasten them, one after the other. Sweet, prim, and perfectly Capitol—just not in the way they intended.

It was all so silent. So expected. So utterly empty.

And yet, somewhere in the quiet, while fingers threaded and zipped and tied, memory surged.

You were seven the day your world burned down in District 2.

The air then had smelled of ash and iron. Screams replaced the lullabies. Fire raging through the streets where your home had once stood.

Your family—a unit built on intellect and precision—was obliterated in the opening shadows of the Dark Rebellion.

Your mother was a tactician revered even in the Capitol’s oldest circles. Your father, a publisher of encrypted texts and wartime treatises that generals still quoted today. Your older brother a genius who could blueprints for silent drones even before he was allowed to drink. And your sister...she could dismantle any machine and rebuild it faster, stronger.

Gone. All of them. No graves. Only cinders.

You survived. Pulled from rubble by hands not your own.

And even now, years later, seated in the finest quarters of the Capitol, with maids dressing you like a prized pet, you could still hear the crackle of that fire.

Still feel the smoke clinging to your lungs.

Still remember the way your mother screamed your name one last time.

And yet the Ithecian name had outlived them. A name inked into Capitol archives—etched into theory, warfare, invention.

Their books—dense with strategy, science, and social critique—still sat on government shelves, in university vaults, quoted at banquets by those who only half-understood them. Strategy guides still bore your grandfather’s notes. Your grandmother’s philosophical analysis On the Human Element in Calculated Risk was required reading at the Academy.

When your family died the Plinths had taken you in—coddled and secured within their towering estate like a priceless artifact rescued from war to raise alongside their son Sejanus.

Capitol children never let him forget where he came from. They sneered at the Plinths’ wealth, earned not over generations but during the war—built in blood and iron, in weapons forged when the Capitol needed more death dealers.

But you—even tainted—were born of legacy.

They couldn’t ignore that.

But they still tried. They hissed at the mentioning of you. A title of 'District-flavored royalty' becoming the new synonym to those who found even speaking your name to be below them. A Capitol girl with District soot in her bones.

And yet they didn’t truly challenge you.

Because deep down, they knew. Your family had taught theirs how to win wars.

Your reflection in the glass stood tall and flawless, a porcelain doll of ancient brilliance and current suspicion.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The grand staircase curved like an unfurled ribbon as you descended with composure, its marble steps glistening with the morning light that poured in through the domed glass ceiling.

Soft sunlight streamed through windows dressed in gauzy cream drapery, the scent of fresh citrus, toasted bread, and something floral from the garden seeped into the air.

At the sound of your polished heels meeting the floor of the dining atrium, Mrs. Plinth looked up from her cup and practically lit with delight.

“Sweetheart you look stunning,” she gasped, rising half from her chair as though drawn by sheer affection. “Like a painting come to life.” Her smile crinkled the corners of her powdered cheeks, glowing with such open pride it nearly outshone the sun.

You smiled back, warm but measured. Always warm with her. It was easy.

Sejanus stood too fast; his breakfast knife clattered from the sudden movement.

“Y-you always look amazing!” he blurted, voice cracking slightly and breathlessly. He was dressed in his academy issued uniform—a stark contrast from your personally tailored one. His curls were slightly damp, as though he’d rushed his bathing to be at the table before you arrived.

Mr. Plinth, predictably, didn’t rise. But he glanced over the top of his paper with a grunt that somehow managed to carry weight and approval in equal measure. “Capitol royalty if you ask me.”

You offered a nod, another smile—this one smaller but genuine—and took your place beside Sejanus. “Thank you.”

On the table, long and elegant with its cherrywood gloss, was a second tea service with more additions than before: a plate crustless cinnamon toast bites, a small bowl of honey (not sugar) to sweeten the beverage.

They remembered. Of course they did. This household had your patterns and tastes memorized.

The Plinths didn’t merely raise you. They adored you.

From the moment you were brought in, small and silent, ash still clinging to the hem of your coat from the destruction in District 2, they had welcomed you like a long-lost daughter.

Your father and Strabo Plinth had shared more than business; they had shared philosophies, theories, a bond forged beyond where the weight of one's lineage determined status. Your mother and Mrs. Plinth had written to each other with the intimacy of sisters—discussing recipes, book edits, secrets about courtships,  and the burdens of intellect.

So when the fire took your family there had never been a question of what came next. You belonged with them.

As you reached for the cloth napkin—

“Miss Ithecian,” a maid suddenly appears. “Your gloves.”

You paused at her words and glanced down at the folded coverings. They were silk, black as ink and custom stitched.

Before you could reach out and grab them Sejanus intercepted. “I don’t mind!” he said, voice softer now, almost shy. “I can...if you’d let me, I mean.”

You turned slightly in your seat, angled toward him. He was still flushed at the cheeks, trying not to look too proud of himself for speaking up. Something flickered behind his eyes—something devoted, something a little scared.

You had seen that look before.

When you were both younger and he scraped his palms climbing trees you dared him to climb first. When he held your hand at your family’s funeral and refused to let go until you told him to.

You didn’t speak. Just slowly lifted your hands out to him—palms down, fingers soft and open.

Sejanus' breath caught. Just barely. But you felt it.

With great care he took the left glove first then guided your hand inside. Silk slid over your fingers, smooth as breath. He adjusted each finger, tugging gently to perfect the fit at the wrist with feather-light precision. Then the right.

His eyes stayed fixed on the task the entire time, touch brushing against your knuckles with reverence.

“There,” he whispered once it was done. “Perfect.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Thank you, Sejanus.” You went back to your tea as he preened beside you.

Across the table Mrs. Plinth sighed with thinly veiled delight. Mr. Plinth had returned to his paper, but he wasn’t reading. You could see the faint smirk behind the page.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Plinth resumed talking, as she always did—gossiping softly about daily news: a Peacekeeper’s daughter caught sneaking out with a performer... the fabrics arriving from the outer cities.... new peace treaties being proposed.

Mr. Plinth didn’t comment. He was absorbed in his paper, as usual, occasionally flicking a page or snorting at a statistic. But he’d lean slightly toward you when a name or topic of interest appeared, as if waiting for your opinion before forming his own.

Beside you Sejanus nudged his plate in your direction.  “Here,” he said lightly, “take the [favorite fruit] slices. You like them better than I do.”

He always did that—offering his toast when yours had cooled, or nudging the berries he knew you liked closer to your side.

You took the [fruit] slice from his plate and took a bite.

Sejanus beamed.

It was easy, sometimes, to forget how much he idolized you.

He looked at you like you were made of sun and stone. Like he would carve his whole world to fit around yours if you asked. Even now, his gaze would drop when you looked directly at him, as if overwhelmed by being seen.

You remembered, once, when you were children and he'd tried to catch a scorpion beetle for you—simply because you'd pointed at it once and said it was beautiful.

He got stung. His hand swelled for days. And yet he didn't cry. Just smiled at you like he'd do it again.

Sejanus wasn’t a strategist. He didn’t think in moves and countermoves. He was good-hearted, idealistic, easily led.

Easily guided.

That made him useful.

The quiet notion of marriage had never come from the Plinths.

It was your family, back when they were still alive, who first floated the idea. They had seen it clearly: the softness in him, the blind loyalty, the eagerness to please.

To them the path had been obvious. If the Ithecian name was to survive—if your lineage of thinkers and builders was to remain more than myth—it needed power behind it. Wealth. Status.

And Sejanus, sweet as he was, came with a family whose vaults had grown fat on the spoils of war. A family who'd earned their fortune by hammering weapons for the Capitol during the darkest years of rebellion.

The marriage had been suggested—not for love, but for legacy.

If she chooses it, your mother had once written to your father, let her. She will steer that house without ever raising her voice. The boy adores her. She’ll never have to force him.

And she was right.

You could have had it all. The name. The empire. The keys to the Plinth dynasty, just by curling your fingers and letting Sejanus put a ring on them.

The Plinth fortune in Ithecian hands. You as the bridge between intellect and resource.

But you had a soft spot for Sejanus.

He was your best friend—your constant, your emotional tether in a city of masks and poisoned smiles. He gave you half his breakfast without a second thought. He laughed at your rare jokes like they were the best things he’d ever heard. He kept your secrets not because you demanded it, but because it never occurred to him not to.

He loved you.

You didn’t want to break him to make him obedient. You didn’t want to rule by sheer force of will, even if you could.

No.

You would sit beside him. Whisper in his ear. Let him think the ideas were his, when they had been born in the quiet corners of your mind the night before. You would never dominate. That was not the kind of power you wanted.

And so you sipped your tea, gloves on, posture serene as Sejanus steal glances at you like you were the first snowfall of the year.

And you let him.

*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The silver tray with empty cups and plates was whisked away by servants as Mrs. Plinth busied herself, fussing with delicate speed as she retrieved two satchels from the standing coat rack by the front foyer.

She was glowing. Practically vibrating.

“Oh my stars, look at you two,” she cooed, clutching the bags to her chest for a second like she might burst with emotion. “First day—for the both of you! I can hardly stand it.”

Sejanus stood by the door, shifting excitedly from foot to foot like a dog waiting for a walk. He grinned as she pressed his bag into his arms, brushing invisible dust from his lapels for the third time since leaving the breakfast table.

You moved to meet Mrs. Plinth as she handed you the bag marked with your family’s sigil—an older emblem, gold-stamped and faint from time, but intact. She tucks a straying curl back as if you were still a child, though you barely blinked.

“There,” she murmurs, a glint of quiet pride in her eyes. “A picture. The very future of the Capitol.”

You gave her a gracious nod. She meant it. You could tell.

The driver was already waiting at the base of the marble stairs—hat tucked low, posture straight beside the open back door of the sleek tinted car. The Plinth insignia gleamed on the doors.

Mrs. Plinth followed you to the steps, her hands light on your backs as she rambled. “Now I packed extra water in your side compartments. And a little tin of biscuits. Sejanus don’t eat hers before lunch. I mean it!”

He flushes at the accusation. “Ma!”

You turned to her just before getting in, dipping your head in gratitude. “I’ll make sure he behaves.”

“Oh I know you will,” she replies with a wink.

The car slowly began to drive away as you sank into the leather seat—the scent of clean leather and citrus polish enveloping you, the window shielding you in that comfortable tint.

Sejanus was already talking before the vehicle had fully merged into traffic.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, bouncing slightly in his seat. “You’re actually coming to school! Like really coming! I mean I always said you should, but I didn’t think you would. Everyone’s going to lose it. No one even believed me when I said you’d be enrolling one day. They thought I was making it up just to get attention.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of your mouth twitching.

He caught himself. “Not that it matters what they think. But still! This is going to change everything. They’ll see. Once you’re in the classroom, they’ll see.”

You listened. Not nodding out of agreement, but habit. He didn’t notice the difference.

He kept going.

“And I can’t wait to introduce you to Coriolanus! He’s...a little intense sometimes but I think you’ll get alongI think. He’s sharp. Really sharp. You two would talk circles around everyone.”

Your face stayed still. Almost.

Just a faint shift in your brow. A tightening behind your eyes.

Snow.

You’d never met him. Never exchanged a single word. But you knew more than enough.

You’d watched from the silence of your room when he visited, footsteps echoing against the marble floor outside your door.

You never came down. You listened instead. Noticed how Mrs. Plinth’s voice changed slightly when he was around. Noticed how Sejanus laughed too loudly, always trying.

But it wasn’t the boy that caught your interest—it was his shadow.

So you researched; quietly and strategically. Just as your parents taught you.

You traced his lineage back through redacted records and archived mentions. The Snow family—a name steeped in once-glory—now dripping in desperation.

You knew about the penthouse he clung to—its fading grandeur polished daily to hide the rotting edges. You knew about his mother dying while giving birth to him, his grandmother who spoke more to the past than the present, and the cousin who stitched his clothes by hand, pretending not to notice when he grew thinner each season.

And oh did you know about him.

A Capitol boy born with nothing left but pride. Raised with entitlement but no cushion to soften the fall. A creature of careful smiles and sharpened hunger.

Coriolanus Snow didn’t trust anyone because he couldn’t afford to.

You respected that. But you didn’t trust him either. Especially not with Sejanus.

“He’ll love you,” Sejanus was saying again. “I just know it.”

You let a beat of silence pass. Then another.

“He sounds...charming,” you murmured finally, your voice flat as glass.

Sejanus grinned, oblivious.

You’d grown up in the shadow of great minds. Your parents taught you to read people the way they read schematics. To learn their flaws by how they talked about themselves. To listen for what wasn’t being said.

That’s why you stayed silent.

That’s why, every time Coriolanus had come to visit the Plinth residence—and he had, more than once—you’d remained in your room.

Not out of fear. Not out of disdain.

But control.

You needed to watch from a distance. To understand the shape of the threat before engaging.

And now you would be stepping into the same space as him. Deliberately.

Your first real public appearance.

The Capitol's gossip vines had already tangled with your name for years:

A Plinth by adoption... An Ithecian by blood... The girl behind the glass.... The one who didn’t go to parties... Who stayed home during galas... Who vanished up the stairs whenever guests arrives....

Now you were showing yourself. In uniform. In flesh.

The Plinth car turned the final corner, coasting down the final slope toward the Academy’s grand front steps where the building loomed, pristine and imperial. Even through the tinted glass you saw them—the students.

They noticed the car immediately.

Faces turned as a ripple of speculation passed through the crowd.

Sejanus reached for the handle. “Alright, let’s go—”

“I’ll wait.”

He blinks, hand pausing mid-air. “Wait? Why?”

You kept your voice soft and measured. “I’d rather enter with a professor. Less...pressure.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

Sejanus relaxed instantly, concern melting into understanding. “Oh. Of course. Yeah. That’s totally fine.”

He smiled again, hopeful and warm. “Me and Coriolanus’ll be waiting for you alright? You don’t have to worry.”

Your lips pressed together, unreadable. “Go.”

And he did.

He stepped out into the Capitol air and closed the door behind him with a click, already scanning for Coriolanus, heart on his sleeve.

You stayed behind, watching as the students part around Sejanus—some acknowledging him with smiles laced in politeness, others barely hiding their disdain.

You saw the curiosity bloom on their faces as they peered toward the car again, wondering....waiting.

But you made them wait. Because control was power. And you’d never let them see you before you were ready.

Not Coriolanus. Not the Academy.

Not anyone.

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Perfect!!! I was hoping if you could write for the platonic 10th and 11th doctor based on a daughter/teen reader who did this prank on them

https://youtube.com/shorts/uLKf1HRsQSM?si=rQvqmLkFeJ84oilZ

Love your writing btw♥️♥️♥️♥️

Figured since this won't be too long of a fic, I can respond to the message and post the fic down here all at once :) hope you enjoy it love as well as all my other fabulous Whovian readers out there. Even though Matt Smith is MY Doctor, I decided to have the reader be David Tennant's companion since Clara will be featured in this fic and I think in a way, reader is like 10th's Clara where she can tell certain things about her Doctor that he tries to keep hidden away.

Cheekiest companion ever

10th and 11th Doctors x teen reader ft. Clara Oswald

Taglist:

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels

@waddles03

@plethora-of-things

@remussl0vers

@queen-paladin

@psychosupernatural

____________________________________________________

It's one thing when you travel with the Doctor, it's another thing when you've got three of them in one place. Now normally you'd think there'd be the whole 'cataclysmic of space and time collapsing. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey' or whatever but strangely at this moment, there wasn't any of that.

I mean after all we did just save the world from destruction from both Zygon's and helping to save Gallifrey instead of letting it burn. I could also see through my Doctor's eyes that after forgiving his past self that both he and his future self had both tried to hate and forget about, there was relief on his face. Like a heavy burden had been lifted and both of them could finally move on.

We were having a small victory celebration with drinks and cakes just outside on the deck of UNIT HQ.

"Another day saved, another job well done." my Doctor's future self praised as he picked up his cup of tea.

"With some help of course." Clara said sipping her own tea.

"Though quite honestly these two could do it without our help, we're just here for the ride along." I said.

"Oi now, if not for your brilliant idea on getting the humans and zygons to forget who was whom, this whole city would be nothing but a crater." My doctor said as he gave me a nudge.

"So negative she is. You sure she's one of my previous companions?" asked future Doctor.

"She can be rough around the edges but she's a keeper." said my Doctor as he ruffled my hair.

"Oi now you two leave the girl alone." Clara reprimanded.

"Yeah since when is this gang up on (Y/n) day? It's bad enough I get it from you now I have to get it from your future self. Speaking of I've been wondering something."

"What's that?" asked my Doctor.

"You two though different in face and personality, share the same DNA, the same cleverness and settle battles with no weapons other than your Sonic screwdrivers."

"I've told you before (Y/n), the Sonic screwdriver isn't a weapon, but a tool."

"Yeah, yeah Doc I know but my point is this. Which of you two could say is the strongest?" I shrugged.

"Well you've seen and heard what I can do so obviously it's me." said my Doctor.

"Now hold on just a minute, did you get to handle dinosaurs on a spaceship? Oh that's right no you didn't." said the future Doctor.

"That's rubbish!"

"No it's all true! Triceratops. Sweet girl, lovely creature and fiercely loyal. Until she died sacrificing herself for me and some crew members." the future doctor looked down solemnly. "Plus I had to hang onto the side of the TARDIS as UNIT had forced us here right when this mess fully started, I'd say that also requires some stregnth."

"Child's play. Try hanging onto a bar railing while an alternate dimension portal is opened up forcing every Dalek in the entire world to said dimension."

"Alright ladies break it up." Clara stepped in trying to separate our two doctors.

"I think I know how we can settle this. Clara, grab those four juice jugs over there and I'll get some of the plates." she nodded and we headed over to the table. "Anybody got any thread?"

"I think there might be some in the TARDIS from your last needle work you did with Queen Elizabeth." said my Doctor. I snapped my fingers in remembrance and quickly raced inside the TARDIS and looked around until I found some good thread. I came out with the thread and went over to Clara as I tied the two jugs with each end of the thread.

"Alright Doctors step forward." they got up and walked over toward us, same manner of footing and everything. "Oi I swear I feel like I'm in the Twilight zone seeing you to be 100% in sync." I muttered before saying, "Now then, you two are going to hold these two jugs of juice for as long as you can. The catch is though, each few seconds you'll be added some more weight with these plates. Clara you handle your Doctor and I'll handle mine. Whomever can hold the weights for a full three minutes is the winner. Sound fair?"

"Yeah, fair with me. Fair with you?" asked my Doctor.

"Plenty fair, get ready to lose though sandshoes."

"They're not sandshoes!"

"Oi argue later ladies." i heaved as i held up the two jugs of Kool-Aid and handed them to my Doctor who briefly let out a breath from the sudden weight but kept a firm hold on his juice jugs. Clara's doctor did the same thing and i began stacking the plates before dividing them up evenly and handed them to Clara.

Bit by bit, we slowly added the plates onto each of our Doctor's hands.

"Impressive, you two are hardly breaking a sweat." I praised.

"Well when you've done as many travels as me, you pick up a thing or two." boasted my Doctor.

"Does that include your non-English phrases and words? I mean really, where did you get timey-wimey from?" said future Doctor.

"I'll have you know......"

"You do make up a lot of words Doc. I'm sorry but you do. I once said that silly little phrase to my nan once and she looked at me like I had grown a second head." I told him agreeing with his future self.

"Okay now last plate in three.....two......one." both Clara and I placed the last plate and soon both doctors were not only holding two heavy jugs of Kool-aid tied to thread, but also seven plates each.

"Alright, two minutes have already passed now for the piece de resistance." I went over and grabbed the two pieces of cake that were left and placed them on top of each Doctor's plate. "Now to make things much interesting, I want you two to close your eyes."

"What?" they both chorused out.

"Sensory depravation forces another sense to grow stronger. In this case I wanna see if your sense of touch is gonna either help you or not. So c'mon eyes shut."

"Demanding little thing, isn't she?" muttered future Doctor.

"You don't know the half of it."

"I can hear you yah know right?" both Doctors shut their eyes and I waved my hands in front of their faces to ensure they weren't going to open them. I smirked and quickly ran towards my pack that was near the table and pulled two pairs of scissors. I handed one pair to Clara and placed my finger over my mouth to have her be quiet.

I then mimed out as I pointed at my pair of scissors and pointed at the jugs before acting like I had been caked in the face and made a disgusted face before wiping the fake icing off my face. Clara's face went wide as her jaw dropped but I shushed her again as I gestured her to go to her Doctor while I went to mine.

We both placed our scissors over the thread over one of the jugs and she looked at me as I mouthed out.

'Together on three.' holding up three fingers. She nodded as I slowly counted down on my fingers. One.....two.....three. Together we both cut our thread pieces which forced both jugs to drop which forced our Doctors to get their respected pieces of cake shoved straight into their faces.

Clara and I soon ended up on the ground laughing so hard we both could barely breathe.

"Oh yeah, now I definitely remember her." Future Doctor said as he wiped the vanilla icing off his face while my Doctor wiped the chocolate off of his.

"She's someone you really can't forget. Probably one of the most cheekiest companions we've ever had."

"And don't you two dunderheads ever forget it." I said after my laughing fit.

[battyaboutbooksreviews]

Insta | Storygraph | Literal | Goodreads

🦇 This Is How You Lose the Time War Book Review

❓ #QOTD If you could travel to any time or place, where would you go? ❓ 🦇 Among the ashes of a dying world, an agent of the Commandant finds a letter. It reads: Burn before reading. Thus begins an unlikely correspondence between two rival agents hellbent on securing the best possible future for their warring factions. Red belongs to the Agency, a post-singularity technotopia. Blue belongs to Garden, a single vast consciousness embedded in all organic matter. They have nothing in common, save that they're both the best, and they're alone.

🦇 What began as a taunt, a battlefield boast, grows into something more. Something epic. Something romantic. Something that could change the past and the future. Except the discovery of their bond would mean death for each of them. There's still a war going on, after all. And someone has to win that war.

💜 This novella burrowed soft seedlings deep within my bloodstream, sprouted saplings that tangled my mind in a war waged on time, and left me blossoming, tears brimming in my eyes. Red and Blue's slow burn, sapphic romance is compelling, imaginative, dizzying, and disastrous; a beautiful collaboration I hope will breed many more. Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone ensnare you from the first page; their prose takes root DEEP and stays. I'll be nursing this book hangover for a while yet. Once Red and Blue are mentally (and in some ways, physically) intertwined, they bloom purple, their dueling prose uniting into a timeless, ethereal poetry. No real world could contain this story, but the pages of this book did well to contain their love. It's difficult to say more without spoiling the story's potency. No review I could write, even given a thousand threads or lives, would do it justice.

💙 I've made a mess of highlighting this one, each line lending to the next. However, I will say there are some references that left me unable to fully appreciate a well-written line (my own problem, really). I would have appreciated more information about the time war, the Agency, and the Garden, but it's not really necessary when the story's true focus is the blossoming rivals-to-lovers slow burn romance between our protagonists.

🦇 Recommended for fans of Killing Eve (imagine them as time-traveling pen pals and you have Red and Blue's story).

✨ The Vibes ✨ ❤️ Time Travel 💙 Sapphic Romance ❤️ Steven Universe Vibes 💙 Sci-Fi ❤️ Rivals to Lovers 💙 Slow Burn ❤️ Poetic Prose

💬 Quotes ❝ There’s a kind of time travel in letters, isn’t there? ❞ ❝ I want to be a body for you. I want to chase you, find you, I want to be eluded and teased and adored; I want to be defeated and victorious—I want you to cut me, sharpen me. I want to drink tea beside you in ten years or a thousand. ❞ ❝ Listen to me—I am your echo. I would rather break the world than lose you. ❞ ❝ I have built a you within me, or you have. I wonder what of me there is in you. ❞ ❝ I love you. If you’ve come this far, that’s all I can say. I love you and Iove you and I love you, on battlefields, in shadows, in fading ink, on cold ice splashed with the blood of seals. In the rings of trees. In the wreckage of a planet crumbling to space. In bubbling water. In bee stings and dragonfly wings, in stars. In the depths of lonely woods where I wandered in my youth, staring up—and even then you watched me. You slid back through my life, and I have known you since before I knew you. ❞ ❝ Dearest, deepest Blue— At the end as at the start, and through all the in-betweens, I love you. ❞ ❝ “Some things matter more than winning.” ❞

[perpetualdaydreamerr]

Upon the Eternal Shore: An EPIC the Musical Fanfiction (Chapter 14)

Snippets of the 7 years Odysseus spent with Calypso.

---

CONTENT WARNING: heavily implied r*pe, non-con, victim-blaming, emotional abuse, PTSD, self-harm, suicidal ideation/attempts, descriptions of violence. Please consider before reading.

---

Day 2,519

-

The sensation had returned to his body slowly. His limbs had felt untethered to the world, light and disconnected. This is what death is like, he’d thought. The quickfooted Hermes would soon appear and help lead him to the depths of the Underworld. His eternal resting place, familiar as a frozen dream now realized.

But it hadn't been. Though he'd accepted death, digested it, it was not the fields of Elysium nor the fires of Tartarus that met him. Rather, it had been the glittering eyes of the goddess.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she’d whispered.

He wasn't entirely sure how long he'd been lost to the water, how close he'd truly gotten to surrendered peace. The fates, in all of their cruelty, hadn't yet split his thread.

From then on, she never let him out of her sight again. Every ounce of obsession that had plagued the early days of Ogygia was back. She was convinced of his incompetence, his inability. There was no more choice of eating, or drinking, or sleeping. The goddess maintained all of it at a mortifyingly sufficient level.

Cognition returned to him like a virus. His hands still trembled, but not from lack of nutrition. Fat, and water, and memory all slowly developed in his body.

He could hear the voices again. They hadn't ever truly left, not entirely, but now they were loud, clear, distinct. The hell of the night was never eclipsed by the day. Even as the sun took its place in the sky, they still tortured him.

His mother, with her voice like a wailing crow, perpetually begging for his return. He recalled the ghastly look of grief that clung to her once beautiful face. He could still see it now, when he dared to close his eyes. Incorporeal as she was, every detail had been visible. Her wide, glistening eyes. Her wrinkled, hanging mouth. Every inch of her skin contorted by the melancholy that had killed her. Her son knew that she still wailed for him, roaming about the underworld in her agony.

She wasn't alone. Her voice only melted into the chorus of his men. All 600 expired. Soldiers from the island he'd never return to. Some older, some angrier- but all present, all 600. Drowning, and dying, and screaming for their captain.

Their wives waited for them. Their wives, weeping like his mother, grieving for husbands that rotted in the depths of the ocean. Boys and men he'd led off to die in one terrific band. He'd put the javelins in the hands that had clawed at the tides, hopelessly fighting the wrath of a god he'd provoked.

And the infant of Troy, who allowed him no sleep. His cries echoed in the hours of twilight, like a newborn left alone. His delicate, desperate wails that would ricochet off the marble, burn into his ears. The boy prince whose carcass would've been engulfed in the vicious flames of the city. A price paid unnecessarily. Another reckless cost, one that paid for nothing but further torture from the gods. Every sacrifice he'd made, insufficient, just another mockery. Sacrifices that wrought their revenge now.

Every day, one loud chorus, an orchestra of misery, ever reverberating in the crevices of his mind. Screaming, suffering, dying, all around him upon the eternal shore of Ogygia.

-

The nymph was insistent that he was exposed to sunlight every day. Her food, her teas, and the kiss of the sun would heal him, she’d vowed. The misery would eventually wither from his body. He only had to trust her.

But as they paced up the shore in the early hours of the afternoon, he thought only of Penelope. She never appeared in his nightmares. She never joined the manifestations of the past that he encountered. His bride, absent from his mind, unless specifically thought of.

He could see the day he left more clearly than the sand in front of him. The way she'd placed his helm atop his head with trembling hands. In many ways, she'd been stronger than he was that day. Come back to me, she'd said. She'd sat their infant son in his arms. The weight of his decision to leave was no more than 10 pounds.

He'd advised her to marry again if he didn't return. Though he loathed the idea of another man beside her, he knew then and now that she'd be safer with a husband to protect her. It had been nearly twenty years. Surely she'd had the wisdom to understand that by all conceivable metrics he was most likely dead. In all probability she had found another husband, perhaps conceived children by him. His wife, now another’s. Himself, the eternal playmate of a goddess.

They continued east towards the edge of the island. It went up in elevation, and another man might've noticed just how lovely the pines and fruit bushes were. Calypso commented on them. Rambled on about the significance of the flower bushes. He offered her no company, instead trying to recall the exact color of his son’s eyes.

The landscape became less green as they continued on. At the very edge of the island, the green faded to gray as the stone covered cliffshore overtook the forest. At this time of day, the sun was high and glistening, uninterrupted by foliage at the highest point of Ogygia. His shadow, long and dark, trialed behind him as they neared the edge of the cliff. The sea was visible again, and the familiar stir of soldier’s whispers began anew. The water, their home, forever. Today, it was a droll hum. Subtle but persistent, a buzz that jittered from the depths and tumbled across the island in a wave. Captain, please, Captain, please… A chorus, rehearsed, undying.

His eyes slowly raised to the goddess. She was speaking beside him, her lips moving, but her words inaudible. Her eternal beauty shone in the light, unchanging from the very first time he'd seen them. She looked happy. His eyes traced her face, searching for any semblance of discomfort. For any of the same misery he endured.

But there was none. In this moment, all he could detect was perfect, simplistic satisfaction. He couldn't understand it, how she could enjoy this reality in any capacity.

“You can't hear them,” he realized in a hushed whisper. Odysseus stepped forward, nearing the edge of the cliffside. His eyes admired the rocks below like treasured gemstones. The ones nearest the sea glistened in the sunlight. Dancing pearls dotted their sharp edges.

“Hear what, my love?”

He'd unintentionally cut himself on the rocks more than once when he was still developing his map, years before. Sharp and jagged, they were the only feature of Ogygia that could easily provoke physical suffering. They lay on the far east of the island, the logical endpoint if one looked down from above. The endpoint set by the gods themselves.

The merciless gods, who had chosen this place as his grave. Mockingly beautiful. There was nothing left to do but accept it.

As a young boy, he'd dreamt of the adventure that would one day await him. Maidens to save from treacherous monsters, hidden treasures hidden away on isles far from Ithaca. He was convinced by his wit, by his proficiency in battle, that one day he would achieve something greater than all of the Greek heroes his mother told him about.

In the end, he had been correct. He had met a suffering that even the grieving Achilles and prideful Jason had avoided. Time. Enough time to realize all that had been given, and all that had been taken away. No glorious death would befall him. No hymns would be sung in remembrance. But the aging man had surely garnered a just reward. One that he paid slowly, day by day.

Perhaps it was his pride that had awarded him such a fate. The pride that compelled him to bellow his name to the cyclops, the pride that had persuaded him to choose his life over dozens more. This could've been the divine punishment, years of humility under the thumb of a nymph.

Or perhaps there wasn't such a direct cause. Maybe the Great King of Ithaca suffered because long ago a young goddess was unable to betray the father whom she loved. Because the gods were too prideful to award her any mercy. Because he was the type of man who couldn't bear to surrender the idea of his family for an infant of Troy, or wisdom, or the remainder of his fleet. Because he’d met the eternal loneliness of a goddess damned for choosing the wrong side of a divine war. Because time and space had aligned just so, and he happened to wash up upon her shore. Because Calypso was too desperate, and he was too powerless. The perfect culmination of events that fell together and left him here.

"You're the only thing in the world you can control, son,” he felt the familiar bite of his father's wisdom come to him in the breeze. Whispered words from his youth, returning all at once.

He couldn't control Calypso, or the tides, or time. The only semblance of power he had was over his limbs, his heart, his mind. Over seven years he had fought, tried in vain to use them to bid himself rescue. To return to his darling Penelope, his unknown son. Every game of wit had been quelled, every chance for escape denied. There was only one left.

“You’ve said, a thousand times over, that I could have anything I ask of you,” the voice that left his throat was not his own. Foreign and hoarse, aged far beyond the physical years he'd endured.

Odysseus reached for the delicate hands of the sea nymph. He took them in his own, holding onto them as if they were a lifeline.

Her dark eyes widened, sparkling with the rays of the sun. “Of course, my darling,” she answered swiftly, nodding her head fervently. “Anything.” Lovesick glee encapsulated her ever widening smile.

The King of Ithaca sunk down slowly onto his knees. His hands clutched onto hers. “Allow me to fall on these rocks and die, Calypso,” came the shallow whisper of the man. “I've served your loneliness for almost a decade. I know that there's compassion in your heart, some sort of affection for me. If you love me, if you truly do, you'll allow me to fall onto the rocks. Please."

The face of the goddess contorted with horror as he spoke. Her joy, melting into despair. “I know you've suffered terribly, my sweet love, but you don't know what you're asking for,” she replied in a flurry, shaking her head. “Allow me to heal you, Odysseus. It's been seven years, and yet you still fight me. How could you ask me that?” Her voice was raw with dejection. Pained, confused frustration painted her words.

“I should've died long ago, goddess,” he insisted, shaking her hands in his’. “I've evaded death over and over again, but it's been waiting for me. Let me go, please.”

“It's a miracle that you didn't die,” she insisted, caressing his hands in hers. “A miracle, Odysseus. The gods willed you to survive Troy, and the cyclops, and everything else- so that you could be here with me. Your suffering is over as soon as you let it go, my sweet man.”

He tried to find reason in her eyes. Some shadow of understanding tucked however deep. But as he looked up, he saw only glass. A barrier between their souls. She was entrapped by her fit of delusion. The gods had stolen not only her freedom, but her sanity. He saw them, looking up at her, that she truly believed all that she said. Seven years had not shaken her belief.

Hatred had fed him for so very long. A deep loathing that gave him purpose, a sense of determination to carry on. He had hated the goddess. But as he saw her now, he felt the familiar detestation abandon him. He wished he could cling onto it, to hold her with such disdain that he could make sense of all that had happened. But the pain in her eyes offered him no sustenance for it.

The mastermind of Troy pulled himself up to his feet again. There was no breeze. He stepped nearer the edge.

A name came to his voice like a long forgotten whisper. The mentor of his youth. Athena. She'd uttered her final goodbyes years ago. A goodbye forced after his ignorance with the cyclops. He thought of her now, saw the gray of her eyes in the rocks below. “Lady Athena, my patroness, have you forgotten me?” he bellowed into the depths, his voice echoing across the expanse of the horizon.

“Odysseus, get away from the ledge!” Calypso ordered, her previously timid voice growing quickly in intensity. He felt the boundaries of her eyes conceal him.

He recalled the way her eyes used to soften when he was a boy. When he'd fall and injure himself during training, she'd offer him her hand, immortal though she were, humble as he was.

The Wise Lady had stood with him through Troy, all ten terrible years.

And now, on the shore of Ogygia, the goddess had abandoned him. Left him in a fate worse than whatever else could've befallen him. In all of her pride, in all of her vanity, her beloved soldier had been left in the arms of a vulture.

His voice came out in a cry, a desperate, terrible cry. “Take the rest of my life as an offering, but spare me from this fate, Athena Soteira!”

With every fiber of himself he cried to her. He'd once dismissed her council, damned his entire fleet because of it. Regret shook in his arms, even as Calypso bound his tongue. He cried out with his spirit, his soul, richoting between humble pleading and violent desperation.

It would only take a second, a brief intrusion of mercy. She could snap the spell of the nymph, allow him to fall to his death.

The rocks would issue a final gift of mercy. Death would finally meet him. A loving reunion with a savior he'd fought against for so many years. Patient, loving death. The remnants of his body would drift into the water. Perhaps some miniscule part of it, by a gift of the tides, would wash up on the shore of Ithaca. That sliver of him would be reconciled to the sands of his homeland.

He wouldn't demand that now. All he wanted was to fall, for the stifling noise to silence. He stared at the rocks, longed for them. He hung limply in the air, tongue and limbs paralyzed. Forgotten, or mocked by the gods, a puppet, frozen in the air.

-

Link to other chapters

[sunflowerromcom]

would you consider writing rebecca telling ted about what happened to her when she was younger with the paparazzi from suddenly?

Hello there!

Actually, I did write this scene in Suddenly! I'll post the snippet here for you until you can read the whole fic, which hopefully won't be too long from now.

“Anything you want to do today?” he asked before drinking the last of his coffee.

She arched an eyebrow, and he chuckled at the look in her eyes. “Oh, do you mean besides my husband?”

He laughed. “I mean, I won’t complain if that’s the only thing you want to do.” It wasn’t like they could go out and do all the touristy things like most normal folks on their honeymoon. He didn’t mind much. He’d rather stay inside, and give her that homey, domestic slice of life where he could show her how loved she was that she hadn’t had with her former husband. After taking the last bite of his eggs, he rubbed her thigh affectionately. “Isn’t this the fashion capital of the world? You want to go shopping or anything?”

“Oh, no,” she said, waving her hand between them. “That’s okay. I’d rather just stay here with you and laze about. I have enough clothes at home as it is.”

“Even fancy new shoes? I know you love those.”

She smiled, but it seemed forced.

His brows furrowed. “You alright?”

She shook her head while picking a piece of nonexistent lint from the duvet. “It’s silly, really.”

Reaching over, he took her hand and thread their fingers together. “Nothing silly if it’s bothering you.”

She let out a breath, her eyes cast down on their hands. “It’s nothing…”

It wasn’t nothing. That much was clear. “Rebecca, honey, you can tell me.”

She set her cup of tea aside and he did the same with his plate, his hunger forgotten.

She moved closer and took his hand again. She traced her finger over his knuckles. He waited, not wanting to push her. “When I was younger… I was—a man grabbed me and almost... Sass and I were teenagers. We were shopping. I had my security, but we thought we were invincible, and we were reckless for it. We left a store and were swarmed by paparazzi. There were so many cameras, and everyone was shouting. Someone took my arm. I thought it was Walter, Roy’s father, at first, so I let him pull me away…”

“Holy shit, Rebecca…”

“It wasn’t Walter at all. But some... man. He didn’t get far. But he took me around the corner, and he grabbed me by the hair when I tried to run, but I stomped on his foot with my heel and punched him in the nose. By then my security was there and got me away and they held him until the police took him.”

He reached up to brush away a tear. “Please tell me you had on a pair of your fancy heels?”

“I did. And I’ve worn them ever since.”

“Come here,” he said, tenderly drawing her against him.

“I’m okay,” she said with a long exhale, her arms wrapping around him despite her words. “It was a long time ago.”

“I know, but I still wanna hold ya for a minute.” Ted didn’t believe in violence, but the white-hot anger he felt toward the man who hurt her burned bright in his gut. If anyone ever tried to touch her, he wouldn’t hesitate to protect her. Taking a deep breath, he pressed a kiss to her brow. He felt her hand caress its way up and down his back, and he had to smile at the way she could read him so well. That she knew he needed the extra bit of comfort. What they both needed was a distraction. “How about we go watch a movie in that fancy theater of ours? I think it might behoove us to watch some movies of the Disney variety. That way, when our munchkin gets here, we’ll have all the songs memorized.”

The side of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I think that sounds perfect.”

[firstwcman]

Lilith's return to Hell, regardless of the method of how, is never as comfortable a return as she would like it to be. Being imprisoned within Heaven for seven years was seven years of being exposed to the unabashedly raw presence of holy energy day in and day out. She is an ancient Infernal of great power and status, so it does not effect her as much as it would the regular demon, and honestly the consistent consumption of her husband's angelic blood since her first turning has aided quite a lot as a shield against the hallowed presence. But still, that consistency had its effect on her; since her return to Pride, the re-introduction to the Hellish environment has made Lilith quite sick. What has been absorbed in her skin for all these years is having a very bad reaction and is dragging her down for an ugly ride.

The Queen's body feels like it is burning, and her temperature - normally always very chilling - is actually through the roof in high numbers. She is sweating, she is nauseous, she is experiencing bouts of disorientation, and her body is feeling old aches from the fall that had been long since forgotten acting up - the last holy affliction that had been done to her person. Hypersensitivity to hellfire and the natural glow of the Rings can flare up at any time, leading to the necessity of wearing sunglasses.

She is absorbing Hell and its ambience again, and her body is sweating out the blessed radiation gradually. She is recovering! As much as Lilith would like however, she cannot jump headfirst and eager into Hotel activities - she is present, and she is fitting her way in until she does land her role as the Hotel Witch (where she will be mostly / fully recovered). But in-world timewise, she is a little out of commission for responsibility for a little over three months.

What helps alleviate and speed her journey along through the illness is exposure therapy to Hell itself. Going out, meditating in the Palace Garden, spending time outside. In terms of consumption, re-introduction to drinking Lucifer's blood - albeit in slow and incremental amounts - helps a great deal, along with a consistent diet of natural hell grown produce and native creatures (fruit, vegetables, juice, fauna - nothing like fast food or snacks, she has to be on a strict diet like this until she is back on her feet). Belphegor is prescribing her a medicine that would make Heaven recoil; harvested dark energy in capsule form. Or powder, to mix in with her tea!

When Lilith is well enough, she will be going on a vacation throughout the other Rings to fully crash course with the full energies of the Realm. Her longest stays are going to be within Lust and Gluttony, both of which will be a month's long visit. This is absolutely an excuse to visit with Asmodeus and Beelzebub daily to catch up with her babies.

This sickness I will play with in threads that involve her fresh return to Hell. More settled-in threads where she has been established for a while is where she will be fully recovered and back in action.

[capsensislagamoprh]

The ice cold wetness of a dream melting into the abyss seemed to echo thrugh the threads of the weave, dripping musty agony into the sleep of the young boy. No amount of silk sheets or soft bedding could take away the physical reaction of his calling. His body burned. He could see the bright, golden light of the warmest, most welcoming spring creep along the edges of his nightmares, turning the pleasant gloom into a bright morning. The closer he got to catching it, the more it glittered, radiating daylight. When finally his hand went to touch it, the sounds it made an angry caress, he felt something try to take him over. Try to squish that light like a fire fly, spreading its glowing guts in a florescent streak, soaking it in, turning his flesh from ashen black to bronze.

The boy knew this hand. Knew this clawed, jagged thing that pretended to be him. It was him. It was what used to be him. Samhain.

He was Samhain. He had been created to let the mortal world interact with that of the Dream. He was how they survived the harshness of winter, faced the terror of death, lived into the next breath of life. With out him... with out Samhain there was no way for things to have meaning. Only reason. With out him the world was orderly and neat and sterile in its brutality. When he was born from humility, kindness, wonder, possibilities, the world of the gods was made visible to humankind. The gods played tricks on their mortal worshipers; mischievous to the last. Their tricks were fraught with danger, charged with fear, and full of supernatural episodes. Which is why the mortals created this body, this form and it's unwavering abilities. This was the importance of him, of Samhain.

And that light? That glowing summons at the edge of his dreams the previous body tried to capture? Tried to becomes? That was his other half. That was Beltane, the eternal flame of life itself. He was the fire of rebirth that blessed the fields, animals, and community, and maintained the wary, careful balance between the human and faery realms. A veil of unimaginable fragility, burning all who touched it. Survive and you could access the Dream. You could access the great power of Samhain. Many thought the Hero protected mortals, and there for the dream. This was a lie. Beltane was his shield, and with out him, without his bright, glimmering beauty, Samhain would be left bare, unable to protect the very essence of Dream. Need. The boy, tangled in the silk sheets, felt himself manifest the vorpal blade. Felt his armor form on his sweat soaked skin. He could feel his steed calling to him. It cried for battle. His very being whispered into the dread, looking for the essence of Beltane, trying to find that distant light. It was as natural as breathing. It would be so easy to look into the horizon of Dream and see which direction he needed to go to find him.

Go, whispered the shadow, tempting him with death soft whispers. Find, tempting his body with the thoughts of action. Yours to claim, it smiled into his ear. Take, like a pleasant refrain.

The boy suddenly jerked upward, his wakeful mind still lost to dreams. "NO!" Moments latter the au pair rushed into the room, feeling his heated head, cooing and making fuss. Otabek had fought back the Darkness in his dream. It rewarded him with a vicious case of chicken pox. ---- The boy shook, his fervor high. Golden locks soaked with sweat stuck to his head in limp trendels as his dadushka applied cold compresses, urging him to drink tea, sip a little broth. He'd had the flu for over a week, each day worse than the last. Nikoli took the Yuri to the hospital, got the medicine, diligently insured every instruction was followed. It wouldn't let up

Nikoli thought if the sun would just shine, if the snow and grey skies would let up, his vnuk would get better, stronger. Rising, he left Yuri's side to get fresh, cool water for him to drink.

In his fitful sleep Yuri could see a dark, forbidden place waiting for him to explore. It promised wonder and excitement, it offered acceptance and unconditional love. It threatened to meet his fire with calm, his anger with comfort. It offered to be what it was, and to respect what he was in return.

Yuri was tempted.

He felt himself fly at the edge of the shadowed place, trying to get it to come play. It seemed for a long moment that it might. It certainly seemed to want to, but it didn't. Yuri tried to taunt, to tease, to entice. He could feel a longing coming from that cool, welcoming place. It seemed to reach for him, and he was happy. Then it stopped, struggled, the shadows becoming darker than night, pulling in light, swallowing it whole. It frightened him.

The gentleness in the dark place pushed Yuri forcefully away, flicking its will against the wind, letting his small form fly with ease. When he was back in the safety of the warmth of summer, he tried to see what was going on in that gloomy place. For a moment he saw someone standing there, stopping something vile from spewing forth. It began to glimmer in the darkest shades, taking on the form of stories his dadushka told, of the brave people from the T.V. He heard something whispered from the repulsive place. It was threatening to open old scars, to rip open his soul, to bare his mind and feast.

Yuri knew fear.

And then that darkly glimmering being called a single, discordant note. The dream shattered and Yuri was free, his fever breaking. Above him, Nikoli looked relieved, reading a thermometer by the first rays of dawn.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24, part 25, part 26, part 27, part 28, part 29, part 30, part 31

[abdullahblog2023]

Winter Warmth: Fire | Tea | and Songs of Memories

When winter engulfs the place with its coldness, those moments arise that make the heart beat with a special warmth that can only be described in its small details. The scene of the dancing fire in the fireplace fills the room with a dim light that sways with the glow of the burning wood. The sound of the crackling of the broken wood inside the fire flows like old musical notes, bringing to mind memories carried by cold winds from the depths of time.

On a round wooden table next to a comfortable chair, a cup of warm tea rests. Thin threads of steam rise from it, as if they were messages carrying the scent of tea to fill the place with a scent fragrant with tranquility. The cup is not just a drink in this scene; it is an invitation to relax, and a companion for moments of thought that swing between the past and the present.

Next to the cup, an open book lies as if calling you to complete the story woven by its pages. Its pages carry the scent of ink mixed with the scent of winter, telling old tales or conveying ideas enveloped in an atmosphere of nostalgia.

In the background, the sound of the wind outside creeps in quietly, playing a harmonious piece with the sound of the fire and the songs of memories. These are not just songs heard, but rather those inner dialogues and hidden voices that awaken on quiet winter nights, igniting the fire of memories as a fireplace does with wood. Every detail in this scene conveys a deep sense of inner peace, as if the entire universe is conspiring to give you a moment of pure harmony. “Winter Warmth: Fire | Tea | and Songs of Memory” is more than just a description; it is an open invitation to return to yourself, where warmth and tranquility lie in the smallest details.

[gctchella]

Lilith's return to Hell, regardless of the method of how, is never as comfortable a return as she would like it to be. Being imprisoned within Heaven for seven years was seven years of being exposed to the unabashedly raw presence of holy energy day in and day out. She is an ancient Infernal of great power and status, so it does not effect her as much as it would the regular demon, and honestly the consistent consumption of her husband's angelic blood since her first turning has aided quite a lot as a shield against the hallowed presence. But still, that consistency had its effect on her; since her return to Pride, the re-introduction to the Hellish environment has made Lilith quite sick. What has been absorbed in her skin for all these years is having a very bad reaction and is dragging her down for an ugly ride.

The Queen's body feels like it is burning, and her temperature - normally always very chilling - is actually through the roof in high numbers. She is sweating, she is nauseous, she is experiencing bouts of disorientation, and her body is feeling old aches from the fall that had been long since forgotten acting up - the last holy affliction that had been done to her person. Hypersensitivity to hellfire and the natural glow of the Rings can flare up at any time, leading to the necessity of wearing sunglasses.

She is absorbing Hell and its ambience again, and her body is sweating out the blessed radiation gradually. She is recovering! As much as Lilith would like however, she cannot jump headfirst and eager into Hotel activities - she is present, and she is fitting her way in until she does land her role as the Hotel Witch (where she will be mostly / fully recovered). But in-world timewise, she is a little out of commission for responsibility for a little over three months.

What helps alleviate and speed her journey along through the illness is exposure therapy to Hell itself. Going out, meditating in the Palace Garden, spending time outside. In terms of consumption, re-introduction to drinking Lucifer's blood - albeit in slow and incremental amounts - helps a great deal, along with a consistent diet of natural hell grown produce and native creatures (fruit, vegetables, juice, fauna - nothing like fast food or snacks, she has to be on a strict diet like this until she is back on her feet). Belphegor is prescribing her a medicine that would make Heaven recoil; harvested dark energy in capsule form. Or powder, to mix in with her tea!

When Lilith is well enough, she will be going on a vacation throughout the other Rings to fully crash course with the full energies of the Realm. Her longest stays are going to be within Lust and Gluttony, both of which will be a month's long visit. This is absolutely an excuse to visit with Asmodeus and Beelzebub daily to catch up with her babies.

This sickness I will play with in threads that involve her fresh return to Hell. More settled-in threads where she has been established for a while is where she will be fully recovered and back in action.

[jagellicn]

When the world burns, drink tea | Adelaide & Mariana

The world was going to Hell. There was no other explanation to what was currently happening. The world was either ending, descending into Hell or was going through a purge, because this... if the situation had not been as dire, it probably would have been comical ( there was nothing comical about death, but she was numb - too numb to care ). Since the world was going to end, she thought it would be a swell idea to find herself a decent, comfortable seat, a nice cup of tea ( it was still too early in the evening for a glass of gin, but Gods above and below she was tempted to get herself one - and a tall one ), and some company. Since the world was about to burn anyway, she thought there would be some poetic justice in it, if her companion had the hair made of flames, living embers cascading down her back. Of course, she had already met and spoken to Teresa Trástamara, but she did not meet the elder sister yet - so, why not now? As if timing mattered anymore.

Adelaide had sent word to the eldest princess ( a title she herself used to bear, but nooo. her deceased brother just had to have a child - and the said child just had to conveniently reanimate herself in the most opportune moment possible ) to join her for a cup of tea and indulge in a conversation or two, and she was rather pleased that the woman accepted. Setting up a nice little soiree for herself and Mariana Trástamara on one of the secluded terraces, Adda strolled towards their rendez-vous point, clad in black with silver and gold adorning her head, ears, neck and fingers - she was rarely dramatic, but the situation required it of her and she would hate to disappoint. She had reached the spot in time to notice the princess striding towards her. Fixing her face in a polite smile ( the best she could muster given the circumstances ), Adelaide greeted her; “Ah, princess. I hope you do not mind the setting. My chambers were a little depressing at the moment, and I figured we could use the privacy of the terrace. Rarely anyone comes here at this hour.”

@lovelesslettrs​

[unhealthyfanobsession]

Alright so I almost never have WIP’s but Nesta as a witch has been consuming my thoughts for so long now and so I’m pulling a @vidalinav and posting this little peak into a fic. Enjoy!

Luminescent grey eyes sprung open on the witching hour, consciousness pulled out of her body like a thread from a sweater. Nesta’s body always had been timed to the moon. Of course, where that statement had once been a giggled explanation from her sister to explain Nesta’s insomnia, it was now a literal truth. Now that magic coursed through her veins instead of blood. Magic that called to the moon. When midnight crested high and bright in the sky, she woke to greet it.

The soft caress of spiderweb silk sheets tangled with and then swiftly fell away from naked, youthful, ancient limbs.

Even Nesta didn’t know how old she was anymore, but whatever arbitrary method of counting time these humans were now using certainly could not account for the smooth, tight, pale flesh that stretched across ancient bones.

Bare feet padded over maple bark soft floors, one hand lifted, calling the silver chalice she had forged and tied to the essence of her once human soul too many lifetimes ago to count.

As it did every midnight, the glorified cup floated through the air, dragging through a boiled over cauldron of moonbeam tea before settling in her outstretched hand.

Nesta did not even pause her movements through the little space. She sipped her tea and waved a hand so that the twisting vines concealing the door to her home retracted and let her out.

Bare feet sunk into dry, soft dirt and Nesta lifted her face to the sky.

Silvered moonlight splashed across every inch of her exhausted, naked, body and brought energy anew.

The moon.

The only source of life brave enough to run pale hands across the mystic walls of her body.

Boastful, golden sun could have easily reached its rays into this patch of stolen forest, but it chose not to.

Spring green grass could have grown true and bright to cushion Nesta’s footsteps in the space around her home, but it chose instead to shrivel up beneath the dirt.

Worms could have wriggled through the earth,

Butterflies could have soared through the sky above,

But they did not.

The living world paused around this place.

The witch’s cottage.

A soft hum pulled it’s way out of Nesta’s throat as she lifted the chalice to her lips. Drinking in the moon as it drank in her. Absorbing its power as she did every midnight.

Tonight was special, though. Tonight her skin did not just awaken, it glowed.

She could feel herself illuminated by the full moon, power rising and crashing against the weak prison of not quite mortal flesh.

Rising,

Rising,

Risin-

Snap

Nesta’s head turned slowly to the side, hand already uplifted to bend apart the solid bark of trees the intruder was trying to hide behind.

“I didn’t believe them.” The intruder was nearly the size of the tree he tried to cower behind. Silver moonlight danced across deep black hair and contrasted starkly with golden eyes. Golden and green. The colours of sun and earth and warmth.

“You do not belong here.”

The man swallowed. Nodded slowly, but took careful steps foreword anyway. “I’m here to see you. I heard… you could help.”

“You heard wrong,” Nesta stated simply. Only managing to hold back the power that sparked at her fingertips because of a grudging appreciation for the way his hazel eyes remained trained on her own.

He did not leer at her naked breasts or linger upon her moon bright skin.

When her body was human, even encased in scratching cotton and long skirts, the men she knew only looked at all the wrong places.

Good men of virtue who tried to burn her for awakening their own temptation.

Desirable female flesh was only witchcraft when it was not available to powerful men.

“Please,” the man bowed his head reverently and Nesta nearly gasped as he took a step forward and bright, lush, grass sprung up from the dirt where his boot had been. Nothing had grown so close to her in centuries. “I found an old journal of my grandmother’s. You… I think you helped her once. And I am hoping you can help me.”

Nesta looked at him more closely now. The deeply golden brown skin, light brown eyes chorded through with emerald green, hair so black it sucked in moonlight.

Yes, she remembered his grandmother. Had it really been so many years since the beautiful girl had sought her spell? How short were tragic human lives that Nesta felt as if the girl had come last week and yet here stood her very much adult grandson.

Nesta had fond memories of that girl. Her mission was one that Nesta approved of and she had rejoiced in the spell she crafted for her. Were it a granddaughter and not a grandson who stood in front of her, she might have helped.

But through centuries and lifetimes and vast oceans of magic, Nesta had always stuck to one cardinal rule.

“I do not help men.”

[professorthaddeus]

Mother, Father. This will be my final letter.

You know, I used to find the two of you everywhere. I would see the love I betrayed in the faces of families who are whole. I would hear your terrified screams in laughter. I would see your bodies twisted in agony in the flickering of a campfire. I would feel your blood on my hands every time I cast a spell.

I would find you everywhere, and so I held fast to the possibility that I would bring you back.

Today, I relinquished the chance of it ever becoming a reality.

I could have gone back and saved you. It would have worked. There were puzzle pieces in that chamber that I would have clicked into place; there was magic buried in those relics that I would have unlocked and unleashed.

I would have joined the ranks of mages of myth. I could have unraveled everything.

The chamber is nothing but ashes now.

I still find the two of you everywhere. Your dreams for my potential are in the spells I learned from Essek. Your hope for the Empire is in Beauregard’s pen as she fights for our people, stroke by stroke. Your love is in the grin that Veth shines on her son when he fires a toy crossbow at the ass of a local shopkeeper.

I miss you. I love you. I am sorry.

I hope I can still make you proud.

~

Caleb closes that worn, leather-bound book for the last time. Tucks it back beneath his arm, stands, walks to the entryway of his tower. His hand shakes as he reaches for the handle.

Well, you and the Nein got me to the door. Now I have to walk through it.

He takes a deep breath, then takes his first step outside.

He arrives in Blumenthal alone, visits their graves, leaves his letters in the ground.

And he gets to work. But in this, he is not alone.

Beauregard is there, matching every armload of books he carries with two of her own. They spend their days compiling records and narratives, wielding the truth both in court and behind the scenes—children of the Empire leaving their home better than they found it for the children who will come after them, just as they always vowed.

What wasn’t planned is this: a couple times every week, Beauregard drags Caleb out of the library. They teleport to a remote cottage in a location that few are privy to, where Yasha will have started preparing the ingredients for a new recipe from Caduceus. The instructions are often passed through a jumbled chain of Jester’s messages, and there always seem to be a suspicious number of bugs included for supposedly vegetarian dishes, but they make it work all the same. On more than a few occasions, Caleb plays referee while Beauregard and Yasha spar, safe in the knowledge that their attacks are of their own free will and they will never truly harm each other again.

Jester and Fjord spend much of their time on the open sea, but Jester’s voice is never far from Caleb’s ear. She tells him of everything from her newest tattoo victim to an encounter with a dragon turtle with a grudge, from a shanty about dicks she came up with on the fly to an update on a young half-orc girl Fjord has taken under his wing. Every once in a while, Jester will demand a reunion, too. Some of them are out of necessity—such as when Uk’otoa finally comes knocking and Fjord can no longer sail the other away—but many are not. They meet in Nicodranas when the Nein Heroez docks for a pastry run, they meet in Hupperdook for a night packed with drinking contests and celebone sticks and hugs for Kiri, they meet on Rumblecusp when life becomes too much and the nine of them sorely need to fuck off to a vacation. Soon, even Darktow is open to them, once Kingsley has unseated the Plank King and lifted their ban from the island. His reign is long, and it is magnificent. Until he grows bored.

Caduceus joins them for every mandated reunion, but for the most part, he tends to his garden or explores the world on his own. But he is never out of reach, and when he does not come to the rest of them, they go to him. It is not uncommon for Caleb to arrive in the Blooming Grove to see Beauregard already meditating by the pond. Other times, Fjord will be there drinking tea with Caduceus, and the three of them will share a quiet conversation, each far more secure in their words than they’d been over fish and chips all those years ago. Often it is just Caduceus and his parents and siblings, and Caleb will be invited to a family dinner in a home that Ikithon could not burn down.

Veth remains a constant in Caleb’s life. Of course she does. Sometimes, when the two of them are teaching the neighborhood kids how to point a copper wire, or reminiscing over a glass of sherry, or simply talking while she weaves flowers into his hair on the beaches of Nicodranas, he’ll think back to his old fears of losing her to her family and laugh. After all, how could such a thing be possible when he is a part of her family himself?

There are others, too.

Countless students who pass under his tutelage and grow into young mages who know that power should be used to protect, not to manipulate. A cat—well, there are many cats, but there is one in particular that Caleb does not own, a snowy white fey cat who slinks in and out of his classroom as he pleases, whose eyes seem to flash when the Martinet arrives to have a word, who settles into place around Caleb’s shoulders with a purr when the rare nightmare returns.

An unexpected kinship with Yeza, forged at first through mutual respect and an understanding in their love for Veth, but eventually growing into a friendship in its own right. It is one that unfolds in quiet nights by stacks of books, in gleeful debates when comparing notes on magic and alchemy, in exhausted evenings watching over Luc together while Veth takes a girls’ night out to cause some chaos with Jester, Beauregard, and Yasha.

His old friends, who, try as they might, never seem able to sever the threads that have always tangled their fates together. It is Eadwulf who comes around first, with the silent offering of a bottle and a grim smile as he and Caleb crumble the bricks of Vergesson to dust. Astrid takes time. It makes sense—she has always been a fantastic dancer, and for a while, it appears they will be trapped in a precarious political tango forever, stepping around each other in their roles as the Archmage of Civil Influence and a simple teacher who may or may not be practicing treason in his classroom. But in the shadows, Astrid pulls a few strings to keep Caleb out of prison. Caleb hears a rumor and sends the might of the Cobalt Soul after a colleague who wants Astrid dead. And eventually, she begins joining him and Wulf on their evening walks through the streets of Rexxentrum. They return to the dance hall. They get lunch. They share memories, relearn each other’s old scars, and discover that solace can still be found in each other the way it was when they were children. It will always be complicated. It starts to become beautiful.

And of course, floating by Caleb’s side every step of the way is Essek, a drow who has learned to curb his ambition and care for others, who has decided to make his own amends. The former Shadowhand to the Bright Queen, who now spends his days picking up cupcakes for Jester in Uthodurn, planting seeds in the Blooming Grove. Sitting in on Caleb’s lessons with a different face each week, sketching runes into the floor of Caleb’s home amongst scattered papers and spell components, curling up on a couch beside Caleb and begrudgingly getting through Tusk Love because he promised. A traitor, a hero, a lifelong friend. A steadfast love.

So when Caleb Widogast arrives at the final page of his story, he is no longer shrouded in guilt, or grief, or regret. No, he is surrounded by the warmth of his chosen family when he takes his last breath, when time has run its course and he is finally ready to meet his parents again.

(And even before he sees their faces, he knows. He knows he made them proud.)

—————

also on ao3 | my other cr fics

[dearsnow]

SELFSHIPS

current fav: johnny <3

The Quarry

[dylan lenivy] - mercury.

- beachboy (mccafferty)

INCLUDES

↳ mario kart sessions, nerding out while talking about our interests, making playlists for each other, joking back and forth, trail mix (we eat the bits the other doesn’t like), stargazing, bug spray, him teasing me for caring too much, dove coconut dry shampoo, rusty water bottles, watching the sun go down after the last day of summer, keeping in touch from miles and miles away, sharing fries, flicking moss at each other, sharing earbuds, drawing really stupid portraits, gentle (slightly awkward) kisses, linking pinkies and holding hands, playing with his hands when i’m nervous, smearing bits of food on the other’s face, banana cream pie, driving with no destination in mind, late-night fast food runs, him doing everything in his power to fluster me (it always works), making him bend down so i can kiss his cheek, playing pranks on me and scaring me, resting my head on his shoulder, cuddling late at night, scary campfire stories, burying him in sand, the campers trying to set us up all summer before we finally, finally confess.

“I literally hate you, that was the stupidest prank to ever exist.” I say, sighing at his “cut-off” arm. “You can’t scare me like that.”

“Why, do you care about me or something?” He jokes.

“Yeah. Of course I do. Always have, always will.”

Genshin Impact

[diluc ragnvindr] - sun.

- fever dream (mxmtoon)

INCLUDES

↳ blood soaked snow, sparring with him, winter in mondstadt, fancy wines, cold baths, red roses, creeping vines, relaxing with him after a long day, running my hands through his hair, fresh walks in the morning, collecting souvenirs, corks, rich hot coco, stupid bets, pouches of mora, seeing our breaths in the air, dead leaves, burying myself in his coats, petting stray animals, ham, frosty gloves, snowmen, cooking for him, sweet madames, chicken coops, adjusting his collar, gold jewelry, hot soup, picture frames, lost connections, giving me every flower he sees on his way home from work, warm taverns, booze that burns the back of your throat, collapsing on top of each other after long days, christmas, loose beads, glasses, dirty crystals, big old books, hairpins, apple cider, crackling fireplaces, red ribbons

Diluc hums as he pours another glass for me. “Drink this slowly. It’ll warm you up.”

I take a sip and grin up at him. “Y’know what will really help me warm up? A hug."

Game of Thrones

[jon snow] - moon.

- young and beautiful (lana del rey)

INCLUDES

↳ holding me bridal style as i try to catch snowflakes in the air, secretly worrying about me when i go off on my own, warm smiles, snowstorms, breathing in his woodsy cologne, trying to teach me how to use a sword, strong drinks, my hands threading through his curls, passion, brushing my hair back, staring at me fondly when i pet ghost, silver and gold, small and cold gemstones, fancy cutlery, rough love, fur coats, drowning in his clothing, looking into his dark eyes, tyrion telling him to be kind to me (he always is), soft enemies to lovers, playing in the snow, snowball fights with him and his family, awkward dinner conversations between our families, touch as a love language, stoic x overdramatic, knives, reading books to him at night, a snowy wedding, serious conversations, content shivers, warming our frozen faces by a fire, bard music, exploring the woods, forehead kisses, snuggling up to him in bed, making things for him and his siblings, him looking over my shoulder as i write

“You are beautiful.” Jon mutters, hands finding their way to my face.

“I am?”

“The most beautiful in the world.”

House of the Dragon

[jacaerys velaryon] - jupiter.

- getaway car (taylor swift) / like real people do (hozier)

INCLUDES

↳ kissing my hands, tea by the fire, traditional courting, friends to lovers, walking in the gardens, dragon rides, tucking my hair behind my ear, hot stew, carrot cake, studying together, playing with luke, windy days messing up our hair, beach trips, reading together while tucked in bed, goofy faces, family trips, college, holding his sword, little lizards, nerd x jock, cuddling long before we ever get together, spinning bar stools, stained wood, video games, hand-holding and cheek-kissing in public, him dressing up in my clothing, petting random dogs in the streets, shelter visits, cheesy prom signs, wearing his letterman, bacon, brown beads, cooking together (it rarely goes well), leather, dumb pranks, modern au, holding my paintbrushes hostage, ferns, accidentally killing every plant we attempt to own, lamps, caricatures, writing on coffee-stained paper

“Hey, you know what would be funny?” I smile.

Jace looks at me with a raised eyebrow and kind eyes. “Yeah, actually finishing this homework.”

10 Things I Hate About You

[patrick verona] - uranus.

- my girl (the temptations) / wanna be yours (arctic monkeys)

INCLUDES

↳ cigarettes, record stores, louder-than-whisper talking in libraries, telling him to quit smoking, late-night escapades, 7-11 slurpies, playing with his hair, dumb pranks, him trying to scare me on purpose, haunted houses, picture collages, talking during class, helping him with schoolwork (he never ends up finishing it no matter how hard i try), making fun of rude teachers in secret, rough palms, motor oil, cramped but cozy apartments, black coffee, she fell first he fell harder, loud music, warm leather / jean jackets, competing in everything we do, dragging him to places he absolutely does not want to go, concerts, outcast x good girl, fake awards, laughing too loudly, joking around in the shopping mall, red candy, spicy cinnamon cologne, broken chargers, old phones, kissing in front of the tv static, really crusty dogs, pushing each other just a little bit, really long phone calls, not confessing for a really long time, laughing at lovey-dovey couples, gifts even when we can barely afford them, back and chest kisses, chains, tank tops

“Your eyes have a little green in them. It’s pretty.” I mention, turning my pencil over in my hands.

Patrick looks at me from his position on my bed. “Not as pretty as you.”

Dead Poets Society

[charlie dalton] - mars.

- mary’s song (oh my my my) (taylor swift) / orlando (leith ross)

INCLUDES

↳ childhood friends to lovers, corny poetry, picnics, rubbing his shoulders after work, caves, dark academia, goofy smiles, play fighting, the smell of freshly sharpened pencils, studying together (we never get anything done), thick jackets, messing up his hair, romance gone wrong, pen ink smudged on the sides of our hands, teasing winks, comparing hand sizes, calling me his girlfriend before ever actually dating, old records, paper mache, glue, a natural sort of opposites to lovers, him slinging an arm around my shoulder at all times, making fun of my height, placing his chin on top of my head, scrunched noses, a hint of warm cologne, whispered words of love, yellowed parchment, whipped cream/frosting on our noses, barely-noticeable freckles, sword fights with twigs, funny faces, brown, blazers, shirley temples, sharing soda, sherpa blankets, him commenting on movies while i’m trying to watch, backwards sweaters, candlelight, gray skies, so much teasing

“You know it’s ice skating, not ice scooting, right?” Charlie asks, laughing at my wobbly legs.

“Shut up and hold my hand.” I grumble.

The Outsiders

[johnny cade] - star.

- first light (hozier)

INCLUDES

↳ washing the grease out of his hair during shared showers, stray cats, sleepovers in the lot, stargazing, holding his hand in his pockets, denim, wired earbuds, graphite stains, cold fingers, being anywhere but his house, whispers of confessions, microwaved meals, freezer burn, hanging out with the gang, switchblades, him defending me whenever possible, tutoring him, quick but meaningful phone calls, record collections, mixtapes, small trinkets, blueberries, holding each other as close as possible while sleeping, patching him up, burning alcohol, starlight, assuring me i’m all he could ever want, standing by my side when i talk to people, ice cream and drive-thru dates, old movies, him coming over so frequently we practically live together, greasy burgers and fries, being teased by dally, linked pinkies, hushed promises, young but loyal love, convenience stores, slushies, getting him to quit smoking, him keeping a picture of me in his jacket pocket, holding each other while we work out our emotions

Top Gun

[bradley bradshaw] - venus.

[robert floyd] - saturn.