#warwick x oc

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 19: Heart of Gold

Figured the Vander fandom could use a lil' treat right about now, so here's my gift to all of you! Fingers crossed for Act 3 tomorrow!

(Also yes, two updates in a single week. Points to me!)

THIS IS SMUT! 18+! MINORS DNI PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

Masterlist

“You hungry at all? Think we’ve got some leftovers I can warm up for y’.” He asks once you step through the threshold, shutting the door behind you. The apartment feels eerily empty without the others, despite the mountains of stuff that litter the floor space and every perceivable surface. But the homey warmth is welcomed after your bitterly cold walk home. You feel your cheeks begin to warm, sense coming back into them. You’ve hidden your hands in the large sleeves of Vander’s jacket, but still curl your fingers as warm blood begins to flow back into them.

You shake your head. “Maybe some water, if you don’t mind? And find where we put the bandages?” You ask. You’ll have to put fresh plasters on your injuries after your shower. 

“Of course!” Vander nods, and once the door lock clicks, he turns back to face you. He stands there for a moment, hands in his pockets and shuffling his weight from foot to foot, and looking down at you without saying anything. The air felt thick, charged, like something still hung between you, unresolved. So much so that it took you a solid moment to even realize you were doing much the same, just stupidly looking up at him. You found yourself wanting to say something, to bridge the space, but the words felt too small, too fragile. So, you just stood there. Time stretched, thick with everything that had been said, and everything that hadn’t. All that was left was the weight of your shared space, now too big for the both of you. The seconds slipped by, silent and heavy, until you weren’t sure if it was you or the room that was holding its breath. 

Finally, it’s Vander that speaks first, pulling the world back into motion. “You’re sure you’re alright?” It should be a simple question, but it feels like a lifeline thrown across a gap.

You shift, unknowingly taking a small step towards him, and the tension in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was there begins to lessen. You feel his gaze on you soften, but your own gaze is still absent-mindedly locked on his feet.

“I’m fine now,” you breathe out. Your voice barely more than a whisper. “Promise.” There was a long pause after that—no rush to fill the silence with anything else. But then he takes a step towards you, closing the physical space, and a gentle knuckle moves your chin up to meet his gaze. Something in his eyes—something raw, desperate—mesmerizes you and you suddenly can’t move your eyes away, locked in on the storming gray. 

Wordlessly, he extends his hand. You have to shove the sleeve of his jacket up your arm in order to meet his touch with your own, the large calloused hand easily enveloping yours. His thumb brushed over my knuckles once, twice, each touch like a promise, soft but knowing. Still silent, he lifts your hand to his lips. The warmth of his breath ghosts over your wrist before he pressed a soft kiss to the plaster, the touch lingering, gentle, reverent. Then, with gentle fingers, he opens your hand to press it against the warmth of his cheek. Despite your best attempts to keep your hands warm outside, the warmth of his cheek burns at the winter-bitten skin of your fingers, and his stubble brushes against the meat of your palm. 

His eyes closed, just for a moment, and in the stillness, there was something…but you couldn’t put a name to the feeling that filled that entryway to your shared apartment. Meditation? Thoughtfulness? A prayer? An apology? Whatever it was, you stayed, refusing to pull away but fighting the urge to bury yourself in his chest and stay there for an eternity. Thankfully, you don’t have to fight the urge for too long as he eventually does lower your hand, giving it one last, soft, reassuring squeeze before lowering it back to your side.

“I’ll get that water for you, Love.” He says with a smile, snapping you out of your daze. You couldn’t read the expression on his face. Somewhere between sad and thankful. “Go and wash up.” 

“Right.” You nod. Showering! Showering is good! In all your romantic kissy-faces to each other, you’d almost forgotten the reason you had been itching to return home so quickly. You quickly peel off his jacket, handing it back to him before bending down to unlace your boots. As you do, you’re quickly reminded of the coolness of your apartment as it hits your very exposed flesh all at once. Gods, you needed to get out of these fighting clothes. Would it be too dramatic to say you wanted to burn them? Maybe. But the thought still crossed your mind. 

The steam that wrapped around you was almost like a blanket, the warmth of the water a slow, soothing balm against your aching bones. The hot spray cascading from the top of your head, and pouring down your neck and over the skin of your back. Lazily, you’d lifted an arm and watched as the water washed away the dirt and grime from the past few hours, leaving behind murky trails as the droplets rolled down your skin. 

You shouldn’t be taking too long in the shower, you knew this. The boilers for your apartment building were old, and tended not to hold much hot water. But the minute you felt the heat seep into your muscles, you were hypnotized. Closing your eyes, you turned and let the water flow down your hair and into your face, the sound of rushing water drowning out any and all noise from the world outside. It hurts a little when the water hits your nose, shocking you out of your peace and making you step back away from the stream. 

Right, you think to yourself, your injuries. Had to work around those…

You look down at your damaged wrists, the raw, angry skin still tender from the rough treatment, and a small annoyance flickers in your chest. How are you supposed to wash your hair when you can’t even get soap in the wounds? Your fingers hover near the shampoo bottle, but your mind veers off, lost in a different memory. The shackles. You can almost feel the cold, unforgiving metal around your wrists again, the way they had bitten into your skin, rubbing it raw with every movement, tethering you in a way that was both physical and psychological. The sensation of being bound, unable to escape, floods your thoughts, and the anxiety tightens in your chest.

You breathe deeply, pushing the memories away as best you can. Your gaze shifts to the temperature dial of the shower, and your fingers flex, tentative, before flicking your wrist just so. The heat of the water rises, just a touch more, and as it hits your skin, it’s like a switch flips. The tension in your hands begins to ease, the deep ache in your muscles loosening, like a rusted hinge moving for the first time in ages after being oiled.

There’s a knock at the door that snaps you out of your thoughts, and you call out an invitation to come in. 

“Just wanted to check in,” Vander calls, “makin’ sure everything’s alright.”

You respond quickly, without even thinking. “Yup, I’m all good!” But another look at the shampoo bottle reminds you of your predicament. “...actually…could I ask a favour?” An uncomfortable feeling rises in your chest, the dread of having to depend on someone else for something so simple as washing your hair. 

The door clicks as Vander steps inside. “Of course, whatever you need.”

“I-” you exhale a sigh of annoyance, “I think I need help washing my hair. My wrists…”

You don’t need to say any more before Vander starts stripping himself of his clothes, the sound of rustling fabric and his belt hitting the tile floor. The rushing water is almost enough to drown out the self-deprecating thoughts that trickle into your mind, and the sound of your heartbeat skipping in your ears as he climbs in behind you. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel his hands on your body. His fingers swiping over the various discoloured bruises that now decorate your skin, some from Sevika, some from the Enforcers.  You can feel the weight of their gaze, full of care, but also something else—concern, maybe even guilt. “I promise, I’m fine.” You say as you turn around to face him, and his eyes immediately shift to your nose. You didn’t realize he was so close to you, your chests basically pressed to one another once you’ve turned to face him. “You and I both know I’ve been through worse.”  His eyebrows lift a little and he nods, muttering “fair enough,” as he detaches his hands and bends down to the shampoo he knows is yours. 

“I’m sorry to ask so much of you.” You blurt as he pours out the bottled liquid. But he just gives you a knowing look.

“It’s you, Doll,” he smiles, and you realize it’s the first genuine smile you’ve seen from him all night. “You could never ask too much of me.”

Your heart skips all over again.

As he begins working the shampoo into your hair, you find yourself leaning into the feel of his fingers. They’re a little awkward, clearly not used to doing this for someone else, but his touch feels heavenly as they rub into your scalp. Your eyes shut, but your hands latch onto his hips to help keep you steady. It doesn’t take him long to work the solution into your short-cut hair, and he ever so gently tilts your head back into the shower’s stream to wash it away.

“That cut to your nose’ll scar nicely.” He remarks as his hands keep busy in your strands.

“Like it?” You tentatively open one of your eyes and smirk. “At least my muzzle’s not quite as mashed as yours.”

He chuckles lowly. “We’re still young, Minnie. Give it a few more years, and we’ll see who’s talking. Besides,” he tips your head back up, but his hands stay entangled in your hair, “even with all the broken cartilage in the world, and every scar imaginable, you’re still gorgeous compared to my ugly mug.”

A heat rises through your chest that has absolutely nothing to do with the steaming shower, and suddenly, your retort about how much you hate that stupid nickname has vanished from your mind. Instead, you force a roll of your eyes and gently swat at his side with a scoff. 

“Oh fuck off, so not true.” 

“I think it is.” He smiles, his eyes locked on yours as a small smile pulls at his lips. “Besides, can’t blame a man for trying to flatter his girl.” 

Your eyebrows fly up into your hairline. “‘Yours’, huh?”

He hums in confirmation, his thumb brushing at the base of your skull. The touch sends a shiver down your spine, and your breath catches in your throat. He smirks as he confirms, “mine.” There’s no questioning tone or uncertainty, it’s matter-of-fact. Before you even have time to think of a proper response, he’s bending down to retrieve the soap. 

He rathers the bar in his hands, his eyes flickering back and forth up to yours, searching yours, as if asking for permission. The tension in the air is palpable, the space between you thick with hesitation. You nod, just once, barely, but it’s enough. He moves with practiced care, gently moving one sudsy hand to your shoulder. You can feel the bubbles wiping away the remnants of the grime and sweat, but you don’t move your eyes away from Vander. His, on the other hand, scans over every inch of you as he continues to move his hand over your skin. The moment his hands reach for your wrists, you flinch, instinctively pulling back, but he stops—just for a beat, letting you adjust, giving you a moment. His touch is careful, soft as he moves away from the tender wounds.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I should have done something to stop them, to help you.”

You don’t say anything at first, letting him continue to work the soap into your torso. You can feel his hands pause for just a moment around your chest, almost out of habit, before continuing to slide over your sides. Then you lift your hands to his shoulders, stilling him. You search his expression, guilt coming up to the surface and written all over his furrowed brow. You’re looking for something, anything to indicate the right thing to say to him. But then you're moving to your tip-toes, and your hands are sliding around him, pulling his lips down to meet yours. 

Your lips are gentle. There’s no heat, no rush, to the kiss but he melts into it all the same. There’s a small, echoed, ‘thump’ as the soap falls to the floor of the shower and his hands encircle your waist. He’s gentle, careful, but pressed you into him. Not unsure or uncertain, just careful of the way your body moves with his touch.

Eventually, you pull away, but he refuses to let you go, and keeps the closeness between you even tighter as he gently presses his forehead to yours. You can feel his breath fanning over your face, and his strong grip keeping you firmly in place. The hot water from the shower streams down your back, and the combined heat from the steam and the shared warmth of his body radiating into both of you. When you do eventually separate, it’s only thanks to a firm hand on his chest that he lets you pull away.

“I think I can handle it from here.” You smile a little to yourself. “I’m 90% sure we’re about to run out of hot water, and I’d really rather that not happen while I’m in here. Is it okay if I meet you out there?”

There’s something like a low growl deep in his chest, and he pulls you in one more time, this time to press a gentle, tender kiss to your wet hair. One of your hands finds its way to his chest, the pads of your fingers tracing over the lines of his muscles appreciatively for a moment longer than strictly necessary before he takes a step back. 

“Take all the time you need, Love.” He smiles, squeezing your hand one final time before stepping out. You let him take your hand with him, until the very last moment before he disappears behind the curtain. 

As you predicted, it takes next to no time at all for you to finish washing up. You quickly dry off and dress in a much comfier set of clothes, but you’re still toweling off your hair as you step out of the bathroom and into the apartment at large. As you could have guessed, Vander’s sitting there, patiently, on the couch with a first aid kit on standby.

“You didn’t have to actually wait for me.” You explain. “And you really don’t have to help patch me back up.” 

“Oh, please,” Vander scoffs and waves you off, “you’ve patched me up plenty, it’s only right if I return the favour every once in a while.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes, but take the spot next to him nonetheless, smiling as he grabs the antiseptic from the kit. His movements are calm, but a little unsure. Usually it’s him getting patched up, not the other way around. You watch him, the quiet comfort of their presence filling the space between you.

He focuses on your wrists first, his hands gentle as they begin cleaning and dressing your wounds. There’s no rush in the way he works, no sense of urgency, just the steady rhythm of their touch. The coolness of the ointment soothes your skin, and for a moment, you forget the discomfort, focusing instead on the simple act of being cared for. His fingers graze your arm as they adjust the bandage, warm and reassuring.

The silence between you isn’t heavy anymore. It’s easy, companionable, a shared moment of quiet that feels more like a pause than anything else. You lean back into the cushions, finally able to relax, the weight of the day starting to lift, if only for a little while. And in that space, with them beside you, you feel happily reassured, content even.

“You don’t have to apologize, you know.” You break the silence. His hands pause over the bandages for a moment, indicating he heard you, but his gaze doesn’t lift to meet yours. “You did help me. I’m assuming it wasn’t Silco’s idea to get my mom and Niya involved.”

He shrugs, wrapping the second bandage around your other wrist. “It was Silco who said that if we were seen anywhere topside, we’d get thrown in jail with you.” For such a large man, it was surprising when his voice was this small.

“He was probably right.” You nod, and lift your already-bandaged hand to cup his cheek. “But you still found a way to help me. What matters right now is that I’m safe, here with you, and everyone down here’s okay.”

He leans into your touch for a moment, shutting his eyes. He seems to be thinking to himself for a moment, then sighs, nods, and turns his attention back to bandaging you up. You drop your hand. 

“Suppose you’re right.” He mumbles, practically a whisper, and he looks up to give you a thankful smile. One you’re more than happy to return.

“When am I not?” 

To this, he can’t help but chuckle, and he gives you a knowing look, one that makes the air feel lighter, more peaceful. There’s something about his presence, the way he handles you with care, that feels grounding, even comforting. As he finishes with your wrist, he finally turns his attention to your nose. This one’s easy, shorter work, as he simply dabs on the last of the antiseptic and sticks a plaster to the bridge of your nose, just under your eye line. 

As he finishes tending to you, his hands remain steady, not moving away, not yet. He looks up at you, eyes soft, searching for a sign—anything that might let him know you're ready for him to pull away. But you don’t want him to. Instead, you happily let him move closer to you, his body pressing against yours as he captures your lips in a tender, passionate kiss. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in tightly as his mouth moves over yours, a mix of tenderness and hunger in his touch. Time seems to slow down as his mouth moves over yours, the kiss slow and languid, as if he wants to savor every moment. His hands gently caress your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw as he kisses you tenderly.

He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a gentle but firm tongue, mapping out every contour. He moves from your lips to your ears, his breath hot on your skin as he whispers sweet nothings, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the length of your neck that make your toes curl. Your hands snake around to the back of his head, your fingers gripping into his hair and successfully drawing out a moan from him. This makes you smirk, but you’re surprised when he quickly pulls his face away from you.

“When do you have to be at work?” He asks, voice husky but concern written on his face.

You shake your head. “I don’t, I booked today off in case the fight went sideways. You?”

His concern melts away into a gleeful smile, his arms enveloping your torso as he lifts you up with absolutely no effort, sitting back to lean against the arm of the couch and pulling you into his lap, your thighs straddling his. “Not until tonight.”

Gods bless!

You dip your face back to meet his lips again, letting a moan ring out at the contact. The kiss is slow and somewhat tentative at first, and it’s clear he wants to be gentle with you. But more and more as your kiss continues to deepen, he quickly becomes more confident until he inevitably dips his head back down to the crook of your neck. But he still moves slowly, taking his time to taste and touch, his mouth finding the sensitive spots on your neck, the hollow of your collarbone, and the slope of your shoulder. His mouth sears a path of pleasure as his hands continue to wander over your body, exploring every dip and curve. His stubble scratches you in the most delectable way. 

He worships you with his touch, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you, to commit the feel of your skin to his memory. It feels like every touch of his lips is your own personal heaven, your hand dropping to his shoulder and gripping, your chest heaving as your breath becomes more and more laboured. Damn this man, damn him and his memory of every little nerve ending in your body. 

As his hands move under the fabric of your shirt, you give him a silent nod of approval, letting him slide the material up and off your torso and not carrying where into the depths of your home he throws it. He pulls away, just for a moment, as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his eyes scanning over every inch of you. “Best fuckin’ tits either side of the bridge, I swear to the Gods…” This makes you giggle a little, which only makes his smile grow even wider. 

“Shut up and kiss me again, idiot.” You laugh, using your magic to pull him in by the metal studs in his vest. He’s only too happy to follow orders, crashing his lips to yours once again.

Your hands run up his chest, helping him out of his vest and he thankfully takes the hint, pulling his shirt over his head. You take the moment to shimmy out of the pajama shorts you’d only just gotten dressed into as he begins to fiddle with his belt. It only takes a second for you to flick your finger, and the belt unloops itself and goes flying towards the bedroom. He gives you a knowing look.

“What?” You shrug as he resumes discarding his pants. “What’s the point of having these damn powers if I can’t use them, hm?”

“Lil’ trouble maker.” He tsk’s but very shortly pulls you right back to his lap.

His strong, muscular chest pressed up against your own, the feeling of skin against skin sending a wave of heat through both of you. He kisses you with a fervor and intensity that takes your breath away, his hands holding you tightly against him, as if he's scared to let you go. You feel as desired and wanted as you've ever been, every touch and kiss from him making you weak in the knees and stealing all rational thought from your mind. In all your years, you’ve never once felt quite as desired as you do with Vander. Similarly, it takes only a mere touch from him to make your knees weak and your mind go empty. Simply put, it’s just…him. And he’s the only one you want. 

The thought, and the pure intimacy of it all, is enough to make your hips begin to grind down on their own accord. You can feel how he’s pressing into you, how hard and perfectly shaped he is against your body. His hand finds your hip, steadying you and catching your gaze in a questioning look.

“Sure you’re up for this tonight, Love?” He asks, thumb rubbing softly against your pelvis bone. But all you’ve got to do is smile and dip down to capture his lips as you tilt your hips and scoot closer, for him to let out a full-body shiver and grab your hips with both hands, and thrust fully into you. You moan out a slew of curses as your body writhes against his, everything else ceasing to exist as he fills you. Getting lost in his embrace, his face finds your neck again and begins to pepper kisses across the skin. You feel the desperate need for friction, a primal urge taking control, but you're already so sensitive and overwhelmed from the initial stretch that you know you need time to adjust. He groans, a deep, guttural thing, when you finally take all of him, and the sound drives through you, making your core tighten in response. Your own self-restraint crumbles, and your hips move on their own accord, silently pleading for him to finally give in and begin the movement you both crave. Thankfully, he seems unable to resist, his own hips moving to match your rhythm until you hit the pace you need, causing pleasure to crash into you.

His strength is absolutely an asset, his hands helping to guide your hips up and down as you begin to slowly ride him. Your mind was already practically spinning, moans and curses tumbling from your lips as he dragged in and out of your warmth. Your hands find his shoulders (fuck, he has nice shoulders), a desperate attempt to ground yourself and bite back the urge to dig your fingernails into his skin.

“So-fuck–” you whine, almost pathetically, “so fucking full.”

The sound sends a shockwave through Vander, all but ramming himself deeper into you in a way that feels like it breaks your brain. But you both feel it, the desperate hunger for more. 

“That’s right. You take me so well, don’t you, Love?” He moans into your skin, pulling away from your neck to take in the sight of you on his lap. Somehow, seeing his eyes, seeing the way he looks at you; like water to a man parched, like your the greatest treasure you could hope to find. Mesmerized by the pleasure on your face and the way your tits bounce as you move against him. It feels wonderfully perfect, and all you can do is moan and nod, each time your hips snap down, sending a fresh wave of ecstasy through your body.

He’s relentless, his hips grinding against yours like he owns you, and there’s a sense of ownership in his actions, as if he’s claiming you as his own. He lets out a growl against your ear, and the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine. He’s wild and intense, and the pleasure he’s giving you is so much more than you ever thought possible. You cling to him, your fingers digging into his back as you hold on for dear life, overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations.

At this point, any semblance of gentleness is long gone, replaced with the primarily urge, the exquisite electrical feeling that buzzes through both of you. You’re riding him with every intention of chasing both of your releases, every thrust down having him gripping your hips harder and harder to the point where you’re half-aware of the bruises you’re sure to have after. He dips back to the crook of your shoulder one last time, licking up the length of your neck with the flat of his tongue before suddenly, the piercing feeling of his teeth against your shoulder shocks through you. You shriek in the mix of pain in pleasure, letting your head roll back to allow him more access. 

“Mine.” He growls into your ear. “Understood?” 

“Fuck-yes!” You cry, feeling the coil in your lower stomach begin to tighten. “Yours. All of me, all that I am, yours.”

Fuck it. Right now, right here. All you needed was him. 

He’s driving you crazy with a pleasure more intense than you could have imagined, his body moving against yours with a raw, primal force. With each deep, hard thrust, you feel him claiming you, leaving you completely at his mercy, and the sense of submission only adds to the pleasure coursing through you. It’s as if he knows your body better than you do, and he’s able to draw out every ounce of pleasure from you. Knowing you’re both on the brink, he reaches out, grabbing one of your hands and pressing a kiss to your palm, then your bandaged wrist, then your arm, then where he just marked his teeth into your skin, all the way back to claim your lips. It’s maddening and intoxicating all at once, it’s perfect, and you find yourself being flown over the edge.

“That’s-” he lets out his own string of curses as you tighten around him, “that’s it, that’s it! So fucking good!”

Your mind is so fried from your orgasm that you barely register him all but throwing you onto the couch, didn’t even register the feel of the fabric on your back. But you most definitely felt him suddenly thrusting back into you, hooking one of your legs over your shoulder to allow him full and complete access to you. He’s more than happy to press kisses to the inside of your thigh, which mixed with the fully lewd sounds of his quickened pace, is enough to get you fully sex drunk and delirious as he continues to plow into you. 

“Gods, you look so-” he bites your thigh, and the same shriek escape your throat, combined with your drunken moans and whines, and it’s enough to make him groan deeply into the flesh he’s biting. “Fuck, I’m gonna-”

“Please!” You whine, voice cracking as your hands balling into fists as your mind struggles to comprehend the amount of pleasure flowing through you right now. “I need it, need to feel it! Vander, please!” That’s more than enough to ruin him, Vander dropping your leg so he could crash down and kiss you as he buried himself deep into you with one final thrust. You felt him groan against your lips and claw at your hips as he emptied himself into you, his chest rising and falling with each panted breath. 

You remain wrapped up in each other's embrace as several minutes pass, your lips moving against one another’s in a satisfied and languid kiss until he finally pulls away to catch his breath. He gasps for air, his warm breath fanning across your collarbone and sending a shiver through you.

Eventually, he can finally speak again, and he releases a deep, satisfied moan, “Fuuuuuck, that was good.” He manages to lift himself up slightly, gazing down at you with eyes filled with an adoring love, as they reach for your hand, their fingers brushing over your knuckles with a tenderness that makes your heart warm. You smile back at him, feeling giddy and blissful. “You alright, Love?”

Taking a deep, calming breath yourself as your consciousness slowly returns to you, you slide your hands up around his neck. “Oh Gods, yeah.” You laugh, and the smile he cracks is so wide, you’re sure he’s going to hurt himself. His head bends down, peppering your face full of kisses until you’re giggling and pushing him away. “...We should probably maybe move off the couch, though…and maybe grab our clothes before the guys get back.”

He whines a little, but concedes. “Right, yeah, hang on…”

Bless him, he carefully maneuvers you into your room, masterfully managing to stay completely in you until you’re laying on your bed. Then, with one final kiss, you feel him pull out before wandering back to the living room to collect all your things as you begin to clean yourself. It takes mere moments, but it feels like ages until he’s back in the room with you, tucking the both of you into your blankets as you begin to seep into the cozy warmth of your shared bodies. 

For a while, you just sit there, the two of you wrapped in warmth and quiet. Every now and then, he gently adjusts the blanket around you, their touch always light, always careful, like he’s trying to wrap you in comfort from every direction. You laugh softly when he tries to adjust your pillow for the third time, but it’s a light, easy sound, one that feels like things are returning to normal again.

You lean into him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. The room feels full of little moments like this—touches that reassure, smiles that say everything without needing to be said. You’re not sure how long you stay like that, but time feels slower, softer, in the best way. The world outside seems distant, like you’re tucked away in this small bubble of calm, where everything feels safe and cared for.

It’s simple, it’s quiet, but in that space, it’s everything.

[nik-barinova]

“You do remember me, hound dog…”

—

This is my canon ending, idc what Christian L*nke says

Eliza and Vanwick reunite

The two take back Jinx, Vi, and take in Isha as their granddaughter

Eliza restores the Last Drop back to what it was

The girls redo their room and give Vanwick his own space if he wants to go in it

They don’t engage with Viktor’s commune when Eliza had that gut feeling and Vanwick doesn’t die

The girls dog pile cuddle sleep with Vanwick every night

Eliza calms him down faster whenever he goes berserk

They all live happily ever after 🤪🙃🥲

[soultwos]

ARCANE

· · ──────· ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ·──────· ·

MASTERLIST

VANDER / WARWICK - [ SERIES / ONESHOTS ]

SEVIKA - [ SERIES / ONE SHOTS ]

SILCO - [ SERIES / ONESHOTS ]

EKKO - [ SERIES / ONESHOTS ]

JAYCE / MEL / VIKTOR - [ SERIES / ONESHOTS ]

AMBESSA - [ SERIES / ONESHOTS ]

TAGLIST

@darktrashpoetry

[dearaur0ra]

prologue

young silco x fem!oc

masterlist ao3 next ->

—

the littered water trickles sluggishly down the cut, a murky stream thick with refuse, but for a moment, it’s drowned out by the sound of children’s laughter. soaked to the bone, barefoot and wild, they splash through the shallows, their shrill voices ringing off the jagged stone and crumbling walls like a hymn to forgotten days. one child, face twisted in pure mischief, hurls a handful of water at another, sending them both into fits of giggles. another floats a leaf downstream, watching it drift slowly, aimlessly, as if the world itself had stopped moving here.

i stand on the old bridge, leaning against the moss-covered rail, watching them. a soft smile creeps across my face, but it doesn’t quite reach my heart. their joy stirs something inside me—a memory of a simpler time, a time when the world felt a little less heavy—but it’s a fleeting thing, slipping away before i can catch it. the laughter reminds me of a childhood that feels as distant as a dream now, swallowed by the grime and grit of this place.

the water, once clear and lively, is now nothing more than a dull, gray stain, sluggish and polluted by years of neglect. the current barely stirs as it flows through the concrete trench. once a sanctuary of cool, fresh water, now a stagnant pool, its edges choked with debris. it’s a far cry from the place it used to be. i pull my gaze away, unwilling to dwell on the lost beauty. there’s too much of that in this city—too many memories of what could have been, what should have been.

the streets are alive in their own way—crowded with the clamour of survival. men and women, hardened by hunger and struggle, do what they must to stay afloat. their eyes are wary, faces gaunt, always watching, always waiting. in this city, there’s no time for kindness—only for the hustle. the air feels heavy, thick with tension, and every glance exchanged seems to carry the weight of a thousand unspoken words. in these alleys, you’re never truly safe, not even in your own skin.

but somehow, i find comfort here. among the grime and chaos, i feel a strange sense of belonging, like i’m part of something bigger, something real. a community built from the scraps of what’s been left behind. it’s not much, but it’s ours.

as i move through the narrow streets, the stench of refuse and smoke clinging to the air, i can’t help but look up at the buildings towering above. they loom like silent sentinels, casting long shadows over everything below. it’s hard to imagine a world beyond them, a world where the sun still feels warm, where people aren’t suffocated by iron and glass. this is the undercity—the lanes, the forgotten part of the world. it was once connected to the city above, but now it feels like its own prison, abandoned and left to rot.

i can’t help but feel the unfairness of it all. up there, they sit in their high towers, untouched by the filth and sweat of the streets below. they feast on their riches, while we scrape by, counting every coin, wondering if today’s the day the guards come for us. wondering if we’ll lose everything we’ve fought so hard to hold onto. mother always said that love and a home are the things that matter most, but as i run from job to job, barely making ends meet, i can’t help but wonder if she was wrong. if love and a roof over your head are enough to survive this. or if something more is needed.

i take a deep breath, letting the familiar, musty air fill my lungs. it’s home. for better or worse. i can’t complain. it’s all we have.

i weave my way through the alleys, taking caution to avoid the more dangerous parts, heading toward the stretch of street where vander and silco usually wait. they’re my constants, in this world that never stops shifting.

it doesn’t take long before i spot them. vander’s tall, broad figure stands out even in the dim light, while silco’s silhouette is sharper, more defined. i catch a flash of his eyes as he glances at me. they’re unreadable, like always—like a puzzle that doesn’t quite fit together.

"you’re early," vander says, his voice light but there’s something different in his eyes. something…expectant.

“i want to get home quick,” i reply, my voice even, keeping the tone casual. i know better than to press vander when he’s got that look in his eyes. he’s got a plan cooking, and he’ll bring it up when he’s ready.

“hm,” silco chimes in, his hum low and even. he doesn’t do small talk, not really. but i’ve spent enough time around him to know that in his silence, there’s always a thought brewing within.

we walk in silence for a while, the air heavy with the weight of our thoughts, as the familiar old tavern comes into view. the last drop. the crooked sign sways in the breeze, barely holding on, and the building itself leans like it’s too tired to stand upright anymore. but it’s still standing.

vander pauses in front of the door, his hand resting on the rough wood. he looks back at me, then at silco, a flicker of something—hope? determination?—in his eyes.

“alright,” he says, his voice steady, but there’s an edge to it now. “i’ve been thinking. we need something more solid. a place to call our own. something permanent.” he gestures toward the tavern. “i’ve been watching this place for a while. the last drop. it’s seen better days, sure. but it’s still got bones. if we move quick, we could make an offer.”

i glance up at the sagging building, the worn-out sign creaking in the wind. it’s rough, but i see what he means. a place like this could be more than just a run-down tavern. it could be a safe place where we could meet, plan, and maybe even protect the people who need it most. it could be the heart of something bigger. something better.

silco, ever the skeptic, eyes the building with a sharp, critical gaze. he crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing in thought. “you’re suggesting we buy it?”

vander nods, his voice dropping lower, serious. “it’s not just for us. it’s for the people who need a place to feel safe. a place where they don’t have to worry about piltover’s eyes on them. it’ll be a sanctuary.”

i can hear the hope in vander’s voice, the dream he’s trying to sell. but i know silco too well. he’s driven by pragmatism—by power, by strategy. nothing comes without a price.

“sanctuary?” silco repeats, his voice flat, but underneath, there’s a flicker of curiosity. “and how exactly do you propose we get our hands on it?”

“i’ve got contacts,” vander says, the corner of his mouth turning up just slightly. “we move fast, offer enough, and it’s ours.”

silco tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking toward me before returning to vander. “you’d trust a place like this? with its reputation, its history? what’s stopping the piltover guard from shutting it down the moment they feel threatened?”

vander shrugs, the weight of the world in his eyes. “if we control it, we control what happens inside. we can keep piltover out. make sure it stays ours.”

there’s a quiet tension between them, always is. vander, the optimist, dreaming of something better for Zaun. silco, the realist, always calculating the risk, weighing the price. they both want control, but in different ways.

i step forward, breaking the silence for the first time. “if it works, it works. we need something solid. something safe—even if it’s just for us. it’s better than hiding in alleys.”

silco looks at me then, his eyes narrowing as if he’s weighing me. for a second, i swear i can see the wheels turning behind his gaze. finally, he speaks. “you’ve got a point,” he mutters, almost reluctantly. “if it keeps the people off our backs and helps us make the moves we need, maybe it’s worth it.” he smirks, just slightly. “but don’t get too attached. it’ll be ours… for as long as we say it is.”

vander nods, looking back at the tavern as if seeing it for the first time. “this is it. i’ll make the offer. no second thoughts.”

i glance around the room once we step inside. the familiar smell of stale alcohol and spilled drinks hangs in the air, mingling with the musty wood. the space feels colder than usual, the tables and chairs left haphazardly about. it’s dim, barely lit, but i can see the potential. i let myself dream for a moment—maybe this could be the beginning of something better.

“well,” i mutter under my breath, a small smile tugging at my lips. “if we’re doing this… i guess i’d better get used to the smell of old liquor and dust.”

silco smirks, a flicker of humor in his eyes. “you’ll learn to love it.”

—

slipping down a last shrouded alley, i make my way toward the familiar, faded red door, hanging precariously on its last hinge. one more job with vander should be enough to cover the rent and put food on the table for the next two weeks. it’s a small relief, but it’s all i have. and it’s all i can keep holding onto.

i slip my hood off, stepping into the crowded room, and for a second, it feels like stepping into a whirlwind of chaos. nine of us, all squeezed into three small bedrooms, each corner crammed with makeshift furniture, clutter, and the scent of home mixed with something cooking. the dream of having our own space—something just for us—has long faded, like the posters peeling off the walls.

“mercy!” piper jumps up from the one couch, her little arms flinging around my legs before i even make it inside.

“whoa there, kiddo, let me get in the door first,” i chuckle softly, letting my coat fall over one of the many hooks lining the wall. rey’s idea again—scrap metal from the factory welded into makeshift coat hooks. resourceful guy, that one.

piper doesn’t let go. she grins up at me, clutching my leg as though she hasn’t seen me in years. it’s sweet, her way of showing she missed me. i was gone before she woke up this morning, like always. i wish things were different—that i could keep her in the bubble of childhood innocence just a little longer, keep the world outside from creeping in.

my older brothers—rey, the oldest; welsh, the second in command; and roese—work whatever jobs they can get. rey and welsh have been talking about moving out, scouting for a new place just for the two of them. i can’t help but envy their optimism, but i’ve heard that plan enough times that i’ve stopped believing it’ll ever happen. they’ve got their dreams, and they chase them, and that’s something i respect—even if it feels like it’s slipping away with every passing day.

billy and racket, on the other hand, are a different story. not blood, but close enough that it doesn’t matter. their families fell apart a long time ago, so they’ve stayed with us whenever they need to. i haven’t seen them in a while—about a month, maybe—but i trust them to take care of themselves. they’re tough, like us. maybe tougher. but i hope they’re okay.

kerman and piper—my mothers charity, if you want to call it that—are the youngest. kerman’s eleven, piper’s six. they’re not related, no, but they’ve grown up side by side, like siblings, with all the bickering and teasing that comes with it. they act tough with each other, but it’s all love underneath. and when i think about them, i’d do anything to protect them. for them, i’d give everything.

“okay, c’mere,” i mumble, kneeling down to pull piper into a hug. she clings to me for a moment, her small hands tight around my waist, as though afraid i might disappear again. i let her hold on for a few seconds before gently prying her off. i can’t shake the exhaustion that’s settled into my bones after a day like today. all i want is to scrub off the grime of it.

i make my way into the kitchen, where mother’s standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup that’s probably been simmering all day. the smell hits me as i approach—rich and warm, the kind of comfort food that makes everything feel a little more bearable.

she turns when she hears my steps, flashing me a tired smile. “mercy, dear, could you pass me the salt? this is awfully bland.” i grab the tin of salt from the shelf, the one roese made with scrap wood, and hand it over, watching her sprinkle it in with the practiced hand of someone who’s had to make do for years.

“how was your day?” she asks, glancing up at me with a flicker of concern in her eyes. i shrug, leaning against the counter, pretending it was just another day of fixing doors and holding things together.

“fine. should be able to fix that door by tomorrow,” i say, giving her just enough to avoid a lecture. she hates the work i do, but she never complains when there’s food on the table, when i can make sure we don’t go to bed hungry.

“how so?” she raises an eyebrow, but i can see through her—know she knows i’m skirting the truth.

“benzo. says his dad needs help clearing out the shop for a restock,” i lie smoothly, the words slipping out like second nature.

“alright, well, do send my hellos to everyone tomorrow then,” she says, her voice warm, unaware of the full story behind my words. i believe the lie is for good reason, especially now. if she knew exactly what we were up to—what i had to do to keep us afloat—she’d be an accomplice. and that’s the last thing i want.

just as i’m about to pull away, the door creaks open, and my brothers start filing in. rey’s first, with welsh right behind him, both of them looking like they’ve just finished their shifts—tired but grinning, ready for whatever chaos the evening brings.

“you wouldn’t believe the day i had,” rey says, kicking his boots off by the door. “that factory’s falling apart, and i swear, the machines have a mind of their own.”

welsh laughs, tossing his jacket onto a chair. “the streets were packed with drunks again. i barely made it home in time. i swear, i’m gonna start charging for traffic control.”

“i’d pay to see you try,” roese chimes in, already leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“maybe you should get a whistle.” i add, abandoning my stance in the kitchen and trading it for a view of the boys.

they all laugh, the kind of laughter that fills the room, spilling over into the worn furniture and cramped corners. their teasing, their jokes—it’s the rhythm of our lives, the soundtrack of surviving together. even after the long, grueling days, we find something to laugh about, something to keep us moving forward.

i listen in on the boys banter, grinning as i step aside to make room for them.

“oh please,” rey says, raising an eyebrow. “you’re the one who eats all the leftovers.”

“not true! i leave the last bite for everyone,” roese retorts, chuckling. “sometimes.”

“yeah, sometimes being the key word,” welsh adds, winking as he grabs a spoon to sample the soup.

and for a moment, it feels like we’ve forgotten the world outside—forgotten the struggles, the fear. in this cramped, chaotic place, filled with mismatched furniture and the sound of voices loud with affection, we’re just family. and that’s enough.

“wash up, boys, dinner’s ready!” mom yells above the laughter, ushering everyone down the hall to the single washroom.

mom ladles soup into mismatched bowls, the steam rising in soft curls, filling the room with its warm, comforting scent. she hands them out one by one, starting with piper and kerman, who are already bickering about who gets the bigger portion. i roll my eyes as i watch them argue, but it’s the same every night, and a little part of me can’t help but smile. i take my bowl from her, offering a quick “thanks” before settling onto one of the worn cushions on the floor—the only seat available.

“alright, everyone take a seat,” mom calls, her voice steady and warm as she serves up the last of the soup. “and don’t fight over the bread this time. i swear, you all have the manners of hungry dogs.”

welsh, always quick with a joke, snatches the last slice of bread before anyone else can claim it. “guess i’m the dog today then,” he says, grinning wide as he tears the bread in half. “gotta keep my strength up for my next shift.”

“alright, enough with the theatrics,” mom says, though her eyes are twinkling, clearly enjoying the show. she sits down beside me, taking her own bowl of soup. “mercy, how was your day?”

i stiffen slightly, my spoon pausing mid-air. i know exactly where this is going. i glance up at mom, offering a quick smile, but i can see the question in her eyes. she knows something’s up. she always does. “it was fine, just another day, you know?”

“another day, eh? i bet,” rey teases from across the room, narrowing his eyes at me with that signature smirk of his. “or was it something… else?”

i shoot him a look. “don’t start, rey.”

welsh immediately picks up on the bait, his grin growing wider. “oh, you’re blushing. definitely wasn’t just fixing chairs again, huh?”

i roll my eyes, sighing. “not this again.”

kerman, who’s been quietly watching the conversation unfold, leans forward, his eyes bright with mischief. “who’s the guy?”

“you know who,” rey says, his voice loud with mock seriousness.

i freeze, the spoon almost slipping from my hand. he himself has been a running joke with my brothers for a while now, but it never fails to make my skin crawl a little.

“huh,” welsh says, grinning. “what’s his deal? you two got a thing?”

“please,” i mutter, trying to deflect the teasing as i poke at my soup, wishing for the ground to swallow me whole. “he’s my friend.”

“no one is just friends with him, especially by choice.” rey raises an eyebrow, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

i grit my teeth, determined not to let them see me squirm. “it’s business, alright? business.”

roese snickers, clearly enjoying the show. “business, huh? you sure you’re not trying to get some inside information from him? or is he the one giving you all the inside info, eh?”

i give him a pointed look. “roese, i swear, if you don’t drop this—”

“alright, alright,” welsh cuts in, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his grin is still wide. “we’ll let it go. for now. but you’re not fooling anyone, mercy. we all know you’ve got a soft spot for ‘em.”

“shut up, welsh,” i mutter under my breath, but it’s hard to stay annoyed with them. they’re relentless, but it’s all in good fun.

mom, thankfully, steps in before things get worse, her voice light as she nudges the conversation away from me. “enough teasing mercy, boys. she’ll have enough to deal with when she gets back out there tomorrow.” she turns to me, her eyes soft but knowing. “you’ll be alright, won’t you, dear? just… remember who you’re doing this for.”

i nod, my stomach twisting for a different reason now. “yeah, i know, mom. i’ll be fine.”

the conversation shifts again, the teasing forgotten for the moment as the brothers talk about their day, the ridiculousness of it all, and what new crazy plan welsh is going to get them all roped into next. i let the noise wash over me, the feeling of being surrounded by them, by this strange, patched-together family that i would do anything for. even with all the weight of the world pressing down on us, even with his shadow looming over me, for a moment, i can forget it all.

and for now, that’s enough.

[accarress-art]

Sketches from (2020)

Finding it hard to post 1 by 1, so here's a compilation

[committingcrimes-2047]

GUYS!!!

you dont understand how badly i need more Vander Warwick x reader fics!!!

I need fluffy moments! Reader cuddling with him!!!

Imagine, after years, them both reuniting and just cuddling- reader whos beginning to fall asleep- laying ontop of him, lazily petting his fur and him just taking them in after everything that happened.

PLEASE 🙏

(I promise ill write down more of my ideas soon, but im suffering from my period and drawing my oc. But i promise to start posting normally again soon!!! LET ME COOK!!!)

He dont bite

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Writing Masterlist.

Hello my name is Bex! Welcome to my blog and my writing’s masterlist.

May I ask that before sending me any asks or interacting you read my Rules/Who/What I Write For. Thank you so much!

—

My Ao3 has a good portion of my stuff but you will find ALL of my writing in this list! Here are my tips for writing smut! Here is my writing process. And Here is my ramblings about things important to me to include in my writing if you care about some of the meaning behind what I do.

Here is the link to my Ko-fi if you wanna support me and what I do.

Did you know I also do commissions? Here is the info!

Writing Links Below The Cut!

Freddy Krueger Masterlist.

Billy Loomis/Stu Macher Poly!Ghostface Masterlist.

Ethan Landry Masterlist.

Mickey Altieri Masterlist.

Danny Johnson/Jed Olson/DBD Ghostface Masterlist.

Buddy Swanson/Metal Killer Mastlist.

Sam Wescott/The Wood Carver Masterlist.

Leslie Vernon Masterlist.

Charles Lee Ray Masterlist.

Tiffany Ray Valentine Masterlist.

Bo/Vincent/Lester Sinclair Masterlist.

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Poly!Coven Masterlist.

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Commissions Masterlist.

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Amber Cottrell OC. Freddy's Girl.

Misc.

"It Was Inevitable" Micheal Myers X FEM! AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"We Match!" The Ghost/"Mitch" X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"Making Him The Exception." Machete Sam X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"King Of The Kayaks." Steve The Kayak King X GN! Reader. NSFW.

"Perfect Pretender." Alex Browning X Tod Waggner X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"Something Life Affirming." Willaim Bludworth X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"A Deep And Festering Need." Edward Porris X GN! Reader.

[tobyart]

x-men oc i cooked up. his alias is bloodhound and his real name is rufus blackwell. he is my baby boy and i would protect him from the world in a heartbeat

inspired by warwick from arcane and torbek from legends of avantris

[rosesnink]

The Damned Daughter, Part Five: Never, My Love

Author’s Notes 

One of the stories I’ve been wanting to tell! Nya’s story! As none of you know, this series will continue on as I hold off the main one to wrap it and fully tell the backstory and lore that’s been on my mind. That being said, please read the TWs and read under your own discretion. Bon apetit! 

English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes 

For several reasons, this fic is rated +16. Make sure to read the TWs before you continue to read. Reader’s discretion is advised 

In case you stumble upon this universe for the first time, here’s the masterlist 

Summary: Nya Crochane tells her life’s story 

Rating: R-15-M 

TW: Violence, language, grief, major and minor death character, suggestive scenes, grief & trauma 

Word Count: 8.9k words 

Pairing: Nya Crochane (F!OC) x Cillian of York (M!OC) 

Category: Fluff, angst

Book: Desire & Decorum (AU) (though this is previous to D&D but to put something) 

People always said that, if someone doesn’t know their history, they are bound to repeat it, over and over. Many wars and conflicts are brought up, as well as behaviours and conducts. But what is rarely talked, is the mistake within families, all for the sake of reputation and duty. Many lives destroyed and taken; many reputations ruined. All for the naught of a wee rumour. The Crochanes were no less.

Many looked up to these handsome, heroic and magnificent people, and couldn’t understand the estranged members who wanted out. They had founded Dracaria. They were heroes and hands of the emperors and widely popular. Their reputation was beneath reproach outside doors.

Nya Crochane chuckled bitterly. She had learned the hard way that they were far from perfect. And as her most beloved niece buried her fiancé, she muttered “Who else has to die before we realise our mistake being repeated over and over?”

Her hair was grey, and her pristine fair skin had wrinkled, but she still held her sweetness and poise within her, as well as good-earned wisdom. A mortal loving them was a death sentence, and not only because of the law. Because of societal and aristocratic ambitions as well. Nobody who was somebody at court wished a mortal to take over what they deemed as theirs. She learned it herself.

By the Goddess, she had lost all that mattered to her to these people who cared not for their wellbeing. Cillian, her little Fenris, everyone.

September, 1470

Nya had heard the news as she adjusted her red curls on an elaborate hairdo: the Duke of Clarence and the Earl of Warwick had landed at Plymouth, and though Nya cared nothing for war, she was intrigued by this fight for the English throne of all thrones. She shrugged as her maid completed the look and Nya marvelled at it. “Beautiful as always, Agata.”

She curtsied to her and left the room. As she perfumed herself, she could hear a horse neighing loudly and someone—a man—struggling with it. She frowned and looked out to the window to find and exquisitely handsome man: rich caramel hair with striking blue eyes and soft features and a strong, tall feature, he tried his best to tame the newest stallion that had arrived to the estate they were being hosted.

“I do hope she hasn’t bitten you, good sir.”

The man gasped and looked up, and when he saw her, greeted her and chuckled, his beautiful cheeks now pink “Begging your pardon, ma’am. This one’s the feisty of all feisty stallions.”

Nya giggled “Will you be alright, sir?”

“Aye, madam. I have feisty sisters back at home, this is nothin’.”

She smiled widely and he looked down, blushing entirely “I, uh, must go, but… may I have your name first, fair maiden?”

“When there are no eyes watching, you may call me Nya.”

He bowed respectfully “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Nya.”

Hours later, the ball had begun and guests drank and danced away, as if no war was separating them. After all, they weren’t killing their brothers and sons. The others were. She was woken out of her reeling mind when the Duke of York approached Nya, chatting with her father. She quickly greeted them… and did her best not to gasp at the sight of the handsome horse man she had seem earlier. He was as shocked, and also tried his best not to blurt out anything that’d give it away.

“…My daughter, Nya. Dear, say hello to the Duke of York and his… natural son, Cillian.”

They greeted one another and he kissed her hand “A pleasure, miss…?”

“Lady Nya. The pleasure’s all mine, sir.”

Her father regarded her nervousness with his inquisitive and distrustful dark eyes, hands tucked behind his back “Are you quite alright, dear? You seem nervous.”

“I—That is because… I wish to perform a song, but I wouldn’t wish to intrude.”

“Oh, never, dear! We welcome all voices.” The duke smiled.

“You’ve performed before, daughter. This is by now a walk in the park to you.”

Nya hid her feelings with a smile, as she always has “I still get those pre-stage nerves, after all these years.”

The duke patted his son on the back “Well, son, Lord Crochane and I have business to discuss. We’ll leave you with his lady daughter.”

He nodded and bowed, avoiding the warning stare of her father. Nya sighed “Do forgive him. He’s always been protective of me and my siblings.”

“’Tis nothing, my lady. I know is not personal.” He took a sip from his cup “So, uh… Lady Nya, eh?”

She chuckled “I’ve always loved to keep people on their toes.”

He chuckled “You certainly have. I was wondering… if I may have a dance?”

She smiled “With pleasure.”

The next months were the ones Nya was the happiest in her long life: she always visited Cillian, danced with him various times at every gathering, strolled the gardens together, sent each other concerningly lengthy letters and chatted for hours, much to her sisters’ chagrin.

As they rode rather fast towards the big old tree, they looked at one another. Especially, at his lips. Her heart was racing so and her distraction was such, she fell off rather inelegantly off the horse.

“My word! Are you quite alright, Lady Nya?!” He had knelt to see if she was injured, becoming dangerously close. Nya opened her eyes and marvelled at his male beauty, stroking his hair and the adoration and concern in his eyes.

“Y-yes, I am… quite alright.”

“Nya, I—that is—,”

Soon, without truly knowing who started it, their lips met and her hands grabbed his neck and inner back, begging him closer. He was quick to position himself as he kissed her, his hands untangling her red curls as he whispered “Oh, Nya, my Nya…” He kept repeating her name, making her mind go blurry “Nya, Nya, Nya. What a magical sound, your name is.” He stopped to catch his breath and caressed her cheek “What are you doing to me, sweet Nya?”

They kissed again, losing themselves in the other’s warmth, the fresh grass and the lulling stroke of the wind.

Vivienne had decided to give the old gowns of her daughters to charity, and was rummaging Nya’s wardrobe when, observing the gown Nya wore a few weeks ago smelled odd and decided to see if she had spilled wine all over it again… when she saw dirt and rests of grass on it, and remembered that the young York boy had come to ride with her.

“Bring my daughter Nya at once.” She commanded, her heart beating, fearing the worst. Nya came in, and when the door closed, Vivienne turned around, the dirty spot on her hands “Explain yourself. Now.”

Nya gasped, staying still for a few minutes before she sighed “It is true… but we didn’t lay together! We just kissed, mother!”

Vivienne sighed “Good, because if your father sees this, we’re over! He will challenge him to a duel!”

“I don’t see what is wrong with it! Neither of my sisters are virgins, why would he care?”

“That is because they were men of our range, and he had planned itself! This is different, Nya. You know what will happen if you marry him…”

Nya shook her head “Still trying to marry me off to Earl Bernhill, is he?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with Elias! He’s handsome, charming, wealthy and would be kind to you!”

Nya finally snapped “But I do not like him! I could never! Besides, there’s something off with him… his wife died too suddenly and he wasn’t even touched by it… So that’s a no from me.”

“She did treat him coldly—,”

“Lies and slander! He was the one who did! Gosh, why can’t you see what I do? Do you regard my wishes so little?”

Vivienne sat down, dress still in hand “Of course not. But his family would do us good. Yes, he is a tad inbred, but that shouldn’t be a problem!”

Nya threw her hands up and sighed “He is inbred and there’s something about him that I do not like. He has a reputation of being vindictive and his third wife died in a concerningly suspicious way. Need I keep going?”

Vivienne studied her daughter for a minute, and accepted defeat. She had seen that face before. There was no way she’d win this fight. Not yet at least.

“Why can’t you give him one chance to prove himself?”

Nya shook her head, “No. I’ve made up my mind. I do not want him.”

“Nya—,”

She had turned her back to leave, but whipped her head and adamantly declared “I said no! If I ever marry a wizard is because I want it and I choose it, and nobody, not even you, will drag me to the altar.”

Then, she slammed the door and left, leaving Vivienne with her thoughts.

1814

Elias watched as Joanna and Thomas laughed and looked at one another, full of love. Disgusting, he thought. Not only he had endured watching Odessa with that Vincent, but now the daughter as well? Ugh.

He was angry. The Elders had declined his petition to betroth him to Joanna herself, as well as he had been refused by Odessa twenty years ago and Nya a long time ago. The reason why? He knew the prophesy. A Crochane woman would sit upon the Dracarian throne, and he had to be there. He would be there. No matter what. The first step to take?

He had to kill Thomas Coleman before he took what belonged to him.

Nya lost the time she had been running away from the house at late night, she just let the current carry her to wherever she felt safer. She didn’t remember knocking on the door, she only could see Cillian’s surprised face upon seeing her soaked from the rain and at late night. He was quick to usher her inside and offering his jacket, leading her to the warming fire.

The moment she felt good enough to talk, he asked “Why are you here, Nya? What happened? Are you in danger?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

He took her hand in his and with his thumb, he traced lines one it, “tell me everything. I may be able to help.”

The moment she opened her mouth, she never stopped speaking, telling him everything: that she was being forced to court and marry a whoremonger, that she was a witch, all her family was, that she knew the aftermath of the war and that she loved him. The last statement took his breath away.

“Truly, Nya? You love me?”

She kissed his hand “With all my heart.”

They didn’t know for how long they gazed at each other. Minutes. Hours. Years. Centuries. Did it even matter? Cillian slowly approached her lips, looking intently to see if he should stop, if he was crossing a line. He found the contrary. Her desire could match his own very well.

Before he could lock lips with her, she whispered “Take me to the nearest church and make me your wife. Make me your own, Cillian.”

“Nya,” he breathed “are you certain?”

“With all of my heart.”

And so, he did. Took her to a small church where a kind priest married them. A small beggar that was a good friend of Cillian was there as a witness, and before bed, Nya provided drinks.

After the priest had blessed their bed and left, they stood bare before the other, hearts racing. Nya first approached and asked “Have you done it before?” She whispered.

He shyly nodded “Nay. I tried, but I never wanted anyone. Not the way I want you.”

She bit her lip “You don’t mind then? That I am no virgin?” She looked at him through her eyelashes.

He kissed her head and smiled “I believe it’s fair that one of us know what they’re doing.”

Despite her own experience, her heart raced nevertheless. This was different. He was different. She clearly liked the men and women she had done it with, but she never loved them. Not like she loved Cillian. And that is what she whispered in his ear as they melted into the other’s touch. With a smile as wide as the edges of the world, he kissed her sweetly, becoming one with her. His Nya. His beloved of flaming red hair and the most beautiful smile in the world. His wife. His, and his alone.

Three months had gone by, and it was in January of 1471 that Nya finally turned up to her family home. The first thing she received were gasps of delight from her sisters… and a slap from her father, who looked angry. Too angry. Her mother recoiled at such violence, but did nothing yet. Nya took a deep breath “Hello, Father. Mother. Sisters.”

“Where the fuck were you, Nya?” Her father asked, anger visible in his face, “No, don’t answer. Whoring yourself to the York boy, right? And here one thought I raised you with fine taste. You could’ve picked someone legitimate at least.”

“Uzaric!” Vivienne intervened, “we discussed this before.”

He stepped back “You deal with her then. I’m sick of thinking what she has done.”

Nya’s stomach dropped, but said nothing. Instead, she looked at her mother “I can explain.”

“Oh, you will. Girls, to your rooms.”

“Mama, but—,”

“Not now, Nene! Off you go!”

Odessa took Nene’s hand and gave Nya a sympathetic nod. She was sure that she’d vouch for her. Nya raised her head and faced her mother “I want you to know that I do not regret it.”

Vivienne nodded “I know. I am your mother, dear, I can read you very well. But I need something to tell your father that isn’t that.”

Nya smiled bitterly “What else is to say that I am in love… and,” she placed her hands on her belly “that I am bearing his child?”

Vivienne reacted a bit too fast to her own tastes, slapping her daughter in pure shock “Child, what have you done?”

She gave her what was left of the drink she had taken on her wedding night and Vivienne nearly fainted. Nya, despite being hurt by the slap, steadied her mother. She sat her on the sofa and asked the maid for fresh water “Do you know the consequences of this, my child?”

Nya raised her chin “I am ready to face them.”

Vivienne massaged her temples “Oh, for the Goddess’ sake, what have I done? I told your father it wasn’t a good idea to mingle with humans, and here we are.”

“Mother—”

“Guards!” She cried “Lock her in her bedroom, and call my husband. Tell him to meet me on the gardens. He’ll know which spot I refer to.”

Nya looked at her mother in horror “Mama…”

“You’ll thank me soon. I’m sorry it has to be this way, baby.”

“No… no! Let me go! Let go of me! I command you!” She cried out, fighting the guards, but Vivienne was quick to put her to sleep with one movement of her fingers.

Winter of 1814

Elias was hidden in the snow, watching as Thomas Coleman waved goodbye to his friends and went straight to where he was. When he knew the friends were out of sight, he commanded the snow to grow thicker and colder, as well as the wind. He came out of his hiding spot, startling the boy “Oh! Mr. Bernhill, I didn’t quite see you. Whatever are you doing here, alone at such late hour?” He asked, confused.

He smiled sinisterly “Why, looking for you. We must speak, man to man.” His smile dropped “Particularly, of how would you like me to kill you.”

Thomas tried to laugh despite his fear and urge to flee “Wh-what a curious sense of humour you have, good sir. Joanna told me all about it.”

His features hardened “That wedding will not happen. You won’t take what is mine.”

Despite his fear, Thomas raised his head in defiance “Joanna belongs to nobody, and you won’t do us apart. She will never fall for a relic like yourself.”

He laughed “I don’t need her love. I need her throne.”

Thomas froze “T-throne?”

He smirked “My, she didn’t tell you? What kind of love is that?” He grabbed his neck “Joanna will be the next Empress of Dracaria, and you will not be her consort. I will.”

He gulped “It is not up to you.”

He scoffed, squeezing harder by the minute “Do you think I need permission?”

He threw him off and summoned his power, red and black on his hand, and slammed in on his chest, making him cry out of pain “I will have the Dracarian throne, as well as Joanna’s power, and they will all pay. Starting with you. No human will ever touch a wizard or witch again.” He could tell he was about to die and asked smugly “Any last words, boy?”

He was crying, in pain, pale and bleeding, but stood his ground nevertheless “You will not succeed. Joanna will be an empress with a great consort, harmony will be upon us once again, and my blood will have been well-spent.”

With rage inside him, he twisted his hand, making his death quicker and left him to die in the freezing cold. He scoffed. Yet another mortal who thought that he was above his power.

I will have Joanna’s throne and power, and the first thing I’ll do with that I will do with that is destroy the planet earth and take over everyone else, and no one will stop me.

Nya woke up in her room, with her sisters on each side of the bed, sympathetic looks on their faces, like if they knew something she didn’t. She sat up and looked at them “Girls? What is going on? What are you hiding?”

Odessa decided to speak “Father sent Nik to kill Cillian, but not before telling him that you’re to marry someone else and that your marriage will be annulled.”

Nya shook her head, tears prickling on her eyes “No. No. No, no, no, no, no—FATHER, YOU FUCKING COWARD, HOW COULD YOU?!” She screamed on the top of her lungs, the pain stabbing her right on the heart, heart racing and crying endlessly, nearly crushing her sisters’ hands.

Nene tried her best not to cry, and Odessa quickly climbed onto the bed, pulling her head onto her bosom, her golden hair getting on Nya’s crying, red face. Nene soon completed the hug sandwich and kissed her sister’s head. She asked if they knew what would happen to her baby, but they told them that their father refused to speak with them. They eavesdropped and discovered that Fabian would be responsible of his fate. At least her kinder, more empathetic brother would do good to her son. She was certain it was a boy.

And so, time passed, her punishment becoming softer as she became bigger, only seeing that same maid and her sisters, and occasionally her mother. Her father still refused to talk to her. He couldn’t even begin to look at her, for he’d see the baby bump. He had to turn down Elias in Nya’s name and make up an excuse, trying to hide her love child. Love. What a stupid word, used in vain for most of them, he thought. But a love child wouldn’t ruin his ambitious plan. Especially not a mutt of all things.

When the time of birth came, everyone was barely eating or paying attention, all huddled up in different parts of the house that were the closest to the birthing chamber, where no man was allowed there until the baby was out of the womb. Nya, despite her fear, was extremely brave, and determined to hold her boy before it was inevitably taken away from her. The household’s eyes were on her, and Fabian was guarding the door outside, making sure Nya didn’t pull off any antics.

Weeping of the effort, the baby had come out, and smiled with pride when it was announced that it was a boy. Fabian came into the room, ready to take him, but Nya was already grabbing his arm “Fabian, brother, please. Let me look at him. Smell him, name him. I beg you.”

Fabian hesitated for a second, then looked outside and then at Nya, and nodded “Only two minutes before father and mother come in.”

She smiled at picked her baby boy in her arms, chuckling and took his head to her nose, and my, what a magnificent scent! She could smell him for hours. She whispered “Fenris. Fenris, Fenris, Fenris, your name is Fenris.”

The moment she heard the steps, she looked one more time to his rosy cheeks. He seemed to have her father’s hair and easy-going personality. That’d take him far. She quickly gave it to Fabian, who took him out of the house. The moment the midwife left, she looked at her parents with hatred and fearlessness “Go ahead. Whatever thing you’ll do, do it now.”

Uzaric didn’t say anything. He clicked his fingers and she was soon tied up to the bed, and an Elder was performing an all too familiar spell. She was getting her magic back, alongside her longevity. She wanted to cry, to ask her father if Cillian was still alive, to even visit his tomb, but said nothing. She closed her eyes, falling into oblivion.

For a moment, she thought herself dead. She wanted to be dead, so badly. The moment she heard her father’s agitating, graving voice lecturing her sisters to not be like Nya, she couldn’t help but murmur “For fuck’s sake, not this cunt of a father again.”

Nene tried not to snicker, and Odessa bit the inside of her cheek as her father turned around and took a deep breath “I’ll let it pass because you’re grieving and normally say gibberish when you do.”

She looked at him defiantly “What if I did mean to say that you are indeed a cunt? Hm?”

Before he could say or do anything, Niklaus came into the room and bowed to his father, and her sisters bowed to him “Nya. Come with me.”

���Grab me by the hair and fucking make me, you murdering cunt.”

Niklaus, unlike their father, was unfazed by her insults and simply grabbed her by the arm gently and took her to the woods, where he finally let go and crossed his arms. She turned around and smiled angrily “Oh, you’ll kill me in the woods? What are you, a pedophilic Catholic priest from the Roman Empire who take their snitchers here?”

Still impassive, he explained “I’m not here to kill you, sister. I’m here to let you express your emotions safely from father… and allow you to say goodbye to your loved one.”

“Oh, we’re talking feelings? Awesome, great, my turn.” She crossed the distance and punched him right in the face. He didn’t flinch. She slapped him next. Pulled his hair, smacked his shoulders, she even kneed him where the sun never shone. She screamed at the top of her lungs, scratching him, ripping his clothes out of rage until he grabbed her and she then started crying, full of rage and grief. She had told him many things, hurtful things. That she hated them. That they were stuck-up, old-fashioned and selfish pair of twats, that they were self-centered narcissists who cared for nothing but themselves, that they deserved to die, not Cillian. That her baby was blameless, and they were heartless and full of shit. Niklaus steadied her, full of blood and bruises “Feels good, doesn’t it? Do you feel relieved, fulfilled, like you’ve avenged your beloved? Hm? Look, you just lost the man you love and your baby. I’m sorry, even if you don’t believe me. My hands were as tied as yours.”

“You could’ve said no!!! You could’ve defended me!!! Helped us elope!!! FUCK, FABIAN, WHY DID YOU CHOOSE DUTY OVER YOUR SISTER?!” She screamed, her pain and grief palpating all over her body, weeping, red, weak, tired, angry and deeply heartbroken, nearly dead in all matters save the physical. Niklaus instead steadied her again and took her to an unmarked grave, but she knew who that was. It had been recently dug, but the body was still in the casket.

Nya looked at the motionless body, his eyes shut and starting to go pale. His lips no longer had color. Neither did his cheeks. It was like watching an angel sleep. Her beloved angel, now with far better people than the ones she was stuck with. “Cillian…?” She quickly dropped to her knees, patting him to see if he was alive “My love, it’s me, Nya. Open your eyes, my love. It’s over. Cillian… please, say something, open your eyes.” She started panicking “Cillian, please, wake up, wake up, please, Cillian, open up, open your eyes,” her breath caught and took her hands off, realizing that he was truly dead “CILLIAN!” She screamed as loud as she could, the pain in her heart too much to bear “PLEASE, OPEN YOUR EYES!” She buried her head on his chest, hearing nothing of it. Sobbing, she lifted her eyes, her hands now gripping his dead body. At the top of her lungs, she wailed and screamed, so loudly it pierced the souls of whomever listened to them. And so, she kept wailing and screaming, and Niklaus closed his eyes, unable to look. He did not want to cause his sister pain, but his hands had been tightly tied and he had been far more merciful than any other goon his father would’ve sent. “Of all people, not you!!” She wailed, throwing herself to his lifeless body, ugly-crying, uncontrollably sobbing, feeling a piercing pain in her heart, as if it was being ripped out of her body and she couldn’t breathe. Niklaus was certain of one thing: this family, and Nya, would never being the same. Nya would either avenge her love or simply get out to never return.

Manchuria, Yusitan, Asia

Fabian finally reached the temple he had been looking for at least in three different regions. He held tight his baby nephew, who fussed over the cold. He shushed him, rocking him and hoping he’d fall asleep, but it was nearly impossible. He knocked on the door and took out the piece of bread with a magical ingredient and swallowed it. The monk looked at him and made a face. He mumbled something of an ‘European’.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted in his language “I was hoping to have a word.”

“What about?” He asked.

“The baby I have. Do hear me out before slamming the door in my face?” He naturally spoke the language thanks to the magical bread who made him speak it with fluency.

“Hmmph. Five minutes and no less.”

They got in and closed the door, where he observed the vivacious and rich decoration. He always liked the Mongols, and thought them intelligent and with refined taste, a thing that not many people in Europe were capable of understanding. Many looked down on them, but not Fabian.

“Well, what do you want from us?” The monk asked.

He adjusted baby Fenris on his arms, who slept like an angel “I need you to take in this little boy. He has nobody in the world, and I’m willing to pay a large sum.”

“Will you now, European boy?”

“Money is no trouble, and I promised his mother. I gave her my word that he’d be alright.”

They debated for a while, and the monk called his superiors to discuss it. He didn’t know how, but they ended up accepting him after much deliberation. He kissed goodbye his nephew and left a letter for him to find when he was older. Perhaps one day he’d understand. Perhaps he wouldn’t. But at least, he got something from his mother: a letter and her portrait. With one last look, he left the temple, to never return… for it’d be Fenris who’d decide if he’d return or not. He hoped he did. And that he’d live to see mother and son reunited.

1794

Fenris had always been curious of his roots. For years, he asked for his mother or father. It wasn’t until his 20th birthday that they gave him the letter and portrait of his mother, though the letter had been written by his uncle, Fabian. He had read it so many times, he knew it by heart, as well as his mother’s features: a woman of bright red hair, blue eyes, with a golden dress and a sweet and young demeanor, of the name Nya. Nya Crochane. Wife of Cillian of York, daughter of Uzaric and Vivienne, sister of Niklaus, Nene and Odessa. Born in 989, and one of the wisest and brightest witches of the Empire of Dracaria.

January, 1474

To my nephew, Fenris,

I have no clue how this letter will find you. Maybe you’ll be a small boy with many questions and a feeling that you lack something in your life. Maybe you’ll be an angry and moody teenager who has more questions than answer, or a grown man ready to show everyone that you are your father’s son. Maybe you’ll be twenty, or forty, or even more. I do not know. In this world, nothing is ever certain.

But what I do know, is that you either want answers or closure. Perhaps both, and I feel like it’s my duty to do so. I will do my best to tell you how you ended up on a monastery, and not with your mother.

Back in 1473, a beautiful witch met a bastard son of the House of York during the bloody Wars of the Roses. She fell in love, as did he. But this is not the tales they’ll tell you. There is an ancient law that forbids any witch having issue the mortal way, less alone with a mortal man, and with her parents working on promising her to someone else. Someone she truly didn’t care about.

The price of a witch having a baby was to give up her powers and immortality in exchange for birthing the baby safely. And your grandfather Uzaric didn’t want that. You see, he was a truly old-fashioned man, many centuries old by the time you were born. And your father wasn’t even to his liking. He was yet another pawn in his game. And the fact that he wanted to steal his most favored daughter did not please him at all.

So, he ordered his immediate execution and confined your mother to her chambers to give birth to you. The moment you were born, I was commanded to give you away somewhere away from Europe so you wouldn’t come looking for her. And I did. I didn’t have the needed strength to defend your mother. No one did. We still don’t. I wish we did, but we don’t. Not even my own mother, your grandmother, is capable of doing such thing.

If, by the time Uzaric is dead, you wish to see your mother, we won’t oppose you. I promise not to stand in your way.

I know that it probably won’t excuse what I did, but I am sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t man enough to protect and defend you and your mother. I’m sorry we had to separate you. And I’m sorry that you grew up in a cold and probably loveless environment. I promise I did my best to put you in good hands. I hope I did.

I hope I can meet you someday.

Your uncle,

Fabian Crochane

Fenris opened his eyes, the England his mother grew up in had indeed changed much: not even the same dynasty reigned. The Hanoverians were on its third king, and the longest-reigning so far. For three hundred years, he did not dare make so many questions about his past and why he was so different than his peers: he was dark of hair, blue eyes and with what he could hear ‘Western’ features, meanwhile his peers were of Asian features. Still, he was one of them, despite his physical differences, he had been trained the same for three centuries by the best masters of all time, and he had acquired skill that no other man on Earth could ever match… at least on the mortal’s land. He had known that his aunt Odessa could be found on the city of London in the opera house. So, he knocked on the door “Excuse me, I’m looking for Odessa. She works here. I believe she’s blonde and—,”

“We don’t have anyone of the name Odessa, sorry lad.”

He was about to close the door when a commanding voice calmly threatened “Albert, that will be the last time you try to slam the door in my nephew’s face.”

The man named Albert spun around in shock “Nephew?”

“Are you deaf perhaps? I clearly said nephew. Now, let him in.”

The man, clearly intimidated by her, let him in and continued to guard the door. Fenris looked at his aunt: she was blonde of hair and with similar blue orbs he’d seen in portraits. She was older, though, and with a wiser demeanor. She nevertheless smiled at him and opened her arms “Come hug your aunt, dear nephew.”

He shyly did so, and first thing he caught was a whiff of her essence: rosemary, polish and cheap perfume. He wondered what his mother smelled like. Odessa beckoned him to sit with her and speak quietly so they wouldn’t interrupt the rehearsals. Fenris stood quiet, analyzing what to ask and where to begin “You’re probably wondering where you can find your mother.”

“Yes.”

“Not even I know. Nya kept to herself everything she did after… after you were born. She even dismissed any staff appointed to her. She learned to do everything for herself, and never once gave away her exact location and activity. That drove my father mad. I mean… your grandfather.”

“I can’t blame her. He sounds like an arsehole.”

Odessa snorted “That is an understatement. He condemned your mother for bedding a mortal of her own choosing and has sent me to do the same. It’s only alright when he commands it.”

“He’s still alive?”

“No, but he’s sent me to many mortals’ beds for his plots and schemes.”

“And who sent you here then?”

“The emperor. That one I cannot truly refuse.”

“I heard he’s from the dynasty of Mannan and Buenaventura.”

“Yes, he is. But if I succeed in my task, he will be the last of them.”

He frowned “And which family will rule next?”

“…Ours, dear nephew. The Crochanes will be in power once again since 1046, when the Osbornes dethroned my grandfather, Jannis Crochane. I was a girl then, but your grandfather had the meltdown of meltdowns.”

Fenris smirked, only imagining the ever composed and cool Uzaric having a meltdown because someone else took what he thought his. He had read that he founded the kingdom of Dracaria, but Orion Osborne, of albino hair and bright pink eyes had made it an empire, to the point that he was known as Orion the Conqueror. He also heard that Jannis was weak and too peaceful to withhold an invasion that everyone else approved of.

It was a pity that they became so maddened it led to the worst war Panzuria had ever witnessed: the Clash of Lineages, for the Crochanes, Mannans and Buenaventura’s would all ally against the mad and evil Horace the Cruel, who not only had killed all of his family in a span of six months, but had also wed his youngest sister. The man, before that royal marriage, had been married to eight of the best and most beautiful socialites of Dracaria, all of whom had died mysteriously or publicly executed for several reasons: not giving him a son, alleged adultery, necromancy and voodoo against him, incest even.

It had been a cruel and bloody war, killing at least 75 billion of all kinds of people, among them six races that had lived peacefully: witches, werewolves, mermaids, faeries, humans and vampires. He had known that not so long ago, the leaders of all groups had called a peace after the heiress to the Buenaventura had married the heir of the Mannans and ended the war. They had also modernized the system and gave better rights to all the affected species, as well as giving over former imperial territories to those who wanted out of the mainland of the empire.

Odessa patted his shoulder “I’m sorry I can’t be of help. But… I do remember that she had a fondness for places like the Isle of Wight or Normandy. Try going there, you won’t find her in the country that caused her pain.”

“Thank you, aunt, and… good luck in your quest.”

“And you, nephew.”

He left, and a dumbfounded lady started bombarding Aunt Odessa with questions about the handsome lad who claimed to be her nephew. He could only spot her shaking her head, a small smile on her face.

Early November, 1817

Fenris had given up finding his mother long ago, and instead had been looking for his father’s grave. He passed as an historian who was interested in forgotten figures of medieval history, and asked about Cillian of York’s rests. That’s how he found out that his ‘rivals’ had killed him in the stables and buried him with an unmarked grave. But he wouldn’t allow it to happen. He soon started looking up what had been of his family since 1536. Apparently, the day before Anne Boleyn was beheaded, a group of men led by the Duke of Karlington then had kidnapped his aunt Nene and had forced her repeatedly in a secluded hut in the woods, alongside with beatings and mocking towards her. He was horrified, and now understood well his cousin’s hatred for the current duke. He had tried locating Nene herself, but she had escaped, letting him know that she didn’t wish to meet him yet. She did accept and responded his letters, telling him of the residence they had been and that Nya and Niklaus disappeared for hours, but had a feeling that his tomb was nearby.

After finding the house, he started and exhaustive search for his grave, and when he thought that it had been destroyed, he found an unmarked grave. Using his powers, he felt a familiar presence. Picking up the shovel and started digging. He dug for hours, until midnight was upon him, but he found it: he was all bones by now, but the ring in his finger had the York emblem and it also had wizard protections around it. He had just found his father’s grave. With a flick of his wrist, he placed the bones on the rich casket he had commissioned and started putting everything in place. Then, he placed a gravestone that read “Cillian of York, 1452-1473. Husband and father, here lies a man wronged by unfair laws of the time.” Then, he sighed. At last, he had vindicated his long dead father.

When he arrived at the house he was staying, a letter was placed on his desk. The handwriting was feminine, and he was soon glad to be reached out by the author:

To my dear cousin Fenris,

I hope this letter finds you in good health, as well as in English soil. If not, I am happy to provide a portal that shall bring you here at once.

As you may know, I was crowned a year ago, and I was hoping that you could come back to your rightful home in Dracaria. I will be happy to provide you peerage, as well as rights as a member of my family.

To know more details, meet me in the royal gardens on the 25th of November during teatime. I beseech you to be on time.

Kind regards,

Your cousin,

Her Imperial Majesty, Joanna I of the Dracarian Empire of the Founding House of Crochane.

Well, he thought, it seems that I am to meet an empress who happens to be my cousin. Might as well call my tailor.

Mother and son walked through the labyrinthine castle that could’ve been his, apparently. Nya told him everything he asked, and he realized they shared several traits: like her, Fenris disliked violence, and was mostly calm and dutiful, preferring to perform in the shadows rather than make a scene or being the center of attention. He also discovered he had more cousins: Guinevere from his uncle Niklaus, who had also killed his father. She was very different to her father, taking a liking to his late wife, who had agreed to turn into a witch: she was very much like her, with brown hair and warm brown eyes, as well as a witty but sweet personality, a very giving and loving woman, and Niklaus’ princess. By his uncle Fabian, he had three cousins: Mikael, Freya and Amatis, a very chaotic and united bunch. Mikael had his father’s tall, dark and handsome features, meanwhile Freya and Amatis looked like their shared grandmother Vivienne: blonde, curly hair, bright blue eyes and a sweet demeanor, though Freya was a tribrid; she had been attacked by a vampire during her teens when she disobeyed her father by going to a pagan party and on her 100th birthday, she got into a fight with a werewolf and was turned as well. It seemed that she was Fabian’s weakness and couldn’t discipline her, so it was up to their grandfather to do so. The cousins had been in different courts, flaunting as they pleased since their parents spoiled them or the strict one had died. Amatis was a shy and sweet girl who followed her around, though lately she had finally gained some confidence after a small chat with Joanna. It seemed like her presence did people good.

Turning around, they found Joanna waiting for them. Her red hair was now in an elaborate hairdo and her piercing blue eyes were now relaxed, smiling fondly at the pair “Auntie. Cousin. What a pleasure to see you two reunited.”

“Indeed. It seems that everything’s coming back together.”

Joanna nodded and indicated them to follow her. They chatted for a bit, and Joanna heard all about his adventures in Manchuria and what he had learned, and made him promise a sparring lesson. He teasingly told her he hadn’t been beaten since 1588. Joanna was just even more tempted to challenge him to a friendly spar. They stopped at a very luxurious and decorated wing, with rich tones of purple and beige, where many initials, alongside the small flame that indicated whether they were alive or not, noticed that some were unused and others were being renewed “This wing is made for blood relatives. The moment I knew you were alive, I cleaned out an old room for you and the servants are waiting for your commands to decorate it to your tastes. I’m also decorating Frederick’s room. All rooms must have some purple in it, for it is the color of royalty and it’s our daily reminder that we are the ruling house now. Come inside, take a look. I have things to do.”

She left and they politely curtsied to her, and Nya observed their rooms were in front of one another. Nene’s room was still active, but locked. Niklaus and Fabian’s rooms had a white cross on it, representing mourning and the fact that they were dead. Only the birth of a member of their line would compel Joanna to open it, or ones of another of her line. Frederick was but three, so there was some time left.

Arm-in-arm, mother and son strode to the room, discussing what he’d like to see in his new room. It was certainly far more contentious than the one he had in Yusitan. 

1968

So much had happened. So much bloodshed. Grand monarchies, now only seen in the history books. Fenris Crochane was not unfamiliar with loss and pain, but everything that had happened was beyond what he had lived. He was quick to visit his mother, who had bought a small flat in York to have some time for herself. He had noticed her growing depression, and the fact that she was very old. She had reached her millennium, and he was scared. He only has had his mother for a century and a half. It wasn’t nearly enough.

Outside, he could hear a new song from a group called ‘The Association’. He wondered if the lyrics reminded her of her love for his father. It probably did.

You ask me if there'll come a time

When I grow tired of you

Never, my love

Never, my love

You wonder if this heart of mine

Will lose its desire for you

Never, my love

Never, my love

What makes you think love will end?

When you know that my whole life depends

On you (on you)

Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba (ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba)

Never, my love

Never, my love

You say you fear I'll change my mind

I won't require you

Never, my love

Never, my love

How can you think love will end

When I've asked you to spend your whole life

With me? (with me, with me)

Never, my love (never, my love)

Never, my love

Never, my love (never, my love)

Never, my love

Never, my love

Nya felt her heartbeat get slower by the minute. As the new song from The Association played in the background, all she could think about of her millennial life was him. Her Cillian. Her one and only love. His blue eyes, that could match the color the sky. His dark brown hair, that reminded her of the comfort of a good coffee in the morning. His caress, him calling her ‘sweet, sweet Nya’ and ‘my most beloved and august wife’.

Many had tried to win over her hand, but all she could think about was her Cillian. None of them had his genteel manners, or his sweet wording, or his way with children and animals, that warmed her heart so. Every man just reminded her that they weren’t Cillian. She had done her best, but the death and chaos surrounding the continent just didn’t help.

Fenris rushed the best he could to her room. The moment he came in, he heard something fall from Nya’s room. Worried, he rushed towards the room… and what he found, broke him. His mother lay unconscious and with a bottle of pills empty on the floor. He escalated to her level and shook her “Mother? Mother, wake up! Wake up, mother! You can’t go! Please, Mama!” He sobbed.

Fenris could count with the fingers of one hand how many times he had cried. This time, it came out instantly. Seeing a part of himself and his past go was the worst. He didn’t cry when his wife had a miscarriage. He didn’t cry when he saw his cousins die in the Bazar of Charity’s fire. He didn’t cry when he served his time in both world wars. He didn’t even cry during his training in Manchuria.

But now, he had just gotten his mother back, and now, she was gone. He wept throughout most of the night, and only when he was done, he still couldn’t help drop a few tears. This was his mother, who had been his rock and biggest supporter for a hundred years. The person who had loved him the most and had been the most loyal to him, gone without a trace.

But what destroyed him was when the Gods claimed her. She became ashes. Her white hair, that had been one as red as the sun during dawn, her closed eyes, that once shone with the light of a thousand bonfires and had the colour of the cleanest seas, her saddened face, that once had the brightest and most sweet smile, now gone. Made dusk without a second thought.

The woman who had come from a great lineage of witches and wizards, a brave woman who showed that kindness was not weakness, that there was always some love left in the world, that always believed in good, that never once spoke evil of anybody and was one of the most powerful, loyal, loving, caring and giving women that had ever graced mother earth, now made dusk, finally reunited with her love, but at what cost? At what expense?

He noticed a letter. A goodbye letter. A suicide letter.

To my son Fenris,

If you find this letter, it means that by now I am with the Gods. And I truly, earnestly hope that you are away by then. If not, I am sorry, baby.

You and I know I’ve had no easy life, despite growing up in privilege and luxury. But I have lived a life without my love, with two sisters too busy surviving to even pay attention to the others’ pain. A legacy that has done more harm than anything else. Thank Heavens that Joanna changed it all. It brought me joy to officiate the first public wedding of a mortal man and an immortal woman. I knew she remember when your father and I had to hide in shame. How I disappeared for months out of fear of scrutiny and your grandfather’s wrath.

So much has changed ever since that fateful afternoon in the royal gardens. You were but a boy with no experience of what the world had to offer, but look at you, my boy. You experienced love. Then marriage. Then fatherhood. The losses of it. The bitter taste of time. An ever-changing world. Wars like never seen before. You’ve seen empires rise and fall. And what’s more, we’ve done it all together. We’ve argued, cried, laughed, danced, sang and celebrated. Before everything, we were a small family, in danger, but thankfully, and with yours and Joanna’s wisdom, we came from at least twenty members to nearly two hundred. And I am so proud of having become a grandmother. And to see you get what I wanted to give you once.

I don’t ask much of you. Your children are grown, and your wife is stronger than ever. I ask of you to remember me. To tell my dear grandchildren how much I adore them, and how I will miss them. Hearing them laugh, cry, advise them, explore the world, discover new things, experience something that brings them joy. To see you grow as a man, as they grow as well. My small afternoon teas with Gertie. Even if my body is no more, my soul will miss you forever, and carry the pain of leaving you behind.

A poet said once that, as long as you remember me, I’m not truly dead. So, think of me often. Do not let me get lost to history. Do not let my efforts to keep your father alive in vain. And most of all, live.

Keep laughing. Keep crying. Keep dancing. Keep fighting. And keep being yourself, for the very best of my heart and your father’s soul is in you, my beloved son.

We shall meet not so soon.

I love you as there are stars in the entire universe,

Mama.

And so, Fenris Crochane wept away, mourning the death of a mother that he had been apart from three hundred years and had met for one, and every memory they’ve made of it.

He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer he had gotten used to say, and allowed his father to carry his mother with her well-deserved paradise.

Somewhere in paradise

Nya Crochane observed herself: she knew she was back on her old self, for her long red hair was once again on her head, as well as her smooth and youthful skin, and felt younger, immortal even. She also observed that she was back into her white nightgown, the one she had wore before she laid with Cillian. She still remembered buying it, after all this time. She smiled. Perhaps he was there!

“There you are, sweet Nya, I was looking everywhere for you,” a familiar voice whispered.

She turned around and gasped: her beloved Cillian of York stood before her, white shirt and simple pantaloons on him, the same he had worn on their wedding night. He had an extended hand and an inviting smile “Come along.”

She accepted her hand and started to run across the field, and Nya laughed. The wind caressed her red curls as she and Cillian gained speed. After such a sprint, they stopped in front of a beautiful hut: the hut they had stayed before she returned with her parents. Nya laughed incuriously, “It is what I think it is, my love?”

“Indeed, chou. It’s our home. And now, no one can stop us from being happy.”

Nya beamed and Cillian picked her bride style, and both of them laughed “I love you, Cillian.”

“I love you too, Nya.”

And so, they entered inside their new paradise, to never move out of there, finally together after so much time apart and so little time together for the rest of eternity.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

🔁

… crashed the app the first time I tried to paste the list Oof… this is entirely unhinged so enjoy! (I tried to avoid ones we’ve talked about before but I’m sure some slipped in and also I’m sure that I missed some 😭)

Send me a 🔁 and I’ll list one or more crossovers between our ocs that I’d be interested in talking about

Gillien

Ophelia Wayne

Isolde Kean

Lorena Falcone

Seraphini Zambini

Adhara Black

Ara Black

Carina Goldberg

Venus Malfoy

Violetta Greengrass

Bridget

Augusta Beauchamp

Dorothea Bridgerton

Eliza Huntington

Emmeline Bridgerton

Georgina Pemberton

Harriet Warwick

Faith

Betty Fabray

Christina Hummel

Faye Anderson

Jaci Jones

Kendall Pierce

Lilibeth Anderson

Sadie Berry

Savannah Evans

May Taylor & June Harris

Mona

Betty Fabray

Jaci Jones

Kendall Pierce

Lilibeth Anderson

Savannah Evans

Elliot

Betty Fabray

Dolly Corcoran

Jaci Jones

Johanna Berry

Kendall Pierce

Lilibeth Anderson

Sadie Berry

Savannah Evans

Brax

Betty Fabray

Jaci Jones

Kendall Pierce

Lilibeth Anderson

Sadie Berry

Savannah Evans

Eleanor

Betty Fabray

Charlotte Smythe (… no I don’t know anything about her I just love Hizzie)

Joy Schuester

Kendall Pierce

Marilyn Pillsbury

Sadie Berry

Savannah Evans

Aro

Betty Fabray

Jaci Jones

Kendall Pierce

Lilibeth Anderson

Sadie Berry

Savannah Evans

Andrew

Abbie Hudson

Betty Fabray

Cece & Colton Cartwright

Dolly Corcoran

Joy Schuester

Roxie Flores

May Taylor & June Harris

Cordelia

Blake Castellan ( & Jasper Gabriel )

Cressida Brantley

Crystal Solace

Elaine & Felicity Castellan

Liz Castellan

Melody Weiss

Penelope Grace

Stella Beauregard

Victoria Blofis

Viola Di Angelo

Mercy

Antoinette Kensington

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford & Charles Gilmore

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller

Chelsea Geller

Dani Gilmore-Danes

Elle Hearst

Lili Gilmore

Sienna Elliot

Sophie Dugray

Evie

Antoinette Kensington

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller

Chelsea Geller

Dani Gilmore-Danes

Sienna Elliot

Daisy

Allie St James

Annabel Gilmore

Antoinette Kensington

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford & Charles Gilmore

Brady Mariano

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller

Charlotte Howard-Danes

Dani Gilmore-Danes

Eliya Rygalski

Evan Mariano

Gabi Mariano

Holland Bass

Ilsa Gilmore-Danes

Jane Forester

Jocelyn Gilmore

Lucas Gilmore (ft the Willow Squad)

Lorrie Gilmore-Danes

Marley Tinsdale

Preston Gilmore

Sam Gleason

Imogen

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford

Brady Mariano

Emmeline Forbes

Jacqueline Grant

Regina

Annabel Gilmore

Antoinette Kensington

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller

Dani Gilmore-Danes

Elle Hearst

Jocelyn Gilmore

Lucas Gilmore

Nellie McCrae

Preston Gilmore

Sienna Elliot

Lydia

Lexi Danes

Jocelyn Gilmore

Preston Gilmore

Gwen Merlyn

Annika Webster

Dani Merlyn

Kelsey Doyle

Mia Queen

Richie

Allie St James

Annabel Gilmore

Antoinette Kensington

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford (& Charles Gilmore & Kaito Lauder but also Blythe x Richie)

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller

Cosette Gerard

Dani Gilmore Danes

Eleanor Doose

Elle Hearst

Eliya Rygalski

Evan Mariano

Gabi Mariano

Holland Bass

Hyacinth Nelson (???)

Ilsa Gilmore-Danes

Jacqueline Grant

Jane Forester

Jocelyn Gilmore

Lili Gilmore

Lucas Gilmore

Lorrie Gilmore-Danes

Marley Tinsdale

McKenna Hayden

Natalie Lister (ft the whole willow gang)

Nellie McCrae

Paige Huntzberger

Preston Gilmore & Lexi Danes

Sage Hall

Sam Gleason

Sara Topaz (??)

Sienna Elliot

Viviana Lozano

The Band

[ Carlotta Hayden once she’s renamed ]

Grace

Allie St James

Brady Mariano

Eleanor Doose

Evan Mariano

Gabi Mariano

Holland Bass

Ilsa Gilmore Danes

Jacqueline Grant

Jane Forester

Lucas Gilmore & Natalie Lister (ft the entire Willow Squad)

Paige Huntzberger

Sage Hall

Sam Gleason

The Band

Callum

Kirsty & the dance squad

Willow & the squad

Sam Gleason

Holland Bass

Sage Hall

Millie

Avery Stiles

Blythe Langford

Brielle Livingston & Austin Geller & Brooks Livingston

Chelsea Geller

Dani Gilmore-Danes

Nellie McCrae

Paige Huntzberger

Sienna Elliot

Fraya

Annika Webster

Imogen Allen

Kelsey Doyle

Mia Queen

Parker Allen & Noah Altman

Cassandra

Angelina Winters

Dani Merlyn

Diana Queen

Kelsey Doyle

Mercy Bowen

Mia Queen

Lillian & Max

Annika Webster

Dani Merlyn

Imogen Allen

Kelsey Doyle

Mia Queen

Nia West

Parker Allen & Noah Altman

Kendra

Carissa Grace

Cassandra Aelius

Melody Weiss

Penelope Grace

Josie Spencer

Calleigh Sheridan

Odelia Kowroski

Beth

Deborah Winchester

Elle Winchester

Esther Colt

Genesis

Isla George

Jude Winchester

Nevaeh Murphy

Phoebe Winchester

Trix Stilinski

Genesis

Calleigh Sheridan

Odelia Kowroski

Aria

Chiara Potts

Chryseis

Finley Rider

Harmony Of Atlantis

Lani Of Atlantis

Mae

Mia

Blossom

Finley Rider

Isadora Darling

Nerissa

Violet Kingsleigh

Winnie Pan

Ariana Pendragon

Elsine Pendragon

Allyria Pendragon

Lynette Starfall

Princess Aelia

Clara Gale

Andrea Hagreeves

Andromeda Hargreeves

Audrey Hargreeves

Cleo Sullivan

Dahlia Mort

Gemma Hargreeves

Helena Hargreeves

June McLaughlin

Lorelai Hargreeves

Max Carmichael

Sierra Nearing

Sunny Talbot

Tiffany Katz

Tori Hargreeves

Virginia West

Wilhelmina Hargreeves

Fortune

Beatrice

Finley Rider

Harley Hook

Princess Isabelle

Rosabelle Legume

Castor

Ara Black

Adhara Black

Carina Goldberg

Danica Lestrange

Lyarra Vance

Venus Malfoy

Violetta Greengrass

The Healer

Abbey Baker

Carys Harkness-Jones

Cassiopeia Harkness

Celeste Nichols

Ceridwen Lewis

Estella Tyler

Mina Ambrosia / The Scribe

Rose Harkness

Rusalia / The Oracle

Theia Wolfe

Matilda Fairbanks

Abbey Baker

Carys Harkness-Jones

Cassiopeia Harkness

Celeste Nichols

Ceridwen Lewis

Estella Tyler

Mina Ambrosia / The Scribe

Rose Harkness

Rusalia / The Oracle

Theia Wolfe

Beatrix Shellstrop

Bridget Atkins

Tatum Shellstrop

Amber Cain

[magenta-racer]

AT: Different Views

An art trade made for my friend, Mellow-Dreams, on DeviantArt. She asked me to draw my OCs, Thunderstorm and Warwick, talking about the way they view hers, Stardust.

Thunderstorm and Stardust are in love with each other and are so sweet they might as well give you diabetes lol. Obviously, since Thunderstorm is more intimate with her, he certainly is familiar to her sweet, shy, kind and caring side. Warwick, however, doesn't really get much along with Stardust due to conflicts during the war, so his view towards her differs from Thunderstorm. Now, they're exposing their opinions to each other while they wait for their respective mates in a bar.

Btw, this is a post-war scenario.

[immortalbumblebee]

Chapter 20: Forged in Fire

So two chapters of this series passed 100 notes this week? Holy shit, guys!!! Thank you so much! I've been trying to find as much time for writing between finals, but this is probably going to be the last chapter I publish until the hoidays.

Thank you so much for y'all support. The likes and comments are really motivating.

Content warning for mentions of birth

Masterlist

Working at the factory had become excruciating since you got arrested. Well, it had always been a little excruciating. But it had been especially bad for these past few months once word had gotten out that you’d spent the night at the Enforcer HQ. Your pay had been considerably docked, nearly all your coworkers all but refused to interact with you, and all your supervisors would go out of their way to be right pricks to you whenever given the chance. Morichi had made it clear that you’d almost fully lost your job from the whole kerfuffle.

It was fairly easy to ignore when you were working, primarily just focusing on your work. Sure, your supervisors were bad, but no worse than the chembarons your sort were used to back home. No, what really made it insufferable were the moments between work, like in the dressing room when you could feel your coworkers eyes’ on you, hear their judgmental murmurings. 

Finally shedding yourself of the annoyingly stuffy uniform, you couldn’t help but close your locker with a particularly loud ‘slam’. The room grew silent at this, which only worked to further irritate you.

Fuck this

Storming out of the change room, you didn’t even think as you made your way down the hallway and over to the catwalk that led you to the staff entrance. As you crossed the raised catwalk, however, you found yourself stilling as you passed over the main floor underneath. Down there, you could hear the high-pitched hum of the metal on the conveyor lines. Eerily familiar. As you watched the assembly line workers do their work, you found yourself focusing on the metal parts being put together. Long pipes and complex golden mechanisms. All being locked together and assembled until finally…the all too familiar shine of the barrel of an Encorfcer’s gun. Hundreds, if not thousands of them being pumped out of this factory every damn day.

You’d put the dots together after your arrest, when the Enforcers had stormed the fighting ring. The ringing had been too familiar, like a blacksmith recognizing his own maker’s mark. 

Zeroing in on the cool, familiar texture of the metal, you couldn't resist the urge to lift one hand. A few pieces on the conveyor belt trembled briefly, then floated effortlessly a couple of inches off the ground. With a subtle flex of your fingers, the metal obeyed—curling in on itself with a sharp, satisfying ‘crunch.’ It was almost as if you were breathing—effortless, instinctive, and perfectly in tune with the world around you.

Shaking your head out of your thoughts, you let the metal fall thoughtlessly back onto the belt and went to continue on your way, didn’t even notice anyone around you as you began to march down the catwalk. That is, until you came crashing full-force into a tiny body. Colliding, you both stumbled back, the impact snapping you out of your daze. 

“Oh!” Victoria exclaimed, jumping back. “Terribly sorry!”

“Oh my gods, no. I’m so sorry. I totally wasn’t looking where I was going.” You scan her over, but she looks fine.

“No, no. ‘ts my fault, really!” She waved her hands anxiously, her cheeks flushing. “Are y’alright, miss?”

“I’m fine.” You give her a little smile. “Thanks.”

"N' problem!" she says, just as a few of your coworkers round the corner. The moment they spot you and her standing there, their expressions shift subtly, but it's enough to catch your attention. You can practically hear the hushed whispers starting up behind you as they hurry past, heads down, moving with that practiced air of nonchalance—like they think the two of you are completely oblivious to the thinly veiled judgment they're broadcasting.

“Well now,” Victoria murmurs, “who pissed in their pond?”

“Sorry,” You sigh, lifting your hand to rub the bridge of your nose in annoyance. “Y’may wanna back off from me. Seems like ‘m bit of a social pariah at the moment.”

Victoria shrugs. “Like anyone ‘round ‘ere be given’ me the time of day, anyday? I’m the only foreigner workin’ here, lass. Heard you got yourself locked up?”

“It’s…a long story.”

Victoria seems to think for a moment, looks around (lacking any semblance of subtlety) then motions to the worker’s exit. “Wanna catch a smoke wit’ me?”

As she led you outside, you were immediately thrown off by the unexpected direction she took. Instead of heading toward the usual smoking section, she veered sharply in the opposite direction, heading straight for the bridge. Her pace quickened, and despite your curiosity, you asked her where she was taking you. Without even looking back, she waved you off, offering no explanation.

For a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed your mind—was this some sort of twisted trap? Were you walking into some elaborate murder plot? The thought lingered, but before you could give it more weight, she made a sharp turn down a narrow flight of stairs, just as the bridge came into view behind you. You had never taken this path before, and only now did you realize how easily you'd overlooked it. The steps seemed unremarkable, tucked away beneath the looming shadow of the bridge, as if they were meant to be ignored.

The descent felt oddly quiet, the rhythmic thud of your footsteps mingling with the distant hum of the city. After just a few flights of stairs, the air grew thicker with the scent of brine and decay. You reached the bottom and, as you rounded the last corner, the waters of Pilt River stretched out before you. A small, neglected beach lay before you, its shoreline littered with an unsightly amount of garbage. Old, rusted cans, plastic wrappers, and pieces of broken wood jutted out from the dirt, an unfortunate testament to the city’s disregard for this forgotten corner.

Yet, amidst the debris, something caught your eye. Set into the side of a nearby wall, nearly camouflaged by grime and neglect, was a large manhole. About as tall as Vander, if you had to guess. The rusted metal bars that covered the opening were more than big enough for a normal-sized person to slip right through.

“What��is this?” You asked Victoria. 

‘M not really sure, to be frank.” She shrugged, wandering closer to the giant manholes. “When I first moved ‘ere, I took it upon m’self to find all the points o’ access t’ the water tha’ I could. Even if I can’ be swimmin’ in it, it’s nice just to be close to it y’know? But these…these stuck out t’ me.” She slipped right through the bars. “This tunnel in particular splits off, say, ‘bout half a mile out? Goes that-a ways,” she points off in the direction of the bridge, “righ’ under the river.”

You followed her lead, stepping easily through the rusted metal bars. The air in the tunnels was thick and stagnant, a foul mix of rotting garbage and something else—something eerily familiar. A few breaths later, the stench hit you like a wave, sharp and unmistakable—the pungent smell of Zaun’s mines. It was the same stench that clung to the clothes of the boys when they came home from work, the same tainted air that swept through the slums and left so many of your people sick every day.

"This... this is part of the Underground’s ventilation system," you said, the realization hitting you as the damp walls closed in. "It must have overlapped with Piltover’s sewage system somewhere along the way, when they were engineering the city. Seems pretty par for the course, doesn't it?"

Victoria wrinkled her nose. "Ventilation and sewage?" she repeated, sounding dubious. "That don’ 'ound righ’."

You stifle a chuckle. "Welcome to life on the other side of the bridge." You paused, eyeing the dark path ahead. "But... Victoria, you’re sure this leads to the other side?” 

She nods. “Not far in, I’d wager, but it definitely be lettin’ out on the Promenade. Been there m’self. Tunnels could definitely use some serious upkeep though, I warn. There’ a pretty big leak a good ways in.”

“How many people know about this?” you asked, your mind racing with possibilities.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Who else would I be tellin’, Lass?"

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Then why show me?"

She shifted uncomfortably, casting a sideways glance at you.

“Well, if I’m bein’ honest…you’re the only one at that factory that treats me as anything more than a stupid immigrant that ‘an’t speak. And I figure, if you e’er need to…y’know, I just figure you’d ‘ave more use for this than me.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt the cogs in your mind clicking into place. A direct tunnel from the Promenade to Topside. The sheer scale of it hit you like a punch to the gut.

"Lady be damned." You muttered under your breath, shaking your head. The magnitude of what you were looking at was sinking in. You raised a hand and let it slide over the worn stone, feeling the miles of metal pipes buried within it. The structure was ancient, far older than anything you’d seen before. It would need significant repairs before being used for anything substantial, but the potential... The potential was enormous.

“Victoria…” you said, your voice low with awe. “You’ve got no idea how big this is gonna be."

Back at the apartment, you’re more than happy to share this news with the guys. You pulled out the old blueprints—dusty, frayed at the edges, but still legible enough to make sense of. They’d been tucked away for years, a relic from when one of you managed to snag them from Piltover’s archives. As you spread the paper across the table, the lines and markings revealed exactly what you’d hoped for: the tunnel on Piltover’s side was labeled as a sewage system, but further down by the shoreline, it merged seamlessly with the ventilation tunnel that led up into Zaun’s upper levels.

The room grew quiet as everyone leaned in, taking in the implications.

“How bad’s the damage?” Vander asked, his gravelly voice cutting through the silence. His brow furrowed with concern. “This girl, Victoria, said there’s a leak?”

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to recall every detail Victoria had mentioned. “I’m not sure exactly. The tunnels are old, and if there’s a leak, it could be a serious issue. But if I can get in there with Connol and some of the other factory folks, we can probably assess the damage and figure out how to fix it.”

Vander gave you a curt nod, but the expression on his face told you he wasn’t completely satisfied. He was always cautious, always weighing the risks.

Silco, ever the skeptic, leaned forward, his sharp eyes fixed on you. “And your source can be trusted?” His voice was calm, but there was a glint of doubt in his gaze as he scribbled something into the worn pages of his notebook.

You met his gaze, unwavering. “I’d say so. She’s Bilgewater-folk, like me and Ma.” You paused, considering the weight of your words. "I trust her. She wouldn't steer me wrong."

Benzo let out a laugh, breaking the tension that had begun to build in the room. He threw an arm around you in a rough, familiar gesture, his grin wide and infectious. “Trust a gutter fish to be all tricksy-like,” he joked, the teasing tone in his voice lightening the mood. “Good find, Fishie.”

“If we’re able to get this into proper commission, this could change a lot of Zaun’s infrastructure. What if we—” Silco’s words were abruptly cut off as the door to the apartment swung open with a loud crash. The sudden intrusion startled everyone, and you all whipped around, trying to make sense of the noise.

Standing in the doorway, panting heavily and struggling to catch her breath, was Niya. She was disheveled, her work clothes torn and streaked with dirt, as if she’d sprinted across the entire length of Zaun. Her eyes were wide, panic etched across her face.

“What in the blazes—!” Benzo started, his voice rising in surprise and confusion.

Niya barely seemed to hear him as she staggered into the room, clutching her side and gasping for air. “Felicia, she–fuck that was a lot of stairs-she-” She made a sudden gagging sound, her body curling inward as if she was about to collapse. It was clear that she was exhausted, and something about her frantic movements made your gut twist with unease.

“Fel? What’s wrong with Fel?!” Vander sprang into action, running over to help Niya further into the apartment as she continued to hack up a lung. The moment his hands were on her, however, the poor girl all but collapsed into him. 

“The baby!” Niya puttered out. “Fel, she-oh geez-went into labour!” 

The apartment broke out into panic, all four of you crying out in different voices.

“The baby’s not due for another couple months!” Silco’s voice broke out against the panic.

“Seven weeks, but yeah. I know.” Niya gestured to herself, her breath still ragged. “You think I would’ve run all the way over here if it wasn’t an emergency?”

You felt your heart sink as you moved quickly to support her, taking her into your arms, steadying her as she swayed on her feet. “Niya, where is she?” The urgency in your voice was impossible to hide now.

She wiped a hand across her face, trying to push through her exhaustion. “We were at her place. Had a playdate scheduled. My niece, Skye, she—” She broke off, coughing harshly, and then continued, “She ran to get Dr. Yan.”

“And Connol?” Silco’s voice cut through the room, sharp and demanding.

Niya pointed back toward the door, her body still shaking. “Already ran and got him from Heisen’s factory. He should be with her by now.”

Vander, already moving, was the first to gear up. As he laced up his boots, his expression hardened, a stone wall of determination. His voice dropped into that deep, commanding tone that everyone knew meant business.

“We need to move, now!” Vander’s words were quick, measured. “Min, grab the first aid kit, painkillers, any medicine we’ve got. Benzo, emergency water, towels, matches—now! Move it!”

The adrenaline coursed through you, making everything seem sharper, faster, like your mind was suddenly running in overdrive. Your heart beat heavily in your chest as you sprang into action. Your legs felt like they were moving on their own, each step pulling you closer to where you needed to be. You bolted and grabbed the first aid kit, not bothering to check what was inside as you threw it into an old duffle bag. Then, you started grabbing anything else you could find—rubbing alcohol, numbing ointment, gauze strips, painkillers, and any other supplies that might come in handy.

Benzo was already ahead of you, throwing on his jacket and grabbing the emergency water, towels, and matches, his usual lighthearted demeanor gone. His face was set, and you knew that under all the humor, he was as serious as Vander right now.

“We’ve got that shipment coming in from Noxus tonight.” Benzo mentioned, handing Vander the supplies. “But only one of us has to be there to do the hand-off. I’ll meet you at Con and Fel’s.”

You shake your head, handing Silco your duffle. “Two of us go, just to be safe.

Silco’s sharp mind was already calculating their best route, and you could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Vander, Niya and I can take the path that lets up by Babette’s,” he said, looking over at you all. “If you take the route we take to Lou’s from the promenade, it’ll get you back to their apartment the fastest. Cuts through some of the alleyways, avoids main streets. You’ll be there in half the time than any of the main routes.”

Vander nodded, already moving toward the door. “Good, let’s go!”

***

The tradeoff had taken far longer than expected, and when you finally reached the apartment, Felicia’s piercing screams echoed down the hallway, sharp and urgent even from several doors away. Your steps quickened, Benzo muttering under his breath about the delay as the two of you pushed through the door.

Inside, the tension was palpable. Niya stood near the window, her arms crossed tightly as she glanced toward the bathroom door. The little girl at her side—her niece, Skye—clutched an old book to her chest, her glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes. On the bed in the corner, Violet sat perched beside Vander, her legs swinging back and forth as he played with her and an old stuffed rabbit. The moment you stepped inside, she spotted you, her face lighting up like a candle.

“Auntie Min! Uncle Benzo!” Violet squealed, leaping from the bed and barreling toward you.

“Sorry we’re late!” Benzo panted as he stepped over the threshold, ruffling his hair with one hand. “Damn traders wouldn’t stop haggling, and then someone got knife-happy.”

You shrugged off your jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “I got them to agree to the original price in the end, didn’t I?” you shot back, giving him a sideways glance. “How’s she doing?”

“No major updates yet,” Silco answered, his tone clipped but steady. “But we haven’t had to call in an emergency ride to the hospital, so that’s a good sign—for now.” His eyes darted to the bathroom door before returning to you, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

Violet reached you, arms outstretched, and you scooped her up effortlessly, her tiny frame folding into your chest. She wrapped her arms around your neck and squeezed tightly, her happiness contagious even in the heavy atmosphere.

“Auntie Min, look what Uncle Vander gave me!” Her little hands grasped a little golden amulet tied to a thin black cord around her neck. It was a simple piece of jewelry, but you recognized it easily as a bracelet that Vander liked to wear to important events.

“Wow! Look at that!” You smiled, your eyes casting over to Vander with a raised eyebrow. “That was very nice of him.”

Vander, standing nearby with a proud smile, nudged Violet gently and stepped over to the two of you. He wrapped a secure arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer.

"Tell Minnie what I told you when I gave it to you, kiddo," he prompted, his voice warm and encouraging.

"Umm... if I'm gonna be a big sister..." Violet said really slow, her eyebrows all scrunched up like she was thinking hard. "I gotta remember to take care of them. And... this is gonna be a thing that helps me remember!". She leaned back just a little, her face lighting up with a wide, toothy grin as she looked up at you. Her excitement was so pure, so full of love, that it was impossible not to smile in return. That bright smile, filled with so much promise and joy, made your heart melt in a way nothing else could. You gave her a little extra squeeze and a kiss to the forehead before setting her down.

“You’re gonna be a great big sister, Luv,” Benzo replied, stepping in for a quick high-five that made her giggle.

“Is Dr. Yan in there with your parents?” he asked, motioning to the closed bathroom door.

Violet nodded, her bright pink locks bouncing with the movement as she pointed toward the door. “Mommy’s been in there a long time.”

“These things take time, little one,” Silco said gently as you brushed her hair back from her face. You could feel her energy, her eagerness, and a touch of nervousness beneath it all. She clung to you like a lifeline, her small fingers gripping your shirt.

From the corner, Vander cleared his throat, catching your attention. He looked calm but watchful, his hand resting on the children’s book he’d set aside. “Felicia’s tough. She’ll pull through,” he said in his steady, reassuring tone.

Benzo nodded, his jaw tightening. “She’s tougher than most of us, that’s for damn sure.”

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, and the room seemed to tighten with anticipation. The low hum of voices behind the door grew, rising and falling in strange patterns, and then it happened—the crescendo of frantic, desperate cries, followed by an eerie, sudden silence. The apartment held its breath. Time itself seemed to stop. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on that door, waiting for the next sound, the next moment, but it was as if the world itself was waiting to exhale.

And then… the sharp, unmistakable wail of a baby filled the space, raw and full of life. It was a sound so powerful it seemed to shake the air itself.

“Oh, thank the gods…” Niya let out a long, relieved sigh, her head falling forward as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from her shoulders. Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion, the tension that had coiled in her body for so long finally unraveling. Skye gently placed a hand on her aunt’s shoulder.

Vander chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that filled the room with warmth. “It’s got a set of lungs, that’s for damn sure.” His voice cracked with genuine amusement, and he gave a small shake of his head, still eyeing the door as though waiting for the next sound, the next sign. Violet, unable to contain her excitement any longer, made a move toward the door. Her small feet pounded against the floor, eager to see her new sibling. But before she could take another step, Vander was there, quick as ever, sweeping her up into his arms with a gentle but firm grip. "Not yet, kiddo," he said, his voice soft but clear. "You’ve gotta wait for your parents to let you in on their own time. Okay?" Violet pouted slightly, her small lips curling into a frown, but she nodded, her eyes still trained on the door. 

And wait you all did, for yet another set of long moments, Felicia’s cries now replaced with that of the infant. The rest of the group tried to busy themselves as best as they could—Benzo and Skye even began washing some of the dishes that had been left in the sink, their clattering almost a distraction from the tension hanging in the air. 

Violet, content to be held by Vander, made faces at him, trying to distract herself. Conversations about business and idle chatter filled the gaps between those breaths, but none of it mattered. Not really. You couldn’t escape the waiting, the anticipation. Everyone in the room had been drawn into the same orbit, eyes occasionally drifting toward the door, hearts waiting for the next moment to arrive.

And then, with a soft creak, the door to the bathroom opened. The room fell utterly silent, as if the very air had been sucked out of the space. All eyes turned toward Connol, who stood in the doorway.

He looked dazed, weary, his face a mix of exhaustion and elation. His hand rubbed over his face, as if to wipe away the tension of the past hours. For a split second, panic flared in your chest—something about the way he looked, so tired and worn, unsettled you. But then he looked up at all of you, his eyes catching yours, and he smiled.

“It’s a girl!”

The apartment erupted in a wave of cheers and clapping, the tension finally breaking as everyone poured out their relief and joy. Vander and Silco both lunged at Connol, enveloping him in an enthusiastic embrace that was almost too aggressive for the moment, clapping him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him over. Connol, despite his exhaustion, laughed, wrapping his arms around them in return.

Violet, who had been playing with Vander, was suddenly all movement. She wriggled free from Vander’s grasp and darted across the room, her small legs carrying her quickly toward her father. Connol, still smiling wide, scooped her up into his arms, pressing a kiss to her hair and snuggling her closer to his chest. She giggled, the joy on her face as radiant as his.

“Are they both okay?” Silco asked, his voice a little rough with concern as he gripped Connol’s shoulder tightly.

“They’re fine! Perfectly fine!” Connol grinned, shifting Violet to his hip as he addressed the room. His voice was brimming with pride. “Yan wants to keep the baby in an incubator for a few days just to be sure, that’s where she is now. She might have a little trouble breathing, but…” He paused, looking down at Violet, then back at the others. “They’re both going to be okay.”

Violet’s eyes widened, her small hands tugging at Connol’s shirt. “Can I see Mommy now?” she asked, her voice filled with the kind of innocence and urgency that only a child could muster.

From behind the bathroom door, Felicia’s voice echoed out, soft but clear, though tinged with exhaustion. “You promise to be gentle and careful, sweetie,” she said. “Especially around the incubator.”

Yan poked his head out from the bathroom, his weathered face creased with lines that spoke of years spent helping others. He gave the room a reassuring smile. “The bleeding is minimal now, so long as Violet can handle a little post-birth gore,” he added with a knowing chuckle.

“I can handle it! I can handle it!” Violet exclaimed, twisting and wiggling her way out of Connol’s arms before taking off in a full sprint toward the bathroom. Connol watched her with a mixture of amusement and pride, a soft laugh escaping his lips. His eyes softened as he let out a long, weary sigh.

“Seven weeks early…” he muttered, his tone low, his hand rubbing his tired eyes. “I’ll admit, I was terrified.”

Silco, ever the steady presence, gave Connol’s shoulder another pat, his expression serious but supportive. “Yan’s practically delivered every baby in the Lanes for the past 20 years. They were in good hands,” he said, offering his usual reassurance.

“I know, but still…” Connol trailed off, his voice still carrying the weight of the fear he’d carried with him through the night. Then, as if a thought suddenly struck him, he turned his gaze toward Silco and Niya, who had been talking quietly in the kitchen. “Actually, speaking of being in good hands…” he started, his tone shifting to something more deliberate. “Fel and I were talking, and… we want you two to be her godparents. With Vander and Min being Violet’s, it just felt right, you know?”

Niya’s eyes widened in disbelief. She nearly squealed as she stepped forward. “Are… are you serious?” she exclaimed, her voice cracking with excitement. “Oh my goodness, Con! I don’t even know what to say!”

Silco, his usual calm demeanor never faltering, smiled warmly and extended his hand toward Connol. “I think I speak for both of us when I say we’d be honored, and we won’t disappoint. She’s in good hands, I swear it.”

Then, as Connol took his hand into a firm handshake, Silco paused, “Does she, uh…you know, does she have a name?”

Connol’s smile widened. “We talked about that, too. We were waiting to decide when she came out but,” he gave a nod, his expression full of love and certainty. “Powder. Her name is Powder.”

[arcane-ish]

The appeal of Vander x Silco for me

I have some complex feelings on what I think is appealing about Vander X Silco and there is a lot of cheesy, surface level stuff and I might make a post on this eventually and those are all fun and that. 

But I think the main reason why it really sticks with me is a very particular one. 

I have mused before that I really like Jinx x Ekko as well and how there are lot of similarities with the whole almost trying to kill each other and the intensity of emotions and the falling apart over morals. But despite the similarities they actually have very different positions in my brain. I like Timebomb of the big drama, high octane angst. 

While in a weird way, Zaundads is a comfort ship for me. Which, you know, kind of insane with the whole tried to kill each other/probably genuinely thought that they succeeded in killing the other/scarred each other for life/betrayed the joined dream etc. 

But the thing is, I really love Arcane. I just really love all the characters, even the villainous ones like Silco (naturally), Sevika and Singed. 

And Vander and Silco (still) loving each other feels like the best, the most natural way to get a real feeling “One Big Happy Weasley Family” ending. 

It’s not that having Vander in his life is like the only way I could ever picture Silco being happy. Like, I could picture like an AU where it’s just him and Jinx and her and the environment is just slightly more healthy and he gets genuine joy from her achievements. 

But at the same time, in my head, Vander loves Vi, Silco loves Jinx and Jinx and Vi love each other. Silco and Jinx against the world, I could picture making Silco happy. But it would leave Vi sad. Because I don’t think that Silco wants to share, he would hate sharing and if I could maybe with a lot of twisting around picture a version where he makes peace with sharing Jinx with Vi it would 1) likely be a compromised happiness 2.) it would still leave Vander out in the cold. 

Like, if I really force it like maybe I can picture a version where Silco is like with some OC who mellows him out and he has both kids and I dunno, Vander is dating Benzo and they are raising Ekko together so he is happy too? And Vander and Silco are at least cordial together? 

But to me Vander X Silco loving each other, whether platonically or more is just the easiest and most natural way I can imagine that would resolve the Gordian knot of relationships. And even though it is befitting of the kind of show it is that it is intentional that this knot cannot be resolved, that not everybody can be happy, that’s kind of what makes it a comfort ship. And even though the vast majority of Vander x Silco fic is appropriately tragic and flawed, what makes it special to me is that that taste of just how much better things could be if they got their shit together or if they had never had a falling out is still there, underneath it all. 

And it’s just fascinating to me to imagine in what ways the world of Arcane and/or their lives would be better off if they loved each other (again romantically or platonically) and how fascinating it would be for them to find a compromise between their positions on morality vs. action against Piltover. 

When I compare it to Timebomb, one thing that is different about Zaundads is that we know that they used to be “happy” together at some time in the past. And it’s also that in a lot of ways, both Vander and Silco are a lot more flexible characters. We know that The Drowning deeply changed Silco, we know fathering Jinx changed his outlook. With Vander we know that he changed from more violent to less violent and we know that as Warwick he will change fundamentally yet again. So trying to imagine a way how they could compromise feels like less of a betrayal. 

Like, I could imagine an older, hardened Ekko, who has a rougher, more cynical opinion on murder, but it feels like betrayal of a character who is so neatly positioned as being all about hope. So when I imagine happy timebomb to me it’s often easiest as an AU, where certain things just didn’t happen rather than the problem being more how they have to change their point of view. 

Another big thing about Zaundads to me is that Silco feels ... stuck. He’s hung up on that night. He cannot stop talking about Vander. He keeps going back to that night. 

And I perceive that trauma to be absolutely fundamentally essential to Silco’s character. 

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that that night is the reason why Silco is “evil”. He clearly had pre-existing traumas that made him hate Piltover. 

But to me the Vander trauma is so essential because I think it is what keeps him from trusting others, from making genuine connection with others. And as such it’s imo the biggest obstacle that keeps him from changing and becoming better (whether as a “better person” or as being less miserable). Because in the end this is how we change, by connecting to others, learning from others, accepting others. 

And that is what Silco’s paranoia closes him off from, why he is hyperfocused on Jinx, why he doesn’t want to share Jinx even though that might be good for Jinx. 

Don’t get me wrong, I think it is entirely possible that Silco was paranoid and had trust issues before meeting Vander (just like it’s possible that he had less of it when he talks about brothers and sisters), but he was clearly willing to open up to Vander and it was traumatizing to him when didn’t work out. 

And no, in real life you don’t resolve your trauma by hooking up with the person who tried to kill you and caused that trauma. But this is fiction and in fiction sex and romance and shipping are ways to resolve dramatic tension and lead it into different paths. For a way to have climax and release in a way that isn’t through violence and with love as a way to make it feel more lasting. 

But even outside of shipping I genuinely think that if Silco wanted to change as a person, he would have to properly, more healthily deal with his Vander trauma before he could ever move forward. (again no shade on the “Silco did nothing wrong, you go heavily amoral crime boss revolutionary” crowd, those are cool too) 

So the focus is more on imagining how a situation could ever arise where Silco would be willing to be open enough about his trauma and where Vander would be open enough to properly receive that openness so actual catharsis can happen. (again with shipping or without) Something that likely both of them are too stubborn and paranoid about, but that’s why it’s kind of the tantalizing, impossible dream. 

Which in my head looks kind of like them meeting on neutral ground and Silco being in essence: “I loved you so much and what you did really hurt me and it really fucked me up” and Vander just pulling him into the world’s biggest bearhug and going “I get it and I’m sorry” and then they both cry like babies and vow try better and to never hurt each other again. 

Art Source

Art Source

Which again, would never happen, wouldn’t work for the show, it’s debatable whether it would be even deserved. But at the same time I can’t help but feel like it would just be *better* if it were possible, pretty much like I feel like “wow, wouldn’t it just be better if there were a world where Jinx and Ekko didn’t have to fight each other”. 

[nerdasaurus1200]

Gonna ask you V A R I N for the fandom asks thing

I love how you tried to do "Varian", Kazzy XD

V- Which character do you relate to most?

Hmm...I'd say probably Miles Morales from Into the Spiderverse. Although I am neither afrolatina nor a boy, I still deeply related to his struggle as a young person when I first saw Spiderverse in theaters. Especially that scene where his Dad is talking to him through the door and he's tied up.

A- Ships that you currently like a lot. (They don’t have to be OTPs because not everyone has OTPs.) Friendships, pairings, threesomes, etc. are allowed.

Oh, jesus XD This'll be a long list.

New Dream

Cassarian

Stalyan x Brock

Arianna x Cap

Pete and Stan

Lumity

Raeda

Huntlow

Guslow

CaitVi

Timebomb

JayVik

BBRae

AquaTerra

Robfire

CyJinx

All my TTS oc ships I've made

Can you tell I'm shipper trash?

R- Which friendship/platonic relationship is your favorite in fandom?

Right now, I'd have to say either Team Awesome, Cass and Lance, or Cass and Eugene.

I- Has Tumblr caused you to stop liking any fandoms, if so, which and why?

Ehhh...not really full on movie/tv show fandoms, per se. Mostly ship fandoms. I won't elaborate on it any further unless y'all wanna hear it. Although I have been warned by many people to stay away from thr Voltron fandom

N- Name three things you wish you saw more or in your main fandom (or a fandom of choice).

Hmmm...for the Tangled fandom I'd say more fankids, more sympathy towards Cass and her arc in season 3, and more green dress/crossbow content

For the Arcane fandom I wanna see more of Jinx and Caitlyn acting like in-laws, more tired Uncle Viktor to his five Zaunite nieces and nephews, and Warwick reuniting with Jinx and Vi

[lucifers-favorite-pen]

Introduction + Masterpost

Introduction

Hello there! Thank you for taking the time to meander across my humble blog :)

My name is Jamie (she/her), a small town American woman with silly little hobbies and obsessions. I have ADHD and have been hyperfixating on Obey Me forever. This is my favorite outlet!

I am not a professional writer by any means, but I’m doing my darnedest! If anyone has any tips, I’m open to criticism!

If you haven’t figure it out, this is an Obey Me side blog lmao. I started playing the game in like August 2020 and have not stopped. I take comfort in so many of the characters in it, especially Lucifer and my MC. I am very thankful for the game’s presence in my life, and for everyone who creates content for it. Y’all provide me with so much serotonin I stg.

Speaking of MCs, mine has a rp blog! Her name is Blair and her blog is @miss-blair-warwick. I haven’t gotten a lot of asks so far, but I have had SO MUCH FUN with the ones I have gotten. One of them provided inspiration for one of my favorite Lucifer pieces I’ve thought up too! No pressure to follow her, but I’ll be keeping track of the asks on her blog on this masterpost. Unless it somehow gets really long, then I’ll probably make her a separate masterpost. If you have a rp blog for your MC and wanna interact, send me (or her) a DM! Rping with other MCs in character helps me further develop her personality and it also just brings me a ton of joy. 

Last thing: I don’t do any rp stuff as the boys. I might be open to it in the future, but it’s not really something I’m interested in currently. So if you send me a rp ask asking me to rp one of the boys, I probably won’t answer it. I will however rp any of my OCs on this blog if you don’t wanna go through my MC’s rp blog.

If you have any questions about me or requests, my asks are open. I’m a pretty open book so don’t be shy :)

Ok I think that’s it. Happy reading!

Requests: OPEN

Masterpost

(listen I’m new at this so it’s not very long but she will grow I promise)

Headcanons

Bedtime Stories (Satan x GN!MC)

Asmo is at a club with MC and posts a picture captioned “One sc and I’ll make my brother a cuckhold tonight ;)”

The Brothers in “The Forest”

80s Songs the Brothers Would Serenade MC With

Judas was a woman

Small Snippets of Lucifer and Blair’s Love Story 

A Simple Request (Lucifer x Blair)

Unfinished Lessons (Lucifer x Blair)(angst)

Blair Answers Your Questions!

How He Proposed!

ADHD Tips and Tricks!

Christmas with Demons!

[committingcrimes-2047]

WRITERS BLOCK, FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!

Warwick Vander x reader things below!

Lets pretend this is an alternate universe where Reader, Jinx, Isha and Vi get Vander away and live in a cabin hidden away from the rest of the world while they try to find a way to save Vander without Viktors help. Also Cait comes and visits occasionally because how could I leave out my favourite lesbians.

Imagining Warwick Vander becoming super possessive of Reader, I mean, he's super protective of his family- obivously but its different with Reader.

Reader can't go five minutes without the massive "man" sniffing them out and sticking to their side, lightly growling at them to stay by his side.

He won't go to sleep unless Reader is there, laying ontop of him with his arms wrapped around their body, their presence preventing nightmares from invading his head. On the rare occasion of him being woken of from those nightmares and panicking, Reader gently petting the fur on his body to help him calm down.

Imagine if Reader was out and got hurt by something or someone and the smell of their blood immediately alerting him of something wrong and he sprints toward the smell, finding the Reader injured and bleeding. He gently picks them up, holding them with one arm while he makes his way back to the rest of the family. Whatever or whoever hurt the Reader is most likley non-existant now

He has to restrain himself from from growling at whoever has to clean them up- Reader hissing from the pain of the pressure being put on the injury. He would guard them while they recover, whether its a small wound or a big one, he would insist that they relax and stay in bed until they recover.

Reader helps him stay calm and relaxed during the day, Jinxs loud music playing while she and Isha make little gadgets together. Vi and Caitlyn training, Cait only being able to visit every few weeks so she doesn't give away their little hide out and Reader and Vander just sitting together- with Reader probably sitting on his lap and his hands wrapped around their waist. The noise of their little family normally stressing him out but Readers presence keeping him calm.

At night, Reader and him sleep in a "nest" which is pretty much just a giant pile of various blankets and pillows, since he can't really fit in any bed they can find. In the middle of the night, when Jinx has really bad nightmares, she comes in- Isha in tow, cuddling up to her parents. Vi joins in after not finding Jinx or Isha in their rooms and finding them in the pile.

Reader manages to get to get Vander to play with them and Isha, but Isha instead decides to dye some of Vanders fur the bright colors. By the end of the day, Vander is covered in bright blues, pink, random ribbons, and stickers. Reader makes sure to get lots of photos of Isha climbing all over Vander, who spent most of the time asleep.

Alright thats all my ideas- FOR NOW!!! I'm battling with writers block and its treating me like this.

I hope you guys enjoy!!! These are ideas I've come up with over the past few days while suffering from my period, normally I can do alot more writing but I've just not been feeling great with some personal stuff so its been a struggle.

Anyway, please let me know if you guys want more of these! I've opened up my asks, so if youd like to request ideas or even talk about your Arcane OCs with me! I have been considering writing about other characters but I'm not super into alot of the other characters but if people wanna see that, I'd be willing to give it a shot- either way, please let me know!

@ghostface-mp4 :D