#what is this curse bound spell the song has cast on me and how do I keep it

[hplonesomeart]

HEY. HEY SO UH. SO UPDATE ON THAT SNATCHER ANIMATION I WAS MENTIONING UH JKSJKSJSP

[occasionalrpmemes]

Murder By Death: Spell/Bound Starters

sentences taken from the 2022 album.  edit as desired.  content warning: grief

“Get up out of your bed.  The dawn is at your door.”

“It’s a bitter truth that’s sinking in.”

“When you’re fighting devils, they’ll do anything to win.”

“Fill your pockets up with hope- so much that they choke.”

“What if I don’t wanna fight no more?”

“I don’t wanna fight no more.”

“You don’t understand, you never put in the time.”

“Doomed from the start.  We’re just born to die.”

“Someone taught you wrong, kid.  You’ve been harping on about a world where only killers get ahead.”

“You’re still listening to that thing under your bed.”

“You made your house a home, a shelter from the storm.”

“No man has ever made it alone.  Only the fakers and the cheats will tell you so.”

“They say you got to be cutthroat, a thief.”

“Someone taught you wrong, kid.”

“Kick off your boots, come out and play.”

“Come outside into the daylight.”

“Throw stones at my window in the dead of night.”

“You have always been the favorite in my eyes.”

“I loved you best, still, everything must rest.”

“I was a mess when you left.”

“One foot in front of the other.”

“I felt no freedom being free.”

“When you left, I had to put the coins over your eyes.”

“I can’t be the only one.”

“I don’t even know why you care.”

“You didn’t even notice I was there.”

“Something isn’t right.”

“Nowhere to hide.”

“Lеt ’em ride.”

“This is how it starts.  This is how things fall apart.”

“We’re left in the dust, just spitting up pieces of broken hearts.”

“You, you, I name you a crawling doubt.  May you turn to bonemeal, I cast thee out.  You shall become the loam.”

“The center can’t hold, ’cause at the center is greed.”

“We’ll bury you in the deepest trеnch, shackled, in the sea.”

“Your time has come.  You’re through.”

“Your reign is done.”

“When it finally hits ’em, when they finally see... almost feels like relief.”

“Run for your life.  Don’t look back.”

“Our homes are tinderboxes.”

“I don’t want to be a man without a country.”

“We’ve been strippеd for parts.”

“We were never free.”

“Guess I’ll go out on my own.”

“I know it is a lonesome road.  I know it is the path untook.  I know, but still I’ll go.”

“To what do I owe this lucky charm?”

“Alas, I do not know.”

“Curse this wretched empty bed.”

“I know why I must go.”

“Carry me away from here.”

“How shall I conquer this fear?”

“I don’t want that dream to ever end.”

“I’m sure that someday we’ll meet again.”

“I never sent that letter that I penned.”

“Walk with me through the darkness hand in hand.”

“When we speak, shadows form.”

“It’s a strange song we’ve sung to each other for so long.”

“Now let’s find another.”

“You have all the directions.”

“It is trying to call you home from the wilderness, alone.”

[lettrespromises]

#LettresPromises informs you : You have one notification.

──➤ Atsumu Miya sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

the author sent a letter : ❝dear reader, first and foremost, i’m terribly sorry for being inactive— university and entrance exams are choking me in the least kinky way possible. so, in order to make myself forgiven, i shall deliver you a sinful atsumu letter. sealed with a kiss, nikki. P.S: sending tons of love to @newfriendjen​ for taking some of her precious type to beta-read this letter, thank you so much once again, you’re an angel!❞

──➤ Prompt used : A letter inspired by the song “Maneater” by Nelly Furtado— as Atsumu comes back from a volleyball-related trip, he’s greeted by the most enticing sight : yourself, on the bed, wearing the set of lingerie he had specifically bought for you. Atsumu knows he has you all to himself, or so he thinks? A battle for dominance caught between two lovers with prideful hearts. ─➤ Genre : Smut. ➤ Warnings : MINORS DO NOT READ THIS, 18+ ONLY. Switch reader and switch Atsumu, sexual intercourse, cunnilingus, cursing, degradation (both reader and Atsumu), overstimulation, daddy kink, mistress kink, vaginal penetration. 

There are three rules to being a man-eater : make them spend hard, make them fall on their knees and make them fall real hard in love.

The first rule came natural, a flick of your hair accompanied by a sensually calculated flutter of your eyelashes was enough to make him bend under your charms, as if the requests leaving your lips had been laced with a spell rendering him unable to deny your demand. After all, Atsumu Miya would give you anything on a silver plate and more if it meant he could hear you say his name. He was particularly fond of the way you’d drag the last syllable of his name with the pad of your thumb gracing your lower lip, giving you the grandeur of a faux innocent façade, it was this meticulous marriage of faux innocence and lust that would, each time, sign his own end.

And yet again, he had dived head first into the abyss of your charms— not that he ever regretted it, the grin on your face and the gleam shining in the corner of your irises was the greatest reward he could have ever possibly asked for. 

Atsumu had come home from yet another trip, a volleyball-related trip that is. He had the thoughtful habit of sending you different kinds of presents while he was away, hoping that the presence of these gifts would make up for the lack of his own presence. There was always a note attached to each package, if it was lingerie he often wrote something along the lines of how he’d wish time would fly faster so he could bask in the glory of your body, take mental pictures of how the red of the lace embraced your body so divinely well that he was convinced you were a muse  taken from a renaissance painting who had come to life.

Whenever he’d come home, his first reflex was always to head straight to his room— because he was positive that he’d find you there either way.

And bingo. There you were, clothed in the latest set of lingerie he had sent you while he was abroad. Atsumu had an idea of how said set would look on you from the pictures he had seen online, but never did he once think that it would look that good. After all, you always exceeded his expectations. 

A set so sophisticated, he had picked a black set this time (surely because his subconscious associated the color to the color of the Black Jackals and it was enough to send a rush of blood downwards at the thought of it) and, much to his pleasure, it left so little to the imagination. The fabric covering your breasts was transparent if it wasn’t for the embroidered flowers right above your nipples. Unbeknownst to him, Atsumu’s gaze had been stuck on the way your buds were peaking through the fabric whilst the back of his mind already imagined scenarios where he’d let his mouth would latch onto your breast to earn some of the moans he knew all too well but could never get enough of.

His throat tightened a bit when his eyes went south— the panties matched the bra, albeit the presence of the flowers were missing this time, allowing him to drink in the sight of your core already glistening with lust. He hadn’t missed the way you were seated on the edge of his bed either, legs already spread apart like a silent invitation for him to let those thoughts that would make a demon blush be set free, or the way your back was paying homage to a crescent moon from how arched it was. Fuck. 

« You like what you see, baby? » The words left your lips in a suggestive tone.

He blinked once, then twice, to set himself free from the torment of his thoughts. « Is this all for me? » He questioned, taking a few steps forward to reduce the space between the both of you. 

Alas, he was stopped by the red sole of the heels (courtesy of the expertise of Louboutin) planted on his lower abs. « What do you think you’re doing? On your knees. »

« Wh-… On my knees? » The smirk plastered across his facial features had fallen low into a look of disbelief. 

« Didn’t you get in the first time? On your knees. Now. » You repeated, the imperative tone of your voice becoming clearer. 

The second rule to being a man-eater was to make them fall on their knees.

He sunk down to his knees as told, his eyesight facing directly your clothed core he so badly wanted to have a taste of. Your taste was like an addiction, not that he was interested in finding some kind of antidote anyways. Atsumu didn’t even notice the way his tongue was swiping across his lower lip in anticipation for the future sinful deeds he was bound to do.

Seeing he was stuck in a daze of lust, you just had to earn his attention back. How dare he not pay attention to you? With the help of your index and middle finger, you began to stroke your clothed core in vertical motions, a slow and methodic pattern to entice him even more and make him sink even more into an abyss of dark thoughts.

« Do you want it? Do you want to eat me out, mhm? » You half-questioned, already knowing the answer to your question was going to be positive.

Although he thought it was impossible, his throat tightened even more, the constriction of lust preventing him from forming any kind of a sentence, hence why he nodded instead of ridiculing himself with broken words.

« Cat’s got your tongue? » 

« Lemme’ eat you out, please. » He replied after gathering enough strength to form a ‘normal’ sentence.

« Please who? » You demanded, leaning forwards to cradle his jaw.

« Fuck… Please mistress. » The words sounded so bitter, the price to pay to reach nirvana.

The way you had leaned back, propped on your elbows to obtain some kind of leverage, was a silent way to invite him to get a taste of yourself. Both of his palms roamed on the plush flesh of your thighs caging him into the sweetest hold, until his fingers reached the bands on the side of the panties which had been lingering on his mind more than he’d ever admit. Controlled by his unquenchable thirst to let his tastebuds be blessed by the sweet taste of your juices, Atsumu used his strength for good measure by ripping the fabric apart— a distinct testimony of the hunger casting a dark cloud over his irises.

And at this very moment, right when the fabric of your panties fell into an abyss of oblivion, Atsumu knew that the gates of heaven had finally opened up to him— his orbs were frenetic, trying to catch a glimpse of each centimeter of your body awaiting to be cherished by his lips and worshipped by his tongue, and you could’ve sworn his pupils had dilated when his gaze landed on your core, glistening in all of its lustful glory.

« You like what you see, don’t you? » You teased, knowing damn well the answer was written all over his face.

« I love it, I fuckin’ love it, mistress. » Atsumu answered, the desire to get a taste of you almost burning him alive.

You couldn’t help but smile at his awful lack of self-control, but oh well, at least he had the benefit of having tried… But was trying ever really enough? Your palm fell flat on his cranium, digits tangling with his bleached blonde locks that could rival the brightest rays of sunshine. « Go ahead… You have my permission. »

Those were the words Atsumu had been waiting to hear ever since he stepped foot in his bedroom, the words that triggered another wave of hunger in the pit of his stomach— in fact, said words had triggered the beginning of the end for him. And worst of all, he was aware of his own fatalist fate.

In a flash, the not-so foreign sensation of Atsumu’s mouth paving a trail of forbidden kisses from your inner thighs to your core awakened chills that ran down your spine. And there it was— the absolute devotion of his body to yours. He knew this was no place for teasing, the word reigning supreme here was ‘pleasure’, and he couldn’t allow to break the rules and not give his mistress what she desired, correct?

Like a man starved who was bound to eat his very last meal on Earth, Atsumu jumped head-first into a pool of lust and flattened his tongue to draw a long and fat lick of your core that would, for sure, coat all of his tastebuds with your taste. Fuck, this was heaven on Earth. He used his index and middle finger to spread your folds, thus obtaining a better view of your core and a clearer path to execute away the ministrations that would make a demon blush.

Kitten licks collecting any bits of remaining juice, sucking motions on your oh so sweet bundle of nerves that would be the key to your future orgasms, shoving his tongue directly into your hole that was clenching each time the tip of his tongue graced your inside— wasn’t he being such a sweet boy?

But it seems Atsumu had pulled out a fifth ace out of his sleeve when the same two digits that were spreading your folds open had taken a dive south to meet your core. He was getting drunk on the sight of seeing his fingers disappearing, inch by inch, into your hole that was clenching around him, a testimony of pleasure that was as clear as day.

Your back arched once more like the curve of a moon shining amidst a constellation, an iron grip maintained Atsumu in place and, at times, moved him a bit around when he was hitting that sweet spot that would make you cry out in pleasure. « Fuck, Atsumu! Nghh, right here, oh fuck, here! » 

And so he did as told— he pumped his fingers in and out of your core and let his tongue flicker some more over your bundle of nerves with a newfound purpose, the most lustful yet most rewarding one of them all, making you come undone. 

It wasn’t your first shared rodeo, and after quite a handful of experiences, Atsumu had gained enough knowledge to know when your body was about to give in to the sins of pleasure. He analyzed everything, knowing like the back of his hand how your moans would gain a higher pitch, how your hold on his hair would tighten more and more and how your breathing was gradually becoming more irregular. « Fuck, fuck— ah, fuck! I’m gonna, ‘gonna c-cum! »

And before the words had fully left your mouth, you were hit with ceaseless waves of pleasure that washed all over you, sending you into a state of pure bliss where you could discern stars behind your closed lid, much to Atsumu’s greatest pleasure. The latter hadn’t missed a bit, and as soon as the first drops of the awaited elixir of pleasure had poured from your clenching core, his tongue was quick to lick your entire cunt clean— he wasn’t the one to waste your sweet cum, after all. 

Atsumu could’ve sworn that he could’ve come undone from the taste of your cum only, and the crimson shade of the tip of his cock, aching from an enticing marriage of pain and pleasure, seemed to prove this point even further. « Fuck, you taste so good. So, so good, mistress. »

The tip of his tongue had cleaned the last remaining bits of cum on the corners of his lips, tasting once more what he’d define as the sweetest poison on Earth whilst you were completely sent into a post-orgasm daze, eyes blurry from the pearls of tears that had threatened to fall earlier.

Your gaze was stuck on the ceiling, causing you to miss the ill-intentioned grin that had crept across Atsumu’s facial traits. « Are we going to play this game longer, huh? ‘Kinda tired of playing your personal slut. » He trailed off, his body now hovering over yours. « We all know for a fact that if there’s a slut here, it’s you, and you’re all fuckin’ mine. » He whispered right in the crook of your ear, having chosen to reduce the space between your ear and his lips to send chills down your spine. 

« Atsumu… » You breathed out, barely recognizing your own voice from how weak it sounded. 

« Two can play this little game of yours, ya’ know? But… We’re gonna play under my rules now. So start calling me by my name. » Words coated with lust fell straight into your eardrum. « My real name, doll. » He added, this time with a deeper tone.

It was the last warning he had given you before crashing his lips onto yours, tongue barely waiting half a second to force its way in your own mouth where your two tongues clashed in harmony. Despite your state, you still put up a fight against his pink muscle, well decided to win this fight for supremacy by tugging him closer by the neck. 

« Dirty little thing, you never know when to quit, do you, huh? » He breathed out against your lips, a trail of saliva connecting your mouths. 

« Fuck you, Atsumu. You wish I’d give you what you want! » You barked back, bringing him closer to shut him up with yet another kiss.

« Weren’t you just cumming on my mouth, like, two minutes ago? C’mon, I haven’t even fucked you stupid yet and you’re already losing your damn mind? » He seethed, deciding to shut you up on his own terms by planting his pearly whites into the yet untouched flesh of your neck where, later on, a bouquet of scarlet and plum love bites would bloom.

Atsumu created a path of open-mouthed kisses, intercut with repetitions of « mine » between each kiss, that led to the valley of your breasts. His hands were quick to set you free (quite the euphemism because he decided, much like your panties, to rip your bra apart) from the poor piece of fabric that was separating him from your breasts. 

There again, he wasted no time sending another urge of pleasure coursing through your veins as his mouth was quick to latch onto your breast— the hypnotic rolling motions of his tongue and the small bites left on your nipple caused a flow of moans to fall free from your mouth. « Make those sounds for me, c’mon, don’t go shy on me now, princess. » He mused before giving the same treatment to your other breast while he was pinching your other nipple with his fingers, rolling it until it hurt pleasurably to the touch.

The whines and moans falling like a cascade from your lips had always been something he will never get tired of, it was like the best of rewards, that and seeing your face contorted by pleasure. 

He knew damn well your core was still leaking from your previous orgasm, and prepping it once more would only please you too much, and now that the roles had reversed, he was not bound to give you what you wanted anymore.

His digits wrapped around his cock, throbbing in anticipation and the tip as red as ever and a trail of pre-cum was leaking down the side of his girth. Atsumu gave it a few experimental pumps, using his fingers to spread the pre-cum all over his cock although he knew that he didn’t need much of a lubricant given how soaked you were. « C’mon, Atsumu, don’t tease me! » You whined. 

« Huh? What did you just call me? » He asked, ceasing the pumping motions on his cock which let you know that if you were to call him by the wrong name again, he’d just leave you on your own. 

« Fuck you… Don’t tease me, please, Daddy. » You breathed out.

« See? Dirty sluts like you can turn into good girls. » He grinned at your obedience before resuming to his antics. 

The tip of his cock was teasing your core, letting the tip run over your folds and your clit to give you a taste of the pleasure you were going to go through. And then it hit, the gradual pleasure conquering each inch of your body as he slid inch by inch the length of his cock inside your throbbing hole that was already sucking him like a vice. « Fuck, fuck you’re tight. » 

The sudden stretch caused a moan to erupt from your lips in response to the sudden presence amongst your walls. The way your body responded to every experimental inch drilled within you earned a light groan out of him each time, that is until he managed to push his entire girth inside of you, you mutually reacted to the overwhelming sensation by a choked breath, as if every ounce of oxygen had been knocked out of your lungs. 

And then it was a crescendo— not only regarding the rhythm of his hypnotic thrusts which never failed to cause the sudden appearance of a soft sound of pleasure from bursting out of your lips, but also regarding the rising level of ecstasy and pure bliss in your lower belly : the forming knots became a bit tighter with each slap of his testicles against your derrière and the stars shining behind your closed lids became a bit clearer with each thrust, sending you straight into a daze where you failed to tell the difference between reality and lustful dreams. « D-Daddy, please, ahh! Fuck me so good, fuck me so good… » You breathed out between moans.

You couldn’t help but dig your nails into the flesh of his upper arm which provoked a groan out of him, crimson colored trails colored his skin and the red tone of pleasure married the tone of his skin so effortlessly, as if your marks had always belonged on his skin. 

« Who’s making you feel this fuckin’ good? Who does this wet cunt of yours belong to, slut? » Atsumu grunted, a trail of curses leaving his lips in the process. His perpetual quest of pleasure was ceaseless, never once stopping to fill his lungs with clear oxygen. Every thrust spoke volume, and said volume growing louder and louder with each passing second and each thrust given as an offering to the deities of lust. « Y-You, daddy! No one.. Fuuck, n-no one else! »

«Fuck, baby! ‘M gonna cum in that tight pussy of yours, better get every single drop for Daddy, fuck, fuck, fuck! » His lips were glued to yours, careless to allow you the right to breathe and that was all due to the lust that consumed him as he could already fill the welcoming breezes of his approaching climax against his skin. 

The tip of his girth was kissing the panel of nerves designed for pleasure, each thrust caressing your cervix was as addictive as the last one. It signed the end of you, sealed the fatalist fate where you were bound to unleash a second orgasm although your body had barely recovered from the first one. This crescendo of lust had drawn more pleasure that your body could possibly handle, forced more reactions that your mind could follow. 

Speaking of the latter, it was pitch black, and not even a beacon of hope had the chance to shine through the void of your thoughts, pierce through the darkness emanating from the open gates of your subconscious. Only unintelligible sounds that echoed to pleasure left your parted lips, head tilted to the side with a string of drool creating a humid stain on the pillow. 

And then it hit you, your body had manifested the overdose of ecstasy for a second time, draining the last bits of energy you ignored you had. A dragged moan of his name, his real name, had left your lips at the occasion whilst the hand settled on his forearm had slid down on the mattress, taken away by the sudden exhaustion.

Atsumu’s salute came in the form of one final slam of his hips against your cunt dripping with the marriage of your juices and, after having colored the blank canvas of your walls with the color of sin, his own. « Good girl, see? See how nice you are when you obey? ‘Made a real mess, didn’t’cha? » He swore to himself that he could have come undone a second time at the sight of the cum leaking from your hole, pathetically clenching around his girth as he was pulling away from your hole. 

Your breathing was everything but regular, oxygen seemed to fade away as soon as it entered your system and your brain fogged by this persistent daze of lust wasn’t helping much. Obey? The same word was kept on loop in your mind from the moment he had said it. « Atsumu, I thought you knew me better than that. » You breathed out, bowing your lips into an ill-intentioned grin at the idea that had just blossomed in your mind. Obey? Very well.

« What are you on about? » He interrogated, brow quirked up to emphasize his question.

With the leverage given by the support of your elbows, you managed (as efficiently as someone who’s had two orgasms in a row, that is) to get back on your knees, and before Atsumu knew it, you were sitting on your self-claimed throne in the middle of his lap, right where his erection was still poking your entrance. You had essentially caged him with your luscious thighs, the sweetest hold he could’ve asked for despite what his face may say. « ‘The hell are y’doin’? » He asked once more, growing impatient by the second.

« Raising your voice at me? » You mused, sarcasm lacing your every word. « Very well, then. » You added, shoving your index and middle finger in his mouth to prevent him from spilling any more absurdities— you were not one bit surprised to see Atsumu quickly warming up to the not-so foreign presence of your fingers in his mouth, his pink muscle coating your digits with his saliva. « Good boy. See how nice you are when you obey? » Atsumu’s pupils dilated even more under the spell of lust when he realized you had twisted his own words in your favor.

Atsumu wanted to scoff, to shove you off and regain the monopoly of control once more but the way you were enticing him into a game of back-and-forth, a constant fight for supremacy, made him crave you even more. He hated it, and loved it at the same time.

How convenient that the tip of cock, still reddened by pleasure and coated with a veil of sinful cum, was grazing the curve of your derrière. One could say that this position was almost… Strategic, mhm? However, just sinking down on his girth in a heartbeat would be giving Atsumu what he wanted on a silver plate, with a supplement of moans and whines on top of it. 

« If you like control so much… » You trailed off, leaning to the side just a bit to reach the night stand right next to his bed where, of course, he’d hide his precious collection of toys devoted to pleasure. Your orbs scanned a bit, hands swimming through the myriad of strap-ons and others cock-rings with flashing colors, only to find the holy Graal in the form of metal-like handcuffs.

« You’re gonna love this, then. » You said, dangling from left to right the object of his torture, Atsumu’s eyes followed each motion of the handcuffs in a hypnotic manner, ready to be sent into a substate of delirium. 

« Hands. » You demanded, the imperative tone coloring your words provoked a whimper of anticipation out of him. « Good boy. » you praised, taking one hand after the other and locking each of them to the bedding, tugging just a bit on his wrists to see if the material would resist just in case Atsumu would put up a fight— but he’s such a good and obedient boy, he would never dare cross the limits you have drawn yourself.

« Who’s my good boy? » Words filled with such sweetness hidden behind a mirage of lust, like a poisoned apple of some sorts, fell straight into his eardrums. Atsumu’s mouth was set agape, believing for one second that he had forgotten how to talk properly. « ’S me, I’m your good boy, mistress. » So sweet, you couldn’t resist letting your hand envelope his cheek in a caring manner.

« Mh, what do you want mistress to do to you, my pretty boy? » More enchanting words lingered in the air, echoing like the fallen promises of the sirens to lure martyrs into the depth of lust. « I want… » He began, pupils dilating further upon observing your hands caressing all over his chest and abdomen region, feeling each bump created by his muscles. « I want mistress to fuck me, fuck me so hard ‘till she milks me dry. » He breathed out.

« And why do you want that? » You cooed, reducing dangerously the space between your lips and his own, your breasts pressed against the muscles of his chest. « … ‘Cause I’m your good boy, a-and your dirty slut. » He looked at you almost hesitantly, wondering if he had chosen the right wording.

The ill-intentioned grin painted across your face seemed to be the confirmation that, yes, Atsumu had said the magic words that had been housed inside the deepest, darkest parts of your subconscious. « That’s right, my dirty little slut. » 

You retreated your hips backwards, your gaze never once daring to leave his face and how his facial traits were already torn with pleasure. His hips had buckled at the degradation falling from your lips, sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through his veins in a heartbeat— he was so receptive to your words and touch, it was almost pathetic. « You’re so impatient, aren’t you? But good sluts deserved so be fucked so well, too. ‘Want me to ride your cock until you can’t take it anymore, mh? ‘Want me to make you cum? » You mocked as the pad of your thumb was brushing in circular motions the tip of his cock, you’d continue this torture until the sacred words would fall from his lips with pity drooling from every syllable. « P-Please… Fuck, mistress, milk me dry… Fuck me like there’s no tomorrow. My cock’s— Ahh, shit, shit, shit! My c-cock’s yours, mistress. » 

He had begged so well, his pleas were on a loop like a broken record on your mind, getting drunk on the feeling of pity exuding his every pore shamelessly. You laid both of your hands flat on his lower abdomen to obtain some leverage, enough to tease him by gliding the angry scarlet shade of his cock in vertical motions against your folds. « Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, please! » He pleaded once more, and as the words had died on his tongue like a secret prayer, you sank your hips down in a swift motion without warning. 

Atsumu felt like every ounce of oxygen had left his lungs, as if his brain had ceased to function for a moment because he was secretly persuaded that he had seen a glimpse of heaven as your derrière ascended onto his cock begging to be used for good measure, begging to have its flow of cum be leaked into the tight grip of your walls, begging to feel resurgences of pleasure over and over again until his mind couldn’t keep up anymore and until becoming a whining, stuttering, drooling mess fucked stupid.

And then it began again, the ascension to heaven— a path he knew all too well, a path adorned with your name written in the finest gold lettering infused with the most sinful essence, a path illuminated by your face contorted in pleasure. The mere thought of it alone was enough to send him in overdrive.

The repetition of your hips gliding the girth of his cock was enough to make his tongue peak through the corner of his lips, not that he could muster enough force to shut his mouth anyways. But it was fine, so fine, because you were at the center of the echoes of his moans. 

« C’mon, baby! Be my good boy, ah fuck, fuck! Good little slut! » You breathed out, neck tilted to face the ceiling in ecstasy. Atsumu wasn’t following much, the sight of you riding him alongside your breasts bouncing frenetically to the rhythm of your vertical motions was the greatest of gifts.

And on the other one hand, the greatest of gifts, for you, was being able to see him so weak and vulnerable, unable to put enough strength into his thrusts which led you to completely take control, unable to refrain any sound of pleasure from leaving the frontiers of his lips. « Ahh, fuck! Fuck me…! Fuck me! Nghh! » And there you were, drinking his enticing pleas. 

Your fingertips left hot crimson trails on the skin of his abdomen, true testimonies of the pure essence of ecstasy coursing through your veins. Your breaths were growing more erratic, oftentimes they were cut with your own moans too. « Wanna’ cum, pretty boy? W-Wanna cum for your Mistress? »

« Please, please! P-Please just lemme’ fuckin’ cum in you! Lemme’... Fill your pretty cunt! » He breathed out in response.

Those were the sole little words you needed to quicken the pace of your ascensions, the latter caused Atsumu’s moans to grow more high-pitched. Although you couldn’t see it, you were entirely convinced that the tip of his cock had never been more rouge, he was breathing out pleas but ignored why on the long run, fully sent into a state of overstimulation. 

« A-Atsumu! Cum with me! » And the magic of performative language happened, the familiar feeling of the warmth of his white shots of cum invaded in the sweetest way your velvety walls, coating them with sins and passion. 

An elongated whimper fell free from your lips as it announced your own end, your own orgasm had been triggered with the one last fatal pump that untied all the metaphorical knots in your lower abdomen. Such a blissful sensation that never grew old, especially when Atsumu was the reason behind it all. 

But alas, as soon as you had touched Nirvana with your fingertips, fatality hit you in the back— you found yourself deprived of your energy, feeling as if all the oxygen had been knocked off of your lungs, and your mind was caught in a daze which projected nothing but a white veil.

« Baby… You did so good, so, so good... » Your words fell like hot whispers against his chest, your sudden lack of energy had caused you to fall limp onto his chest while you were still cockwarming him. 

Atsumu blinked once, then twice, only to realize that the pleasure that had enveloped him was very much real— and so were you. « Fuck that was good… » He whispered in response, not daring to move one bit because he knew his muscles would never forgive him for doing so. « You’re an angel, y’know that? » His gaze fell on you, the softest hint of a grin adorned his facial features.

You couldn’t help but release a hush giggle at his answer « How dare you calling me an angel after all of that, hm? »

This time, it was his time to mimic you by giving life to his own giggle, « Hey, the devil was the most beautiful angel once… Or something like that, ‘dunno. » He grinned, keeping the groans of pain locked in his throat as he managed to lay his palm against your cheek— his touch was so familiar, leaning into his palm came natural.  « But I didn’t know the devil came in sexy lingerie though. »

Oh, to you, dear victim of a maneater : you know you would do anything to keep them by your side, because when they say they love you, they love you long time.

[mordoriscalling]

The Colour-Magic Theory (5/?)

Intro  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4 

Tagging @genkitaco

*** 

At some points, decisions not disastrous are bound to be made.

Thanks to sheer dumb luck, Jaskier gets permission to stay at Cintran’s court. He arrives when the Queen is out of the city and when the Lioness returns to her liar, the only thing that saves Jaskier from being run through with Calanthe’s sword is Cirilla finding out that he played at her parents’ betrothal banquet. The princess wants to know all about it from the bard’s perspective.

Calanthe threatens to torture him to death if he utters even half a word about the White Wolf. He’s tempted to do so anyway – Ciri deserves to know – but refrains in the end. When he looked upon Princess Cirilla for the first time, the emerald green of her eyes struck him as so familiar that his whole being ached.

He has yet to live. He might’ve just found his true purpose.                             

After he was ripped away from the place where the thought he belonged, the harsh words cutting him to his very core, his heart almost wilted from the wound. He wandered aimlessly, wallowing in heartbreak, until merfolk sang sweetly of his woes and the sea washed the pain away. Even then, Jaskier refused to head back to his Queen with his tail between his legs because of pride and sheer spite. He’s made the decision to stay in the Chaos side of the world and make something of himself yet, even if he’s not what he believed he was meant to be.

Perhaps his fate is more tied to a Lion Cub than to a Wolf. He must’ve heard “Zireael” repeatedly uttered by swallows for some reason, after all. The moment he finally made the connection between the name of Cintran’s Princess and its meaning in Elder, he directed his steps towards the place which his thoughts have been wandering to for so long, something tugging at his heart and urging him to go, go faster.

When they’re in close proximity, the connection between the bard and the princess is almost palatable to them both. They all but gravitate towards each other, yet, Calanthe is always present when Jaskier is in the same room as Cirilla, not letting him get near the princess. One day, however, the Lioness isn’t there to guard her Cub, royal duties calling her and her druid away.

In the evening on that day, Jaskier croons a soft lullaby as Ciri lays in her bed. When the girl is almost asleep, he caresses her cheek and she leans into the touch with her eyes closed. Jaskier feel such warmth bloom in his chest that he just can’t help himself – he lets out a deep coo, the sound specifically used by the fae to express affection for their offspring. Humans can’t register it; they would only sense a change in the mood, find the atmosphere calming. Still, Jaskier knows he risks a lot since there’s the danger of Moussack sensing Jaskier’s magic when he returns. The bard couldn’t care less at this moment. The warmth he holds for this girl is too great and it needs a way out. He coos again, putting the girl deeper into a restful sleep.

And then Ciri responds. A chirpy little purr leaves her mouth while she sleeps and Jaskier almost jumps ten feet in the air.

“What the fuuuck,” he hisses out under his breath, hoping that Lazlo didn’t hear it. He glances over his shoulder at the young knight keeping guard by the door to see him look at Jaskier questioningly.

“Is something wrong?” Lazlo asks.

“No, young sir,” Jaskier responds, weaving some calming spells in between the words, “all is well.” The knight stays put and the bard turns back to the princess.

He coos once more. Ciri purrs back in that adorable, chirpy way, and that’s it. Jaskier’s is done for. He stares down at the girl, lighting-struck, and feels a rush of such deep, all-encompassing, unconditional love that he can barely breathe. The emotion is so fierce that Jaskier is ready to kill or die for her that very moment, and he knows it bodes trouble. He’s irrational in love, and the fae protect their young at all costs.

Jaskier doesn’t get another chance to sing Ciri to sleep, no matter how much he longs to do it again. He comes to understand, with great regret, that he should’ve done this so much earlier. He lost so much time. Cirilla seems to have realised something as well – her gaze is both knowing and sad when she looks at the bard. Jaskier sometimes dares to coo to make her smile.

When Jaskier he sparrows twittering about a white-haired man on his way to the city, the bard all but flees. He’s a cad and a coward, after all.

“Forgive me,” he says to his bud-ling before he departs.

“Don’t go,” Ciri whimpers. 

He goes. Cintra falls a week after that.

*

When the White Wolf looks upon his Child surprise for the first time, she appears so fragile to him. She’s a tiny and thin “boy” next to the lads who play with her. He’s afraid he’ll break her or fail to protect her when life will try to do so.

Geralt follows her, just two steps behind her, but he’s never close enough – destruction gets there first. There are many times he thinks he arrives too late to see anything but her dead body, yet every time, he doesn’t find her. Something spurs him on, guiding him forward. After ghouls attack and he can no longer move on his own, it’s Destiny who carries him the rest of the way.

When the girl in the woods runs towards him, he’s paralyzed  - there couldn’t be a clearer sign that Destiny will always collect her due, no matter how much he may try to escape. Fear rises within him as he wonders what fate he cannot run from , but then everything goes silent because he embraces Ciri. Their closeness calms him – it’s a breath of at last, Cub.

The girl is not afraid of him from the start. She’s tense and the silence between them often gets awkward, but she doesn’t fear him, doesn’t even flinch at his angry stares when she keeps asking about Yennefer. Ciri always looks at him so openly, with absolute trust, and the emerald green of her eyes stirs a fierce feeling in his chest. He doesn’t dare give it a name and only allows another kind of thoughts to take shape in his mind: the promises to shield her from harm until his dying breath. He even might, soon, since he decides to take her to Kaer Morhen, and the road will be perilous.

As they travel together, Geralt comes to the realisation that he can protect her from physical danger all he wants but it won’t be enough. The horrors she went through haunt her, especially in her dreams. Ciri’s piercing screams keep Geralt awake at night and the witcher has no idea how to soothe her. He doesn’t know how to offer comfort, or how to be a parent at all, and the helplessness of his failure makes his eyes prickle. He takes the girl into his arms but his attempts at shushing her are futile. She only keeps screaming with tears rolling down her face, and the cruel dreams don’t let her go.

Ciri’s nightmares occur almost every night, which exhausts them both. As a result, Geralt is too tired to fight the unbidden, cutting thoughts of regret and longing – hadn’t he been a monster and a fool, Jaskier still would’ve travelled with him. The blessed silence has become a curse without him. Jaskier would be able to soothe Ciri

As he and Cirilla slowly head North, the witcher starts wishing for the bard’s company daily, then every moment of the day, until it reaches the point when Geralt thinks he’s gone mad. It seems to him that he can hear Jaskier’s voice and heartbeat somewhere in the distance, that he catches faint whiffs of his smell. His throat constricts every time his mind conjures up the illusion of Jaskier being close. Geralt tries not to wonder why it hurts him so much, almost managing to ignore the fact that he wants Jaskier to hum for Ciri’s sake as much as for his own.

In order to push those thoughts away, he decides to focus on teaching Ciri everything he knows about monsters and self-defence. She learns quickly, and whenever she manages to do something right, she grins at him proudly. Warmth explodes in Geralt's chest at the sight every time and he just has to ruffle the girl's hair. Ciri does struggle with a dagger but on the other hand, she doesn’t have such problems with magic. The witcher can clearly feel the sheer power she wields, almost like he’s linked to it himself. The sensation turns out to be an indicator of something puzzling after he shows Ciri how to cast Signs – when the girl casts Aard a few times, Geralt finds himself unable to negotiate with Chaos for his own magic to last longer.

If that wasn’t worrying enough, the very same day Ciri is in good enough spirits to hums a song to Roach and as she sings, both Chaos and Order swirl around her while Geralt’s medallion vibrates.

For many reasons, the witcher needs Jaskier.

TBC

Part 6

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 25/38 Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening, Dragon Age II Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe, Oghren (Dragon Age), Justice (Dragon Age), Sigrun (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras, Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke (Dragon Age), Pride Demon(s) (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Self-Harm, Blood Magic, Prostitution, Drowning, Wilderness Survival, Mind Control, Human Experimentation, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one shackled next to you, save for the chains that bound you both?

Pollard’s blood lasted her only a handful of weeks. One vial she wasted, and for that she spent hours cursing her own foolishness, but successfully distilled second. Pure Blight pulsed black and ugly in the vial, viscous, oozing and alive, more than she had ever managed to get before; it was dreadfully difficult stuff to work with; corrosive, unstable, liable to eat through any vessel she kept it in. She had a thimblefull of taint now, and one vial of Pollard’s blood left over.

There had to be something. Veritas had said the secret was in the blood, and that made perfect sense. The blood of a man dying of the Taint, there had to be something.

But experiment after experiment revealed that the Blight in Pollard’s blood was no different from her own. She tried every test she’d spent all this time devising, distilling, refining, transforming, trying to find a single meaningful difference between the Taint in her blood and the Taint in the blood of a dying man. And there was nothing.

She had only the one vial left. Who knew when the next Warden would begin to hear the song? She should have taken more—curse her, she should have been more careful.

Normally she would have asked Avernus what he thought. He had ages more experience in experiments with Grey Warden blood. He might have even known all this already. If she could swallow her pride

But the thought of crawling back to him for help with something he probably had solved centuries ago made her physically recoil.

Avernus didn’t think it was even possible to cure the Taint, but what did he know? He didn’t  care about curing it. He only cared about the power in the Blight, how to use it to make new spells, learn more about magic. She was not like him. She was better. She could figure this out.

The longer she tried, the more her thoughts heaved with spurts of anger and pride and fear, wild despair-shot terror that whispered,  you are wrong, you are not good enough.  

She redrew the summoning circle. What choice did she have?

Only when she was halfway through the ritual did she remember to cast spells of concealment.

Veritas did not seem surprised to find itself back.“So soon, Loriel Surana? Again with the invisibility. Don’t you think it is a little paranoid?”

“Why doesn’t it work?” she demanded. “You said it was in the blood.”

“Of course the secret is in the blood,” said the demon. “I do not lie.”

“Then why is a dying man’s blood just the same as mine?

“The Taint does not change a man’s blood only, Loriel Surana. The taint is in your skin and hair and heart, it is in every part of you, not just your blood. What made you think you could understand the whole of something from its smallest part?”

“You  said—”

“Nothing that was false.”

She scowled. “I should have known better than to trust a demon. You lie without lying, all your kind does—”

Veritas seemed to grow then, filling up the room with its bulk. Its thousands of eyes stared unblinking right at her, its golden mask a terrible rictus. “ Do not dare insult me, mageling!  I am Veritas, he who knows ten thousand truths! Not one falsehood has ever passed my lips! Call me a liar again and I will  eat your heart.”

Loriel was gratified to know that she was still invisible, and Veritas did not see her flinch. “You might will it, Veritas, but it shall not happen. I have you bound so tight that if I  willed it, I could leave you here and never come back. I would bind you to this circle, to this mortal plane, and you would not see your home, nor anything besides this darkness, until you forgot your very name, until you were Veritas no more. Am I lying? Tell me true.”

Veritas was silent.

“That,” said Loriel, “is what I thought.”

“You are a bold little thing,” the demon said disdainfully, “to threaten me so, when you need my help.”

“I do not  need your help," she sniffed. "There are other demons like you. I could summon any of them just as well.”

“And yet you haven’t. Why is that, I wonder? If old incorrigible Veritas displeases you, why summon him? You want my cooperation, mageling, don’t deny it.”

“Fine. I won’t. I do want your help. What do you want in exchange?”

“Only this, Loriel Surana. Reveal yourself. Show me your true face, use your true voice. Let there be no unseemly secrets between the two of us.”

She had to laugh. “And what will you give me in return?”

“My goodwill, of course.”

Veritas did not lie. But it had to be a trick. What else could it be? A demon would not offer a deal unless it had the upper hand. The wise thing to do would be to dismiss it, find another spirit to deal with, one less dangerous, one with not quite so many staring eyes…

But...If she was going to show herself, she may as well do it to a creature that might understand her. She released the spells of concealment, and was beheld.

Every one of Veritas’s thousands of eyes focused right on her, boring into her skin, scraping every inch of her. “My, you’re even smaller than I was imagining.”

“Do you even know how to cure the Taint?” Her voice sounded preposterously small without the spell of echoing misdirection layered on top of it.

“No,” the demon said easily. “But I am very curious as to how you will manage it. I’m even willing to help.”

Of course. Of course of course of—“As though you’ve been any help.”

Veritas sat back lazily on its haunches. “You don’t even need my help, not at  this juncture. You said so yourself. You know exactly what you need to do.”

“Do I." The words dropped like stones from her mouth.

“Of course you do, Loriel Surana! You must use human subjects! Or elven, or dwarven, or whichever—you mortals are not all that different. I told you as much when last we spoke.”

“I did use human—”

“Do not be coy. Blood alone will not do it. You discovered as much yourself. You know what must be done, but still you hesitate. Why, I wonder?”

She did not answer.

“I will tell you this for free, because you already know it." Veritas turned in a circle and settled itself on its pause, like an enormous cat. "You hesitate because you wish to think of yourself as good, or at least, not evil. You prefer so strongly to believe that you are not like others of your kind that you would fail your stated goal on purpose. For as long as you stay bound to it, doing your reasonably convincing best, though you perform for no one but yourself, you do not have to move or think or be.”

She stood white-faced and silent, for every word rang true.

“Now if what you  truly wanted was what you claim to want,” Veritas went on, “you would not hesitate to do what you already know you must. You would accept the price of thinking yourself evil, and pursue that which brings you closer to your goal, and that alone. But this is  not what you want above all things, so you make only tepid and halfhearted efforts to achieve it.”

“You sound like Avernus,” she scoffed.

The demon’s golden eyes flared, and now it knew another name important to her. Was she truly so mad in her aloneness that she would give away her secrets to a demon, just to have someone to give them to?

Yes, she realized. Yes, she was.

    tck

Brigit concluded her report. No new deaths. No Callings. No sign of the Architect.

“Thank you, Seneschal.”  That will be all, but somehow those words did not get spoken, and until she spoke them Brigit would not move. She stood ramrod straight, at attention, the ideal servant.

“Seneschal. Why did you decide to come here?”

“To serve the Grey Wardens,” she answered at once. “To help. In my own small way.”

"And yet you do not join us?"

Brigit shook her head. "No, ser. I am no warrior. I can bear neither sword nor bow, but I hope to be of use in other ways."

"But why?" Loriel fixed her deep black gaze on hers. Brigit’s eyes were light, and they could be green or blue or brown depending on the light. Here and now, they looked slate grey, and did not waver one bit.

"I don't understand. What reason would I need to wish to serve? Why does anybody wish to serve?"

No. No, that rang false. "Please, Brigit. Let there be no secrets between us."

Finally Brigit dropped her gaze and said in a small and quiet voice: “I was at Denerim. During the battle. We had evacuated from the south, but the Blight had come for us anyway. I remember the storm...the only light came from the lightning. I saw the beast there, with my own eyes. I had never been so afraid in my life. I had always believed in the Maker, believed that he loved us, though we his children had gone astray...but when I saw that thing, I was not sure. What father would set such a thing on his children? I don't know why it affected me so deeply.

"And I saw it die. I saw  you slay it." You. Brigit said it like a prayer. "Ser, I am no scholar, but I know my history. I know that no Grey Warden has ever survived such a feat. I had never believed in miracles, until that day."

Am I all you hoped for? Loriel wanted to ask. But it only would have hurt her, and hurting her would have been the point. And if the answer had been yes, that would be too terribly to contemplate.

"I survived the assault, and returned to my life, but I never forgot. I wanted my life to mean something, but I was a coward. I cannot fight. I fear pain and death. I would be a useless Grey Warden... but I know sums, notations, and I write well. It is the Maker’s blessing that my mean skills are now of use.”

Loriel nodded slowly. “I see. Thank you.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, “You know how much I value you, Brigit.”

The full light of the sun shined out from the smile that split Brigit's face. “Thank you, Commander. I ask for nothing else.”

“You understand what a rare thing it is, to have my trust.”

“I do.”

“Do you trust me as I trust you?”

“Of course, Commander—of course, of course.”

“Good. That’s good.” She hesitated only a moment longer. “Tell me, Brigit, when you hand down judgments in my name—for what do you condemn men to die?”

“Rape,” Brigit said at once. “Treason. Murder. Fire-setting. Poaching. Assault of a Chantry mother.”

“Are these the laws of the land, or my laws?”

“Both, Commander. It is difficult to defy tradition and keep the support of the Bannorn, but the Arlessa has some discretion.”

“Are there many such capital crimes?”

“Not many. But always some.”

“How many?”

“Four condemned men are in the dungeons now.”

“Only four?”

“Most who break your laws or the king’s are punished swiftly within the city of Amaranthine, or by a local sheriff. Only those cases of unusual difficulty are ever brought before the Arlessa. Usually when the perpetrator is a person of note, who cannot be punished without producing political difficulties. I try to resolve such things quickly, in your name, but they often take some time. Justice, if it ever comes, comes slow.”

Loriel noted the shadow that flicked across her face.

“And these men’s crimes?”

Brigit told her. Loriel listened, and when she finished, stood and said: “Take me to the dungeons, please.”

  tck

Brigit led her down the long and winding way to the dungeons. She went to take a torch from a sconce, but Loriel waved her away and cast a wisplight. Gamely, Brigit did not fluster.

There were guards at the door, junior Wardens serving a boring patrol, and they snapped to attention when they saw Brigit arrive. Their eyes widened with astonishment at the sight of Loriel. No wonder—these recruits looked fresh enough that they likely had never seen her before. Only heard the stories.

She bid them to leave. They hesitated, uncertain, weakly protesting that the prisoners could be dangerous, until Brigit repeated the order, and they scurried. That annoyed her—but she supposed this was a situation of her own making.

She remembered coming here on her very first full day as the Warden-Commander, called on to deal with a petty burglar. Funny how it had all turned out.  She didn’t know where Nathaniel was now. She didn’t even remember him leaving.

Most of the cells were still empty. Brigit ran a tight ship. But many were full.

“This is more than four.”

“Yes, ser. Most are not condemned to die. Many are kept here until their family can pay the geld.”

“And if they cannot pay it?”

“They will be punished, and released.”

Loriel looked at the imprisoned men. They did not look dangerous. They looked tired and afraid and miserable. Her people, and she their warden.

“Which of these is the murderer?”

“The third cell on the right, ser.”

The murderer’s name was Geron, and he had murdered his own daughter. The girl had been seven years old, and Geron had smashed her head in with a cast iron pot. His wife had fled their house in terror, and when no one in the village would help her, had journeyed all the way to Vigil’s Keep to receive the Arlessa’s justice. The Arlessa’s men had found Henrick hiding in the attic of the inn, and dragged him to the dungeons to await judgement. Brigit had rendered it—death by hanging, for the crime of murder.

It had been an unusual decision, considering the extenuating circumstances. Geron had only done it because the little girl had been a mage. He’d caught her making mud-creatures with her mind, realized what she was, and killed her on the spot.

Loriel gazed blankly at him for a long time before speaking. “Why did you do it?”

The murderer raised his head. His eyes were streaming. “Please, ser.”

“Why did you do it?” she repeated.

He could hardly speak. He mouthed something that did not seem like an answer to her question.

“Tell me, please,” Loriel said quietly. “Were you afraid of her? Did you think it better for her to die? Did you hate her?”

This is what my people think of me, she thought. An insect. They would crush me in their disgust, were I small enough. But then, had he not killed his girl, she would have been taken to the Circle. Perhaps he had done her a favor.

She pressed her finger-ring into her palm. “Tell me.”

“I panicked,” the man babbled. She'd hardly had to compel him at all. “I didn’t mean to. Maker, forgive me, I’d do anything to take it back, forgive me!”

No,  thought Loriel,  I do not think I will.

“Then I offer you a choice.” She spoke quietly, but every ear in the room still strained to hear her. “You may take your death by hanging, or you may take the Joining. A life of service awaits you if you survive. The choice is yours.”

“Yes,” the man said hoarsely. “Yes, I will take the Joining. Thank you, Maker, thank you.”

She stepped back from the child-murderer’s cell.

“And the rest of you?” she inquired. “The same choice lies before you. Death, or the Joining?”

One by one, each condemned man volunteered.

Loriel turned to Brigit, who had gone pale and ghostly in the dim light of the dungeon. “Make the arrangements, Seneschal.”

  tck

Brigit remained pale and silent as they left the dungeons. Loriel noted it, but waited to return to the safety of her office to press. “Is something the matter, Seneschal?”

“Nothing, ser,” Brigit said quickly.

Loriel waited expectantly, and thought Brigit would keep whatever it was to herself, when:

“It is only that…” She struggled, then burst out: “Are you certain this is wise, Commander? Vigil’s Keep does not lack for recruits. Why offer this honor to these men who have broken the laws of your land?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance. The Grey Wardens have always recognized that.”

“I—yes, of course, but,” it took her visible effort to continue, “but it is not about what one  deserves . If a man is to be made a Grey Warden, I would have to find somewhere to place him. If he might pose a threat to his fellow Wardens, if we could not trust him—”

“Do you have such concerns about any man in particular?”

Brigit set her jaw and nodded. “Yes. Calder. There are details of his crimes that you may not fully appreciate. He is a relative of Bann Helven, and the situation with the Bann is complicated. Condemning his cousin for a crime that in other Arlings is not punishable by death at all was difficult. The Bann does not feel Calder’s crimes warrant death, and I may have to bend to his wishes.” The venom in her voice was enough to take Loriel aback. “To have him as a Grey Warden will only complicate things further.”

“To be a Grey Warden is an honor," Loriel said mildly. "Surely the Bann can see that.”

Brigit pressed her lips together. “It is not only that. Calder, he’s...He would have to be kept away from women and children. The girls he—they were young. He...a man such as that would be a liability for the Wardens, not an asset.”

Oh. Calder was the rapist. Loriel took in Brigit’s tight lips, her white face, and put it all together.

Suddenly she felt she understood Veritas. She let her voice soften. “Then of course I will take that into account.”

“Commander, I…”

Loriel extended a comforting hand, placed it lightly on her forearm. Brigit’s breath stopped in her lungs.

“Seneschal,” Loriel said, in her best pass at soft and gentle. “I understand completely. We are both women, after all.”

The effect on her was immediate. Loriel didn’t even need to say the lie, or even imply it. Brigit did it all herself.  The Seneschal, usually a cipher of utter professionalism, cracked into pieces of gratitude and pity and devotion. And there it was. She had her.

“There is no need for you to attend this Joining. I will handle it.”

She tried to hide it, but her shoulders still sagged in relief, just as they tightened again with guilt. “Are you absolutely certain, Commander?”

“Of course. Make whatever preparations are necessary. I will take care of things from there.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Do you believe me, when I say that all I do, I do to fight the Blight?” she said softly.

“I believe you.” She said it at once, with such fervor. Loriel had no doubt she meant it.

“Do you trust me, Seneschal?”

“Yes,” Brigit all-but-whispered.

“Then let us speak no more of this.”

  tck

Brigit wasted no time. She had everything arranged by the following evening. She apologized profusely that it could not be earlier, offered again and again to be present, obviously relieved each time Loriel declined.

For her part, Loriel made token attempts to make progress on the work while she waited, but by the second day, gave up. She sat in her Underkeep and thought incessantly of the child-murderer. It did not seem real, what she intended to do. Let alone how much she wanted to do it.

The hour approached at once intolerably slowly, and terrifyingly fast.

Guards brought the prisoners to the deserted chamber, released them from their chains, and departed. Loriel had already ensured they would not remember this, or come back in here. The prisoners were still and silent, awaiting their fates.

Loriel had not been present at a Joining in years. She only remembered the words because she had looked them up in advance. Not that they were important. Not that anyone in this room would leave it alve.

“Join us, brothers, in the shadows where we stand vigilant,” she said. She sounded ridiculous. “Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn.” How did anybody take this seriously? “And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.” It would not be remembered in the first place. She’d made sure of that. “And that one day, we shall join you.”

The last word echoed away, and then she offered the cup: “Who shall take the Joining first?”

At least she was giving them a choice. Not much of a choice—one death or the other—but it more than the choice Loriel had been given. More than the choice almost every Warden in existence had been given. In her own Joining, Duncan hadn’t even let them volunteer. At least  they had done something to deserve it, besides being born.

One of the men shrugged and stepped forward. Loriel knew neither his crime nor his name. He stared at the vile mixture for long moments before finally taking a sip.

A sip was all it took. He spasmed, gasped, and choked. He died over the course of a few seconds, but they were long seconds.The three remaining prisoners stood stiff and staring at the body. They had known this might happen, but now it was real.

It was altogether not surprising. Even honest, devoted, strong-willed people could die in the Joining. She had no reason to expect that men who had only agreed to the Joining out of desperation to do much better.

“His sacrifice will not be forgotten,” Loriel said flatly.

“Th-that’s a horrible way to die. Maker, I…” Another of the condemned men was shaking his head. “I—I think I’d rather hang.”

She shook her head minutely. “That is no longer possible.”

“Please,” his voice was a whisper— “Please don’t make me drink that. Please, I can’t, please just let me go back to my cell, I won’t cause no trouble, please, Arlessa...I’d rather a good clean death.”

The hangman wouldn’t offer him that. “I grant it,” she said, and crushed a blood vessel in the base of his brain. He was dead before he hit the ground. Instant. Painless. Better than a stopped heart or crushed lungs. She had gotten better at this, since the first time she'd tried it.

“His sacrifice will not be forgotten,” she intoned.

Two remained. Calder, the rapist with the noble relative, looked at the cooling corpse in horror, but the child-murderer’s eyes were closed as though in prayer. Loriel thought of drawing his blood screaming out of him, confirming his every worst fear about her kind. She thought of the lies she would tell him—that she could feel his little daughter’s spirit in the Fade, that she was here with her, that she wanted her to do this thing to him. How she would make him suffer, how she would make him weep. How she would use every trick she had ever learned to keep him alive, how he would spend eternities paying for what before she even began to consider granting him rest.

Yes, she wanted it. She would do it. She could not wait to do it.

“Step forward.”

Geron opened his eyes with resolve, stepped forward, and knelt. She watched his face. It was open and honest, terrified but resolved. He regretted what he had done. He wanted to atone.

Well, he would.

“Get up,” she barked. “Drink!”

Geron took the Joining cup and drank.

He collapsed immediately. The Joining cup would have fallen and spilled its noxious contents if not for Loriel’s instinctual telekinetic spell. Geron had looked pathetic in the dungeon, pathetic begging her forgiveness, and now he looked both pathetic and  small, collapsed on the flagstones. Her heart thundered. What fortune that this man was there in the dungeons. She might never have otherwise had the courage.

And then she realized that the faint pulse of life was gone. The Taint had taken her prize. He was dead.

The soap-bubble beauty of her little fantasy popped.

“His sacrifice...will not be forgotten,” she said, unsure for whose benefit.

Bitter disappointment settled in her chest, tinged with the faintest strains of shamed relief.

“Guess that leaves me, then,” said Calder. He had raped and badly beaten three young girls. Now he stood swinging his arms, looking around at all the corpses.

“Just how often is this Joining fatal?”

She was slow to reply. “Not as fatal as your one alternative."

Calder barked a laugh. “Point taken. Well, nothing for it.” Calder seized the cup and took an unseemly swig, nearly spilling it down his front. He gagged and coughed, flecks of Joining blood splattering the flagstones. She was not really paying attention to him anymore. She stared at Geron’s corpse. She had been so sure...so ready…

In the heartbeats that followed, Calder, too, gagged and bent, and collapsed insensible to the flagstones.

And Loriel was alone with herself once more.

  tck

She hadn’t slept at all when she next saw Brigit.

“Commander,” the Seneschal murmured as she set her morning tea in front of her.

“Seneschal,” Loriel replied, wrapping her hands around the cup, absorbing none of its warmth.

Brigit gave her report, halfheartedly. Loriel listened with even less heart than that. Finally they had performed enough normalcy that they dared speak of the matter at hand.

“Are there new Wardens for me to assign?”

“Oh,” Loriel said, as though she hadn’t even been thinking of it. “No. No, there aren’t.”

Brigit’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. All four?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

Brigit exhaled with relief. “It is justice, then.”

“No,” Loriel said flatly. “It isn’t.” Justice would be for that girl to have lived. Justice would be for a world where her death at the hands of her father would be an unthinkable absurdity. Justice would be a world where death had not been a kinder fate than the Circle. Justice had fled this place, leaving a massacre in his wake. Justice could not dwell in this world and remain Justice.

“No...it isn’t,” Brigit reluctantly agreed. “But the nearest thing that can be hoped for.”

“Brigit—may I ask you a question?”

“Of course, ser. I am ever at your service.”

An idle thought:  As you should be. “Do you suppose I did the right thing, in allowing these men to be Joined?”

A voice, a ghost, a memory:  Of course you did the right thing.

“I would not presume to say, Commander. I trust you know what is best.”

“I am asking what  you think is best, Brigit.”

Brigit gazed at her feet. “It is immaterial what I think.”

“No, Brigit. It isn’t. Look at me. I value your opinion. I would have you speak your mind.”

The Seneschal lifted her head. “I think...that is quite unusual, for every recruit to die in a Joining.”

Loriel held her gaze steady. “These men volunteered only to escape their imminent deaths. I would not expect many to survive.”

“Yes...but many come to the Wardens seeking to escape their fates,” Brigit said, slowly. “Four is not so many as to be impossible. Perhaps not even notable, to those unfamiliar with the process. But it is...unusual.”

“Hm. Yes. Perhaps so.” Loriel made out as though she were examining her nails. “But this way at least Bann Helven can be comforted that his cousin died in faithful service. To die in the Joining is an honor. Far more so, I think, than to be executed on such charges as he had.”

“That...is certainly so.”

“Tell me again, Brigit. Do you think it was good, or bad, for me to allow those men to be Joined? Answer truly.”

An echo:  You always do the right thing.  

Brigit held very still. Finally she bowed her head. Perhaps it was only the angle of her head, but she seemed to be smiling. “I confess I think it good.”

Loriel shaped a smile in return. “That is wonderful to hear, Brigit. I do so value your support.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“You should dress more finely. You speak with the voice and all the authority of the Arlessa of Amaranthine and the Commander of the Grey. Have you no fine brocades in silver or blue?”

How fortunate, that Brigit was pale enough that even the faintest of flushes showed easily on her skin.

“I could obtain some.”

“Good. Do so. You should dress as befits your position. Now, if we have nothing further to discuss...”

Brigit left her office flushed and preening. If Loriel had any doubts about her they were gone now. She was heartened to know that she did not yet need to accomplish  everything with blood magic.

She finished the tea in silence.

  tck

Loriel long dwelled on Geron’s death, down in her Underkeep.

She had no love of self-deception. She had long prided herself on this. She saw this ugly world, her ugly self, just as they were, and did not flinch. The old commander was the one who flinched. Not her.

And yet she had somehow been so wrong about her own nature.

Some things that Loriel knew about herself—that she liked power. That she liked to be in control. That she was ready to risk other people’s minds and souls, if she could keep her power and stay in control. It didn’t take a demon of knowledge to figure out why. She could imagine what Veritas would say, were it here:

Of course you love power,  it would say as it pranced in its binding  circle. Of course you would choose to keep power over all other things. You were a prisoner, Loriel Surana! A helpless little girl, bound by walls and violent men and love and fear and duty, and you are that prisoner still, prisoner of your own pretentions. You can no more escape yourself than you can cure the Taint. All prisoners everywhere take any scrap of control that they can get.

A woman who craved power above all else could not possibly be called  good . She had tried so long and so hard to be good, and it had been impossible, and the strain of trying had nearly cracked her open. Well, fine. She did not need to be good. The Chantry was good, and the Chantry decreed it good to keep children imprisoned with rapists and torturers and murderers, decreed it good to break their souls. What did she care for being good?

But Veritas had been right, that she was lying to herself about what she wanted most. She wanted to find a cure, yes, that was so—but more than that, she wished so dearly to not be evil. If she could not be  good, at least let her not be evil. Let her not sink to the furthest depths. Let her say that some things even she would not do, places even she would not tread.

Yet when the opportunity presented itself to subject a repentant man to torment in plain revenge for a crime that could not be undone, whose victim could not be recompensed—she had wanted it so badly.

Before she had gone to the dungeons she was not sure if she would have really done it. But she would have. And she would have enjoyed it. She had thought that, once the heat of the moment had passed, that she would grow horrified at herself, vow never to consider such a course again—

And that had not happened.

Was that not evil? To wish to inflict harm, just for the sake of it? For the sake of one’s own pleasure? There was no truer face of evil that Loriel could think of.

After that...it would be pure insanity, to slow progress on her work, just to keep thinking herself pure, when she so clearly was not so, and never had been. She had come into this world destined already cursed, already tainted. The Joining that had put darkspawn taint in her veins was little more than a formality. She had  thought that she’d understood this.

Veritas had been right about her priorities, but they were changing now. If she could not be good, if her nature was purely evil, then—at least she might  do good.

That meant she could not let herself get in her own way.

  tck

Calder woke. It surprised him. He’d had such dreadful dreams, but now he was awake—sweet Maker, he was awake. He was alive, he had survived! A Grey Warden, he thought in a heady rush, I’m a Grey Warden now. The relief that bloomed in him was palpable, almost overwhelming. He lay upon what felt like a stone slab in partial darkness, and blessed Andraste, he’d survived.

He had really thought he was going to die, and die horribly. Sure enough he had felt ready to when the vile Joining mixture had burned the back of his throat. He'd never tasted anything half so vile..

And he had had such dreams…

But it was over now. Alive, alive!

He heard someone approach. “Congratulations,” said a voice. He recognized it. The Arlessa—and his Commander, now. He didn’t think he’d ever been so happy to hear anybody in his entire life. “You are a Grey Warden, now.”

He moved to sit up, to thank her, and found that he couldn’t.

Only then did Calder notice the fact that he was paralyzed. There were no chains on his wrists or ankles,-but the force that bound him to where he lay was far heavie than chains. He could move, and he could blink, even move his head a little to track the Arlessa as she moved around the room, but that was all.

“I’m sorry,” said the Arlessa, and she sounded like she meant it. “If it makes you feel any better, leaving you alive was never an option.” She turned to a workbench. He heard the clinking of glass, the smell of intermixing reagents. “A Grey Warden is bound to a life of service. So you are here, helping me with some important work.”

Calder tried to speak, to scream, but though he could move his tongue to swallow, no sound came from his throat save for a strangled voiceless gargle.

“I’ve stilled your voice, but I can unstill it. We can speak like civilized people, before I begin," said the Arlessa. "If I let you speak, will you do your best not to scream? Blink twice for yes.”

He blinked twice, and all of a sudden had a voice again.

“What’s happening? What are you going to do to me?” The words tumbled out in a stilted rush.

“As I said,” said the Arlessa. “You are helping me with some important work. As a subject. The details, I am afraid, likely would go over your head, though I can discuss them with you for a short time if you truly desire.”

“Please,” he begged, “my father, he can help you. He’s an established man. Surely we can work something out—”

“Your father,” she interrupted, “believes you to have died honorably in service to your countrymen. A funeral is planned for next week. They will burn what looks quite convincingly like your body. Your family will mourn, but they will have closure. Privately some of them will feel a little relieved. I hope that makes you feel a little better.”

Calder threw his head back against the stone on which he lay. Was it his imagination, or could he move more freely than before? “I know I did some bad things. The Maker will judge me, I know I deserve to suffer—”

The Arlessa gave a slight tilt of the head. “Deserve? No, I don’t think anybody  deserves to suffer. This has nothing to do with what you deserve. Only what you can offer. If it matter to you, your life will probably make more of a difference to the people of Thedas than any other Grey Warden alive.”

Only then did it dawn on him. Sweet Maker, the rumors had been true, all of them. She was going to-- “You’re going to use me as a sacrifice in your demented rituals, aren’t you?” he said hysterically. “Andraste protect me, you’re going to...to…” His imagination failed him.

The Arlessa looked deeply offended. “I am not going to do any such thing. I need no more than my own blood and sweat and pain to work these spells. You are a subject, not a sacrifice.”

“You maniacal fucking bitch,” he gasped, “I’ll fucking kill you, you evil—”

Just like that he had no voice anymore. The Arlessa looked vaguely annoyed, at best.

“I strongly prefer you do not use language like that in front of me."

Tears leaked silently from the corners of his eyes.

“Perhaps it is foolish to talk to you,” she sighed. “Or rather, I know it is foolish. I admit that perhaps I feel a little lonely at times. But it would be cruel to leave you like this.”

His tears flowed freely down his temples and into his hair.

“You won’t die anytime soon, I’m afraid,” she said, drawing a knife, and at first he feared she would kill him there and then. “I don’t want to have to do this to any more people than I absolutely have to. But you will die with honor, and you won’t suffer. Goodbye. Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

When she spoke next, her voice was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard, so lovely and sublime that not to do whatever she wanted was the height of madness. “You do not know pain. You do not know fear. You are a vessel, empty of everything that might cause you to suffer. You are aware of your body, enough to describe how it feels to me, but it no longer troubles you. If you need something to live, you will tell me at once. Otherwise you will stay here, neither living nor dead, and you will know nothing.”

Calder fell into the silence, and didn’t.

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

SKIN DEEP—a fic

So Rainbow had a pretty funny exchange on Twitter yesterday about the Watford crew and teenage acne, and in particular if Baz would have acne. Which she said he most certainly would. So, being me, I had to go write a fic about it. Because I have no chill and even less self control. So here is a slightly crack-y fic, set at pre-canon era Watford, as hormones start to surge and Simon becomes pimple obsessed.

Screen shots of Rainbow’s tweets at the end of this post, to prove this lunacy had a real life prompt.

Simon and Baz fourth year, as the ravages of adolescence commence. Pimples, blemishes and spots. Questionable concoctions. The roots of Baz’s immaculate skin care regimen. Some things even a vampire can’t avoid.

Skin Deep

Year Four

Simon

I’m just about to splash water on my face when I notice them in the mirror. I mean, I’ve been expecting this to happen. I saw the older boys go all spotty at the homes. There’s no way I’d be lucky enough to be spared.

But fuck it all. I’ve got one on the side of my nose, two on my chin and one right between my eyebrows. How did I get all these pimples in one night?

I’m half tempted to think Baz spelled me. But that’s not his style, he doesn’t sneak about doing something like this, even though he’s a prick and a plotter. No, he did things like this when we were first years, but now when Baz spells me he wants everyone to know what he’s done.

Makes a production of it, the wanker.

Like when he knocks my boater off. Spells my shoes untied during class, so I trip when I stand up. Or seals the lid on the butter dish at breakfast.

If Baz was going to spell me spotty he’d do it in on a Monday, right before class, when everyone would notice. Not in our room, on a Saturday morning, when we’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go.

He’s still asleep so if he did do it, it must have been in the night and really what would be the bloody point of that?

I have to reluctantly admit it’s probably not him this time. It’s me. I was just hoping this particular stage of puberty would just pass me by.

The other milestones have been coming one right after another though, so I guess I’m not that lucky.

I’ve got hair in more places now.

And I grew three inches this summer (Baz grew four, the tosser, so he’s still taller than me).

He’s taller but it’s like he fits in his body. Glides when he walks. Smooth as silk on the pitch. Bloody infuriating, is what it is.

I feel like a marionette on a string, my arms and legs all out of sync, knocking into furniture and tripping over my own feet, even when my shoes are tied.

And my voice has been doing that stupid thing where it gets all deep mid-sentence, and then it goes up so high I sound like Madame Bellamy. It’s bloody awful. Baz always gives me shit about it --“going to break into song for us, Snow?”

He’s such a prick.

I lean in closer to the mirror. The ones on my chin are small. It’s the nose one that’s a disaster.

No help for it. I’ll ask Penny if there’s a spell at breakfast. Though I doubt there is, seeing as Agatha’s been spotty for weeks and I know she’d use a spell, if there was one. Penny says Agatha spells her hair to be that straight and shine like it does. I wasn’t sure I believed her but some days it’s got a bit of an uneven wave to it so I wonder if Penny may be right.

*******

“No, Simon, there isn’t a spell.” Penny is using her patient voice with me, which means she thinks my question is unbearably stupid. She leans across the table to peer at me over her glasses. “You’ve hardly got any.”

“I might only have four now. But just you wait. They’re bound to get worse. With my luck I’ll be covered in them.”

“You don’t know that. And even if they do get worse it’s human nature! The universal teen experience!”

I groan.

“It won’t be that bad, Simon. Besides everyone’s spotty.”

“Baz isn’t spotty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not Baz again, please.”

“Have you seen him, Penny?”

“I see him every day, Simon.”

“Yes, but have you really looked?”

“Obviously not as intently as you.”

“I live with him!”

I get another eye roll.

“He’s not got one spot! I tell you, it’s proof he’s a vampire. You can’t go through normal adolescence and be as pristine as all that.”

“Everyone goes through puberty at different times. He’s probably not at that stage yet.”

“He’s taller than me!”

“He’s always been taller than you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“It’s not like he has any control over that, Simon. It’s genetics.”

I know that. I know height isn’t something that you can magick. But it just doesn’t seem fair that each time I grow enough to catch up to him, he grows too.

He did it last summer. Did it again this summer. Even grew over the Christmas holiday this year, the jammy bastard.

And now I’m sprouting pimples right and left and he’s across the dining hall with his flawless, pearly grey skin. Not a spot to be seen.

Typical.

****

I can tell I’ve got more when I wake up. Bloody hell. The old ones dry up and get crusty and new ones take their place.

My face feels heavier this morning. I grimace and I know there’s one on the side of my nose again. It pinches when my cheeks move so it must be massive. And the one on my chin itches— it’s probably grown overnight, red and welted around that nasty white center. I can’t even imagine what my forehead looks like.

I’ve tried everything.

Washing my face twice a day.

Alcohol to try to dry them out (didn’t do a thing, except make my skin all flaky so I looked like I had dandruff and the pox).

I borrowed some ointment off of Gareth. (He’s worse off than me, the poor sod, just a face full of them.) (Which should have tipped me off that whatever he was using wasn’t working.) (Got an earful from Penny about that.)

I had some sort of allergic reaction when I used his, so my face was itching, red even in the areas between the spots, and felt like it was on fucking fire.

Practically scrubbed my face off trying to wash it away.

Of course, Baz walked in right as I came out of the en suite. Did a double take at the sight of me, the wanker, then raised that eyebrow of his and curled his lip up in a sneer. Leaned forward and studied me for a moment. My face got even hotter. I don’t like it when he stares at me like that, all intense and focused. Like he’s plotting the best way to end me without triggering the Anathema. Makes my stomach twist, it does.

Made me wish my wand wasn’t half way across the room.

But I know Baz won’t risk the Anathema. He’s never done anything remotely threatening in our room. (It’s another story out of our room.)

He’d crossed his arms over his chest after he was done inspecting me and smirked, the tosser. “You know, Snow, between the excessive quantity of moles, infinite number of freckles, and extraordinary collection of pimples you have on your face, I don’t think I can actually see anything resembling skin anymore.”

He’s going to make me trigger the Anathema one of these days.

I ended up having to see the nurse for it, when I couldn’t stop scratching at my face. She rolls her eyes almost as much as Penny. It’s not like I can help being there so often. I’ve got missions. Important work for the Mage. It’s what I do.

She’d shaken her head at me and cast some spell that made the itching go away but didn’t do a thing for the bloody spots. Looked bored and put upon even doing that, she did.

This teen experience is a bloody nuisance.

I’m more and more convinced Baz is a vampire. The entire class looks poxed except for him. Like we’re in the middle of a plague while he’s all alabaster skin, unblemished and smooth, immaculate and bloody flawless.

Perfect, just like he always is.

Wanker.

Baz

Snow is an absolute spotted mess. It was entertaining at first, to watch him peer at himself in the mirror, hear the muttered curses as he would catch sight of each new blemish.

But I’m actually finding myself almost feeling sorry for him now.

Almost.

He’s standing at his mirror, turning his face this way and that, grumbling to himself as he inspects his reflection.

It’s something he does on a daily basis since his skin condition deteriorated so precipitously. I should probably stop needling him about it.

But I won’t because he actually seems quite bothered by it. Can’t let him think I’m going soft.

I wasn’t joking the other night, when I mocked him. I don’t think he has a span of skin left that doesn’t have some manner of spot or blotch or freckle on it. At least he’s stopped with the alcohol washes. He was shedding more than a snake when he was doing that, leaving errant flakes of skin all over the bathroom sink.

Disgusting.

Whatever he’s doing certainly isn’t making anything better. Making it a far sight worse by my estimation.

He’s literally a textbook illustration of acne vulgaris. The full range: from red and bumpy spots, to glaring pustules, to crusted over, scabby craters.

More like a walking dermatologic visual in actuality. You could slap a label on him: progressive stages of teenage acne and the entire range of pigmented facial anomalies.

Although they weren’t really anomalies before the acne got to Snow. His moles and freckles just seem to fit with his tawny skin—vast arrays of constellations scattered across his face, mapping out patterns against the smoothness of his complexion.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. What absolute nonsense. Snow’s freckles are a travesty.

And he’s anything but smooth complexioned. He’s more of a lunar landscape than Shakespeare’s damask’d roses.

I can’t be arsed to mess with him now though. I’m too comfortable under my blankets.

It’s far too early for anyone to be up, but Snow’s probably readying himself to head off on one of the Mage’s blasted missions again. Despite the fact that it’s a Sunday morning and by all accounts he should be doing what the rest of us are—having a lazy lie-in.

I watch him from under half-lidded eyes, the blankets pulled up to cover the bottom half of my face. He growls one last time, savages his curls in an attempt to tame them, and then charges out the door. It slams shut behind him, further proof that Snow has no regard for the niceties of sharing a room.

Thanks to all his thumping about, I’m now wide awake. I try to go back to sleep, try to will myself into a drowsy oblivion, but that ship has sailed. No Sunday lie-in for me and I lay the blame directly on Snow.

I stay under the covers for a bit longer, dreading the chilly walk to the en suite, but eventually my need to piss outweighs the comfort of the bed.

It’s not until I’m washing my hands and happen to glance up at the mirror that I notice.

There’s a pimple on my nose. Not just on my nose—at the very tip of it. Right in the fucking center of my face. If it were anywhere else—my forehead or my cheeks, for example—I’d have some chance of hiding it. But this. I can’t hide this.

And I can’t hide the one on my chin either. Bloody hell.

I shouldn’t even have pimples. I should by all rights be immune to this. I don’t get sick, I’m not prey to infections—how the bloody hell have I ended up with acne, for Crowley’s sake? It should be one of the perks of being undead—imperviousness to the ravages of teenage skin eruptions.

For half a minute I wonder if Snow has spelled me, in retribution for my insensitive commentary on his facial imperfections. But there is no possible way Snow could have managed a spell this precise, this nuanced. I’d be covered in boils, like Job himself, if Snow had attempted to pox me.

That’s not to say that this is acceptable. It most assuredly is not. And there’s no bloody spell for it. Dev’s been spotty since last year and he and Niall have yet to find anything that does more than slightly diminish the redness.

It’s fine. This is fine.

It’s not fine.

I need to call home and talk to Daphne. Surely she’ll have some advice for me.

Simon

The sunlight filtering through the window wakes me up. I’m still knackered from yesterday. Didn’t get back until well after midnight and I’ve got class in just a bit. I stretch and groan as my shoulder pops. I wrenched it trying to free my sword from that basilisk’s skull last night. I roll my neck and pull myself to a seated position.

Baz is already up. The door to the en suite’s closed but I don’t hear the water running.

My stomach growls. I’ll have time for seconds if I get to breakfast early enough. I’m just about ready to head down there when Baz comes out of the bathroom, steam drifting behind him and bringing the scent of his shampoo with it. It’s some posh brand, in sleek, artistically shaped bottles.

Penny says it smells like cedar and bergamot. I’m not sure what cedar and bergamot smell like. All I know is that the scent is unfairly pleasant.

Unlike Baz, who isn’t pleasant at all.

He looks murderous at the moment, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed. He’s an arse in general but more so in the mornings. He’d sleep late if he had the chance—he’s rarely out of bed before nine on weekends, the tosser, not unless he’s got exams to study for or an away match.

I’m trying to stay out of his way as I leave but I make for the door right as he crosses the room to his wardrobe and we do this awkward half step to avoid each other.

And that’s when I see it.

He’s got a pimple on his nose. Right at the tip of it, where it comes to a bit of a point. It’s nothing compared to any of mine. I’d hardly notice it on anyone else but this is Baz.

It’s stark against his pale skin, raised and just slightly reddened.

Fuck. He’s got one on his chin as well. Two, actually.

Baz has spots.

Trivial and hardly noticeable ones, but still.

I open my mouth to say something then think better of it and hightail it down to breakfast.

I still can’t quite believe it.

Baz has spots.

Penny is disappointingly unimpressed by this unexpected and highly irregular development.

“Simon, we all have spots. This is not some earth-shattering revelation. It’s puberty. A normal part of human development. We’ve been over this.”

“No, but this is Baz. Baz, Penny. He’s not human.”

Penny rolls her eyes again. She rolls her eyes rather a lot, I’m thinking. “He is if he has spots, Simon. I’d say this disproves your vampire hypothesis for good.”

“Maybe vampires aren’t immune to acne.”

“Simon.”

“Maybe it’s some plot. He probably magicked them up himself, the scheming prick.”

“You’re relentless! First you’re outraged that he doesn’t have spots, now you’re complaining that he does! For Merlin’s sake, Baz has finally shown himself to be as imperfect as the rest of us, so let it go, Simon.”

“He’s not imperfect. Far from it. Even his pimples are impeccable—small, unobtrusive, uh . . . restrained.”

Penny stands up, takes her plate and glares at me over the top of her glasses. “That’s enough, Simon. You’re being absurd. No one has perfect pimples.” She stomps across the hall to deposit her dishes, turning back to give me a disapproving look.

I scowl at her. Baz walks in as Penny goes out.

She’s wrong this time. Penny’s not wrong about much, but she’s wrong about this.

Baz’s pimples are fucking perfect.

It’s so fucking unfair.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383057

[anistarrose]

the years wore on, and changed my heart (The Owl House)

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/23366812

Summary: A Boiling Isles fairy tale about two sisters, a curse, and the demon king who did the cursing.

Characters: King, Eda Clawthorne, Lilith Clawthorne, Luz Noceda

Relationships: Eda Clawthorne & King, Eda Clawthorne & Lilith Clawthorne

you ever think of a theory so unlikely yet so sad that you feel the need to write a fic about it immediately? that's basically the origin story here. (title is from "East" by Sleeping at Last because boy oh boy does that song have some King vibes)

***

(This is the part of the tale that a few parents still tell their children, to scare them into behaving.)

Once upon a time, there lived two Witches. Two sisters, the same blood and same bile running through their hearts of stone. They loved each other, and protected each other, and even in their dreams of the future, they never left each other’s sides.

But the firey-orange-haired sister had a fierce and rebellious spirit, chafing against authority and conformity of any form. The dark-haired sister still loved her, of course, but love slowly turned to worry, and worry to fear — after all, there was no room in the Emperor’s Coven for someone who openly questioned the foundations of the coven system itself.

Once upon a time, there lived a mighty King of Demons. Fur as black as shadows, hypnotizing round eyes that shone like two twin moons, and a cold uncaring heart, drawn only to conquest and brutality.

But a King is no Emperor, and despite his might and his magic, he found himself ousted. To reclaim his usurped throne, he could not simply act alone — he needed an army of ferocious servants, loyal servants, powerful servants.

Once upon a time, the King spied a head of red hair questioning the Emperor’s authority. He donned a mask to approach her — a two-horned skull that fit neatly over his own head, concealing his royal identity — and invited her to meet him at a later date, for he believed they had many views about the Emperor in common.

The naive Witch accepted his offer, and agreed to meet him on the night of the next full moon. When she told her sister about the conversation, the dark-haired Witch begged her not to go — it’s a trap! There could be agents of the Emperor waiting for you! You could be arrested — and then how will we ever be able join the Emperor’s Coven together? Please, stay home! Don’t throw your life away!

The firey-haired witch was not swayed by her sister’s pleas, and when the night of the full moon came, she drugged her sister with an illicitly brewed potion and slipped out of their house unnoticed. The icy nighttime winds howled, as if they to were begging her to turn back, but she ventured onwards, through the forest and towards the lair of the deposed King.

The masked King cordially welcomed her inside, and invited her to sit down. He had a plan to overthrow the Emperor, he explained, but before he could trust anyone to join his rebellion, he needed to pose them a few questions:

Do you hate conforming? he asked. Do you hate the expectations this world has for you?

I do! the Witch replied. I always have! I knew you’d understand!

Would you like to be something original? he continued. Something unprecedented? Something fierce and powerful and chaotic that the world has never seen before, something that’ll shatter all their dumb expecations of what a witch or a demon should be?

Of course! the starry-eyed witch exclaimed. That’s everything I want to be!

The King smiled as he cast aside his mask, and the concentric circles within his eyes lit up one by one. Then thank you for enlisting.

Before the skull-mask even struck the rocky ground, one of its horns breaking upon impact, the curse had been cast. Like an extinguished flame, the Witch’s orange hair turned gray in the blink of an eye. Her teeth and nails sharpened into fangs and talons, while two wings sprouted from her back, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream so loud it woke her sister from her slumber back in town.

After she fled the cave, the cursed Witch’s sister found her first, and smuggled her to the house of a friend Potions track who could brew an elixir and slow the curse’s progression. But for a complete cure, they would need to beseech the Emperor’s Coven themselves for help — and the cursed Witch refused, for such was the fury that she held for the Emperor. She was too proud to let any coven brand her with their magic, even if she turned into a monster without their help — and turn into a monster she did, as the years passed by.

Some say the Owl Lady still dwells in the Boiling Isles even as her curse worsens, spreading dissent against the covens by day and feeding upon unsuspecting witches by night. Do not stay out to late, young Witchling, or she will steal you away and drink your blood.

Even more importantly, do not make trouble for your elders, or the deposed King will lure you away and curse you. Give thanks to your Emperor, for freeing us from that wretched demon’s reign of terror.

***

(This is the part of the tale that no one tells their children because the only two to ever know it were the Witch and the King, and they forgot it all as soon as it happened.)

Once upon a time, a King cast a spell, and once upon a time, a Witch fought back. As the Witch’s hair turned gray, so did the world surrounding her. As she was plunged into the void, she did not go quietly, and she dragged the King down with her.

Surrounded by darkness, the King still laughed. With each ripple of magic reflected in his eyes, the Witch transformed further, feathers bristling and fangs elongating, but the King paid little attention to the nails at his neck transforming into talons.

You’re my beast now! he roared. You’re going to help me regain my throne!

The Witch drew no circles in the air, but something dark and primal ran through her transforming heart — and with it, she tapped into the foundations of the cursing spell itself. It was a rare type of magic that she performed that day, fueled just as much by spite as it was by bile.

The King had cursed her with a spark of his demonic essence. Well, she was going to take it.

She was going to take everything he had, everything ferocious and bestial and intimidating about him. She was going to take everything except his orders.

You want to make me a demon?! she screamed. Fine! I’ll make you powerless!

The King realized, too late, what was happening. His body, made more of ichor and magic than of flesh, was losing its form, liquifying and reshaping within that blank gray void, and he screamed too as he lurched forward and his head collided with the head of the transforming Witch.

Upon impact, a bolt of pain split open two minds, and in an instant, the Witch and the King both forgot.

A mighty demon and a puny mortal walked into the deposed King’s lair that day, and a mighty demon and a puny mortal left it. Neither looked the same, nor remembered as much, as when they had entered.

The Owl Lady left first, scampering out of the cave on all fours and practically bounding into her terrified sister’s arms. She had clung to just enough of herself to hold it together, and restrain herself from lashing out at what by all means should have been her prey — but as the years passed by, her control would wane, and she would come to depend on higher and higher elixir doses to stay herself.

The deposed Demon King awakened more slowly, as the sun began to rise and turn fateful night to ordinary day. He felt tiny and out of place in this lair, dwarfed in stature by mere stalactites and startled by every shadow — but most of all, he felt confused.

What am I doing here? How did I get here?

As little as he remembered, he knew that something was wrong. He was more than this runt of a body, more than these cowardly instincts. He was important. He was a ruler. He was a King — so where were his offerings? Where was his might? Where were his powers?

He didn’t remember how, but he knew he had been humiliated. He couldn’t be seen like this, he couldn’t be recognized. He needed to hide —

Frantically pacing in tiny circles, he nearly tripped over a skull lying on the floor, one of its horns intact and the other broken. It would do nicely to hide his identity, he realized — and maybe, just maybe, strike terror in his enemies’ hearts.

For the second time in recent history and first time in recent memory, the King donned his mask. Then he set out into the surrounding forest, in search of answers and royal subjects that he would not find.

***

(This is the tale no one tells their children because it’s only just now happened, and no one knows how the story will end.)

Once upon a time, there lived two Witches, torn apart by a curse. They both thought themselves successful, and believed the other was throwing their life away. They still loved each other, of course, and would never wish grave harm upon each other — but oh, were they loath to admit it.

Once upon a time, there lived a puny, impish King. He loved dreaming of conquest, and of sacrifices made in his name, but most of all, he loved the gray-haired Witch who’d taken him in off the street. The Owl Lady was what they called her, and The Owl Lady and The Demon King had a wonderfully ominous ring to it, after all. They made a good team, especially once the Human arrived to complete their sinister triumvirate.

Sadly, the Witch was afflicted with a curse, and this upset the King and Human greatly. Though the King often spoke of ruling with a cold heart and iron fist, he hated seeing the Witch upset — and he’d never seen anything upset her more than her worsening curse, no matter how insistent she was that she was fine, and there was nothing to worry about.

When he took back his throne, the King decided, he would convene a royal panel of investigators to track down whoever did this to the Witch. Then he would throw them in the dungeon until they agreed to undo the curse, at which point he would allow them to do so, before throwing them back in an even darker, smellier dungeon for the rest of their natural life.

He decided as much within an hour of learning of the curse’s existence, and informed the Human of his plan very matter-of-factly. She patted him on the head, and told him he would make a great ruler one day — but the King was more perceptive than he seemed. He sensed the doubt in the Human’s voice, and the sadness in her eyes.

She didn’t think he could do it, and he wasn’t quite sure if he blamed her.

The King was weak, and he knew it. Even from beneath his grim mask, he could hardly inspire fear, much less inspire ferocious warriors to listen to him. He was in no position to command an army of demons.

But once upon a time, while plotting revenge against an usurper his equal in size, he made a discovery: the Witch, while only half-transformed, would obey his commands with no hesitation. Knowing not of the spell-gone-awry that had tied them together a lifetime ago, the King was surprised — but the surprise stirred familiar feelings.

Confidence. Determination. Vengeance.

The Owl Lady was the most powerful demon the King had ever met, and at first, he feared this development was too good to be true. But a ghost of a memory had already returned to haunt him, presenting itself not as a recollection, but as an idea too tempting to resist:

He would use her to take back his playground throne — a logical first step towards world domination. It would be over quickly, and the Witch wouldn’t be hurt — she didn’t seem unhappy in this cursed form, after all — and no one would be the wiser. He would do this just to prove that he could, to prove that he was still a natural-born leader. To prove that he wasn’t as weak or as puny as he looked.

But upon reaching the playground, the Witch once again did what she did best — she rebelled. The King’s vague memory had prepared him for this possibility, and he had half-consciously resolved not to make the same mistake twice, but he hadn’t expected the backup elixir to fail him. He hadn’t expected demon hunters.

Most of all, he hadn’t expected to do the unthinkable, and abdicate his newly reclaimed throne. But the King loved the Witch more than any throne or kingdom or offerings, and deep in his heart, he knew there was no other choice he could make.

He squealed with all the rage he could muster — far more than a demon his size should’ve been able to contain. It was anger with the person who’d cursed his Witch, and it was anger with himself, for using the Witch in his own selfish scheme… and against all odds, it worked. The Witch remembered — not the truth of the past, but the truth of the present.

The King was her friend. She didn’t want to hurt him.

Later that night, the Witch admitted to the King what she’d never admit to the Human — whether it was because she’d known him longer, or because he’d clearly already assumed as much, the King didn’t know. But, for whatever reason, the Witch admitted that her elixirs weren’t working anymore, and as she spoke, her confident facade cracked and split open like the King had never seen before.

He hugged her. He didn’t know what else to do. How could he feel so helpless, so powerless, yet so guilty?

She hugged him back, cradling him in her arms and tucking him just beneath her chin, but even that felt just wrong and undeserved. He’d schemed, and manipulated, and hurt his dearest friend — and if this was what it took to be the King of Demons, then he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to be, anymore.

He told her, an admission for an admission. How he’d discovered that she would listen to his orders. How he’d been so power-hungry, and desperate for the reclaiming of his playground throne, that he’d used her. How inexcusable the whole affair had been.

I’m sorry, Eda, he sobbed. I’m so, so sorry —

I know, King, the Witch murmured, running her fingers through the fur on his back. That’s why I forgive you.

[warsofasoiaf]

Hi again, just a friendly reminder for you about Disco Elysium. I played it myself 2 weeks ago and I thought it was a wonderful game, looking forward to hear your opinion.

Here’s the weekend reminder about disco elysium: at some point I’d like to hear your thoughts about Kim and the deserter, but I’m sure you have a lot of first thoughts about the game’s narrative and styles at large and the overall themes ?

Yep, I’ve got many thoughts on Disco Elysium. Overall, I found it an incredibly enjoyable throwback to the classic role-playing games of the old Infinity Engine in a good way. It’s dialogue-driven in the way Planescape: Torment was, but was confident enough to avoid the pitfalls of combat that punctuated the D&D games in favor of a mechanical challenge of skill checks. All conflict is done through dialogue, either through picking a dialogue choice or engaging in a skill check. The game also helpfully gives you feedback, not only in your skill totals, but in how your actions influence the choices you’ve made. Did you take the corrupt union boss’s check? He has you over a bit of a barrel so it’s harder to resist him. Did you impress Cuno with your marksmanship by shooting down the body? You have a bonus to impress him since you’ve already done it before. This sort of openness with the mechanics of the game helps smooth over understanding of the functions, as well as reinforce the themes. Since everything you do is in the dialogue trees, and all of these choices occur in dialogue, it stresses careful reading of the dialogue box as opposed to something you just blow through to get quest markers or goodies.

Alright, let’s talk about the plot. Since there will be spoilers and it’s a relatively recent game, I’m going to throw a cut in here.

One of the chief themes of the game is sadness and loss, it’s written all across the setting. Heck, it’s even written into the name. Disco is the archetypical music genre that is dead, despite its followers wishing that it could come back. Elysium, the afterlife of Greek mythology. It was a failed communist revolution followed by a failed monarchist rebellion followed by a capitalist invasion, and now exists as a pit of corruption, crime, and plenty of people within Martinase look back to the lost days by cleaving to the old political systems as a source of comfort. Communists and monarchists look back to the old communes that were established, capitalists look to the successful Coalition and the ability of capital to absorb its naysayers and failures into itself for success, and the moralists look at the other three and say “you extremists are absolutely insane!” and hold to their own centrist platform and the path of incremental caution. This is hardly unusual in our own history, with far too many historical examples to list here. There’s a longing there for something that is lost, the people you meet in the game are lost, even what seems to be simple comedic beats have their own secret wishes, like Cuno who ends up helping you in the final act if you lose Kim, and can even become a junior police officer once out of the thumb of Cunoeese. Harry can sing the saddest song about the littlest church, and it’s a perfect expression of his regret, as his reptile brain lets him know. The deserter is lost in regret, albeit an incredibly negative sort. He curses those who are not ‘committed’ like him, who aren’t willing to murder like him. He looks at the Rene, the old monarchist with his boule, and wishes only to pull the trigger and silence him. 

The main character you inhabit is a great twist on the blank slate character that dominates the ‘western RPG.’ The main character starts the game passed out in his own drug-fueled excess. Where most RPG’s either expect reading a large lore dump (this was the case with the Forgotten Realms Infinity Engine games, which expected people to know who Cyric or Auril was) or largely wave it off with bland exposition, this was a game that made what happened an integral part of your character. What drives such a man to try and destroy himself so completely? Going through the game reveals the answer: it’s Dora, your ex-wife. Before, your obsession with your job (your case load, as noted by Kim, is exceptionally high), seemed to be at odds with your character’s penchant for substance abuse and overall instability, but exploring the failed relationship with Dora sheds new light on Harry DuBois. Dora was a wealthy woman, and your character was clearly a member of the lower classes given his demeanor and salary. Your character tried to immerse themselves in the work perhaps to earn more money, or simply to earn prestige to help alleviate the mismatch. It didn’t work, Dora left six years ago, and the detective has been alone ever since. By calculating the ‘cop tracks’ that the character can be on, the game can populate dialogue with references to the behavior, allowing the character to fill out aspects of themselves in a character-driven way. Tyranny did this with its campaign character generation, and Disco Elysium does it here. Such things are always going to be niche in RPG’s, the driving trend these days is instead make a completely blank character and have them be built out from actions taking place in the game world, but this typically leads to characters who rationalize performing optimal paths and who do everything the game offers in the world, which translates either into a lot of time doing repetitive content (in order to built up other character builds to the same level of mastery to the original build) or leads to ludo-narrative dissonance at the ease of which the character plows through the content, like becoming the Arch-Mage in Skyrim without being able to cast a single adept-level spell.

However, that isn’t to say that Harry is alone. Instead, the detective is quite a crowd is his own head, with the 24 various skills that he has developed largely advising, suggesting, yelling, and talking over each other. This was almost certainly part of the reason the original name of the game was “No Truce with the Furies.” The Furies, in Greek mythology were embodiment of vengeance, primal feelings that sought out their goals. These 24 skills in your head almost cannot be compromised with, only accepted or rejected. They’ll yell inside your own head to listen to them. Electrochemistry wants its next fix, Volition is certain that Klaasje is trying to manipulate you and wants you to slap cuffs on her right now, Physical Instrument wants you to show everyone who’s boss with fists while Authority wants the same with words. This was almost overwhelming at first, 24 characters to figure out in addition to my own character as well as Kim, Cuno, Joyce, Everett, and the Hanged Man made me wonder what exactly I was going to do. What was the difference between Volition and Composure, or Shivers and Inland Empire? It helps on a replay once you figure out what the skills actually mean and can help shape your character into your preferred vehicle for exploring Revanchol West. Dealing with these characters can be fun, insightful, and incredibly heartwarming, as the player can understand when they finally find out that Reptile Brain and Limbic System are simply trying to help Harry out with the loss of his ex-wife by trying to get rid of the sad feelings as best they can. 

What helps with this though, is that failing skill checks is not a death sentence. One of the most annoying things in games comes when you depend upon success after success that is out of your control, it encourages save-scumming behavior. This isn’t to say that failure isn’t a valuable learning experience or that difficulty is something to be avoided; the enduring popularity of the Soulsborne genre suggests that difficulty is not itself a bad thing. But failure typically has to be fair. If instead a game drops you in a room with 25 gorgons, forcing you to roll 25 checks against petrification or die immediately, that’s not challenge, that’s just padding the length of the game by forcing repeat content. Disco Elysium instead makes failure, particularly of red skill checks, either entertaining or allowing alternate paths. I laughed with absolute glee when my character took off from Garte yelling at him about the trashed hotel room which ended up becoming a full sprint while flipping him the bird, causing me instead to run over the nice wheelchair-bound old lady, in true black comedy fashion, or that you can get into a nodding war with Kim that’s so intense that you actually break your neck. That the game offers so many different methods to the same path helps elevate the role-playing elements.

Similarly, one of the best moments of game design was when you looked at the billboard to find out where Ruby could have gone. It’s a difficult Shivers check, which might force people into an insurmountable wall if they haven’t upgraded their Shivers skill. However, doing stuff in the fishing village, from going on a date with the harpoon girl to tracking down what went on with the body on the boardwalk, gives you bonuses to the check, encouraging the character to perform the side quests and explore the bonus content. 

The game’s side content really does reward some more of the Dirk Gently type of character that sees connectivity in anything. The old lady reading outside the bookstore doesn’t have a missing husband only to later be the wife of the man who died on the boardwalk, or that a grounded character won’t walk out into the water to speak with the apparition of Dora as the mythical Dolores Dei (another great reference to what was lost, the lost wife seen as the lost mythic Moralist conqueror and crusader) means that the more grounded character does have the more grounded, less intense story. But the short length encourages replayability, and the idea that a grounded character has a more grounded story is in it’s own way a commitment to the game’s overall vision, even if it means you miss out on a key insight the first time around.

I’m incredibly impressed at how the developers stuck to their visions and the finished product that they developed. My hat is off to them.

Thanks for the question, Khef, the multiple Anon’s who reminded me, TBH, and everyone else who was looking forward to this essay.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[allyvampirelass29]

Blood Moon: Scene 1

A Vampire Diaries Special Edition Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins 

Niklaus Mikaelson neared the shadows edge in the wood, wearing the misty eve as he would a heavy cloak around his broad shoulders, stepping so that only a part of his determined face, and one gleaming blue eye caught in the cast moonlight.

"You're late," He whispered to the swirling fog as it swept out over the clearing, his voice not altogether pleased, and yet not entirely angry either. "Of course you're late......." He whispered much more fond, a smirk curling in the corner of his amused lips. He straightened his black silk tie, the pinstripes on it leaving the slightest trace of red, and smoothed his black tuxedo jacket as well, his revealed eye fixated on the clearing, and the way the ruins of a stately mansion created phantom shapes in the night.

"You're angry with me........ I can feel it......... he breathed each word, his lips parted. "I feel........ The Fire. The fire that I love, the fire that you tempt me with, tease me with. That same transfixing flame you burn me with, even as I beckon it. That fire is yours yes, but unbeknownst to you, Love, it's also mine. I've coaxed it, controlled it, and it licks at my hand, and you think it's at your behest, but it's not. It comes because I've called it....... and so will you. You'll come, oh yes, you'll frustrate me with the waiting, being the flippant, smouldering thing you are. You'll curse me, you'll screw up that pretty face, set ablaze those lovely, lethal eyes, and you'll hate it, you'll deny it, fight it, but you will come, My Flame, because you can't resist the one who lit the spark of a dying blaze.

The sheen of red satin like a dancing flame emerged from the ruins, the ruffles trailing down her leg, catching the evening breeze as she ran, and the cool night air toyed with the ruffles across her bare back in an enticing and truly envious display. She wasn't using her vampire speed, and his thanks was resounding, for without it, she seemed to be running slowly, her human stride, making it far more able for him to admire her figure in motion. To blur such a watercolour vision through hasty acceleration, would be nothing short of sacrilege.

"Resplendent," Klaus managed breathily, drinking her in as hungrily as he did human blood, letting her drip down his throat and from his lips, warm and smooth, tasting the sweet with just the right hint of sting, all of it, primal in its pleasure. He watched the pale moonlight cling to her loose raven waves as they spilled down her bare shoulders like black ink, illuminated in a ghostly glow, light entwining with dark, a couplet of shine and shadow.

"Soft now...… For all my artistic prowess, every stroke of trying to capture you, commit your visage to my canvas, was utterly in vain...…. A shade, a shell, of the fiercely alive, force of a woman that torments me even now. Oh My Muse...… how I have failed you....…

"KLAUS!!!! KLAUS I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!!!! DAMN IT, KLAUS!!!"

Ah, and there it is...… the sting. Natalia, still running, screamed out his name in the dark, in full throated vexation, and he watched her open mouth wrap around the sound, as she cursed him openly. The silence had shattered with her fury, screaming across the foggy moor, but the fixating image of her crimson figure was made all the lovelier for it, her anger most becoming, and her eyes burned like stoked embers, searching for him in frenzy.

"KLAUS!!!"

"That's it, scream it, Tal, until your whole body trembles with the intensity of your breathless rage, until my name's affect consumes you. Burn me alive, suffocate me with the smoke in your eyes, set fire to the night, that we may succumb to it, and each other...…..

"KLAUS!!!! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU!?!?"

"I'm everywhere," He whispered with an especially teasing smirk. "Come find me, My Flame. Your sire demands it."

"KLAUSSSSSSSS!!!!"

His eyes snapped shut, and he breathed in the prolonged piercing cry like a draught of elixir, his mouth falling slightly open, as he luxuriated in its sensual song. Brava, Natalia. Brava.

She hurtled more furiously towards him, daring the dark to reveal him, and he opened his eyes again, to see her scrunch her silken obsidian curls in cascading frustration, her cheeks red with both the exertion and aggravation. He waited for it, for his moment, and at last she stopped, just short of the edge of the clearing, out of breath, fuming. Her eyes were murderous, as he stepped out from the shadows into the waiting pool of moonlight with a whistled tune, the darkness falling away from his imperious face, his blue eyes positively striking.

"With lips devil red, and skin the colour of mocha," He taunted, circling her, and his burning lips smiled, though his eyes did not. "You're late." He hissed in accusation, the playful manner falling away.

Natalia's fine, dark eyes snapped back, though she seemed for a moment, distracted by his choice of dashing formal wear. Yes, I do look scrumptious, don't I, he thought, careful not to let his expression waver.

"Late? Are you kidding me!? You're LUCKY I came at all!!!! What the HELL, KLAUS? You're CRAZY, if you think you can summon me in the middle of the freaking night, tell me what to wear, where to meet, all because you decided on a whim I had to play whatever screwed up game this is!!! I have a LIFE, okay, outside of your spoiled, rich boy, over-indulgent theatrics!!! Her threatening eyes lingered for a moment on his silk tie, taking notice that the red pinstripes on it matched her dress to perfection. "Okay...... really, what is this......? Are we going to the Prom?"

Klaus moved closer, and his smile was more scornful than genuine. "Amusing, that you think I have any regard at all for your so called home life with those insufferable band gnats. Worried about missing morning practice, are we?" He chuckled, his haughty blue eyes becoming ice cold. "Too bad. I am your Sire, Tal, and you might recall this pesky little thing that has bound together our blood called The Sire Bond. Rage all you want, My Feisty Songstress, but you will wear what I tell you to wear, and you will appear when you are summoned. I might remind you that this Spoiled, Over-Indulgent Rich Boy, is the only reason you have this life you're so proud of. He closed the space between them swiftly with a slight blur, and he was impressed when she did not so much as flinch with the intrusion. "You're welcome." He whispered in a rasp, smoothing a rebellious curl off her forehead.

They stared at each other for a moment, and he could feel it, her anger softening, the raging fire beneath quelled, and she hated that Klaus' touch had that betraying effect, when any other man would have inspired the absolute opposite.

"As for the Prom...… I have never shared Rebekah's vehement desire for such raucous frivolity. Are you, by chance, having a particularly odd late night craving for finely dressed, probably drunk, pubescent teenagers?"

Klaus watched her fight her smile, knowing she would lose, and he smirked too, part of him hoping she'd even laugh, the other, far smarter, more realistic part of him, knowing she'd never give him the pleasure.

"Ughhh no, definitely not. I'm not that kind of girl."

Klaus grazed his fingers lightly down her shoulder, across the satin ruffle hanging pleasingly from it, and continued the length of her delicate arm, watching the bumps appear on the flawless latte skin, looking deep into her softened eyes as he spoke. "What kind of girl, are you, Natalia? Tell me. Whose Natalia are you?

Tal stared back, her eyes steady, her body betraying her attraction to his commanding presence, his masculine scruff, and even that damned suit. I'm not going to say it, you can't make me say it. Her eyes flickered with something dangerous just for a moment, something that gave Klaus hope, his eyes intensifying. No, she pleaded in her mind, sensing him searching the silence. Don't look at me like that.......

"You want me to say, yours, don't you?"

"Aren't you?"

He watched her struggle, felt the shift as she looked away from him, overcome with the fear of what he'd do with her hesitation.

"I-"

"Shhhhhhh," Klaus soothed, pressing his thumb to her lips to quiet her, bringing her gaze back to his. "I know, you can't answer, and I know why...…. It's because of him...….."

"Klaus....."

"The Irreverent Romeo, The Cavalier Casanova, the utterly more vexing of the two Salvatores," Klaus snickered cruelly.

"They're both pretty vexing...…." Tal answered, as Klaus withdrew his thumb from her lip, taking notice of an anxiety that hadn't been there before.

"Yes, I do agree with you, Darling. That's why my request should come as no surprise. I'm going to ask you to do something for me, that you're not going to want to do, but it is, shall we say, rather critical to our relationship. I need you to break up with the Salvatores. No, Sorry, let me be rudely transparent, and just bloody say it. I need you to break up with Damon Salvatore."

Natalia drew back sharply as if she had been struck, the softness that had overcome her with Klaus' cast spell, dissolved, and she glared hatefully at him, making his own features harden with the stunned slight.

"Are you kidding me!? What the HELL are you talking about!? I HATE Damon Salvatore, Klaus!!! You KNOW what he did to me, I can't STAND him, He- He RUINED me!!!! Is this a joke!? You can't be serious!!! You're JEALOUS, so you make light of my darkest moment, my deepest pain!? Unbelievable. So happy I got all dressed up for THIS!!!!"

Furious, Natalia whirled around to leave, and Klaus caught her arm, his fingers curling around it tightly, possessively, growling, feeling his own ire rising in his chest.

"Yes, how stupid of me, your precious Damon is in the past, how can I forget!? He LEFT you, caused you irreparable damage, hurt you most profound!!! You'd never betray me, your saviour, your sire, your damned saving grace with the likes of him, now would you!? You'd never have SEX with him in the street, but oh WAIT, that's right, you DID!!!!"

Natalia's lip furled, too enraged to even speak, recoiling at every sardonic word spat from Klaus' lips, and she yanked herself free, something inside of her breaking, cursing herself as the anguished tears rolled hot down her cheek her pained whisper, more cry than actual threat.

"Go to hell, Klaus."

Klaus' brow pulled back, knowing he'd taken it too far, knowing he was about to show undermining weakness in her eyes, but he didn't care, and his voice cracked on the words as they burst from his lips.

"I AM in HELL!!!" He cried out, his words and strange, manic manner such a shock to Tal, that she stopped dead, looking at him incredulous, and he took her arm again, this time with a rare tenderness that made a remnant part of her heart ache. "Don't you see? Natalia, I am in HELL, every time that man touches you, every time he says your name, every time he dares enter a room where you are...….."

Natalia's eyes looked frightened as the single tear escaped down his cheek. In all the years she'd known this dangerous, this notorious, this unrelenting, ruthless man, it was the only time she'd ever been this scared of him.

"The way he looks at you...…" Klaus uttered, his voice still broken, his teeth clenched as he stared at her through his released tears. "There is no greater weapon he possesses against me, even the white oak stake offers a fate preferable to that eternal torment. I can't survive it, Natalia...….."

Natalia couldn't help herself, she slowly turned around, her body moving of its own volition, defying her natural instinct, and reached for his face. With a shuddering breath, he closed his eyes, as she pressed her palm into his cheek. Now it was he who felt scared. It wasn't supposed to go like this. She- She wasn't supposed to see him this vulnerable, this fragile, this- this wasn't him! Oh what have you DONE to me, Tal? What is this- this affliction that makes me a fool?

"Klaus-"

"No," He managed unsteadily, fighting for his composure. "You will LISTEN to me!! I've let this go on too long, now, this disastrous folly!!!" He yelled, knocking her hand away, when everything in him screamed at being woefully denied her touch. "Enough!!! I've allowed you to keep him too close, I've endured your clandestine dalliances, because I know....….. I know what a comfort that can be had in faces that remind us of much happier times, memories of love, of bliss, of a transcendent togetherness. But he is poisoning us, Natalia. He uses you, he dares TRIFLE with you, he's confusing you, and I won't have it!"

"Are you...… forbidding me from seeing him?"

"I would prefer it be your choice," Klaus countered, an edge in his voice. "But, yes, I suppose I am. Cut him out of your life, Tal, remove this sword from your side!"

Natalia shook her raven tresses in disbelief. "No!! You can't do this, Klaus, you CAN'T tell me who, or who not to associate with!!! You don't get to decide who trifles with me. Those memories you speak of, the bliss, and transcendent togetherness? Ha! They're toxic, okay, tainted with his scathing betrayal. What once tasted so sweet has turned to ash in my mouth!!! I taste it every time I see him, Klaus, that vile rancor that chokes me, and GOD I want to stake him, myself!!!!!"

"If you think that's best, Love." Klaus simpered.

"No!! I mean, yeah, don't tempt me...… But whether I like it or not, as badly as I have suffered loving and losing him, we're always going to have a history. I hate it, but I can't undo the past, and since we're both going to live forever...…… I'm stuck with him."

Klaus scowled, shaking his light auburn curls, his lip protruding with his defiance. "NO. I do not accept that. I will not let that womanizing, leather clad, Lothario, use your history as an excuse to stay, and further injure you. Stop picking up the broken glass, Tal, and drop your Bad Salvatore Habit!!!"

"Klaus, I can't-" She insisted, watching him bristle at her resistance, his eyes narrowing, his sweet fragility from moments before, fallen away.

"You can...… and you WILL." He insisted through gritted teeth, his tone forceful. "As your Sire, I demand it."

"What happened? Did he say something to you? Why now? What could have possibly brought all of this on? Klaus, I don't understand-"

"Say it. Promise me, that you'll stay away from him." Klaus commanded, unflinchingly, his eyes hard.

Natalia felt the fire within her start to catch, not caring for the liberties Klaus was taking with her so carelessly. She leaned forward, her eyes smouldering, her red lips full of spite.

"No."

Klaus smiled, but it was an angry smile, his eyes still icy, and he raked his fingers through his hair, before resting them, tremulous against her temple, his voice soft, and somehow the most threatening she'd ever heard it.

"You know...…… I can make you...…."

Natalia breathed heavily, her obsidian eyes flashing, and she was sure she'd never despised Klaus more than in this moment.

"You promised...…… You PROMISED you'd never do that to me."

"You are not giving me a choice," he rasped back. The Sire Bond should be persuasion enough, but still you resist, still you refuse, because in some perversion of thought, you want him...…. You want him more than you want me, the man who has given you everything."

Klaus whispered that last word especially harsh as his lips brushed against her ear, his fingers holding steady, and he knew he could do it, compel her before her next breath, and by sheer force of will, make it so that Damon Salvatore never saw this exquisite face, never beheld the fire in her eyes, never lusted for her womanly, caramel figure ever again.

"I'd never forgive you...…." She hissed back, both of them poised, daring the other to move first, his fingers still fixed. Oh yes...….. There was that."

"Tal...…." He whispered delicately, feeling the ache ravage his heart, and her own expression gentled, as his two fingers caressed the side of her face, much like he'd done with the painting on the canvas. "My Spanish Rose, My Spirited Siren...��." He inhaled deeply as he buried his face into the dark, silken curls veiling her cheek. "Let me help you...…. Let me save you from his heartless treachery. I can make you forget him, free you from the pain of every memory. It would be a kindness....... I can make it so the two of you never met in Italy, never reconciled that night in Barcelona a hundred years hence, never kissed in the gondola in Venice, never splashed each other in the Trevi Fountain. Oh my Love, I know it hurts, but it doesn't have to. How much more lovely things await you, than those you leave behind. Let me do this, for you....…."

Natalia trembled violently, as he brought his full lips to her cheek, and her mettle-tested hard exterior that she had so tirelessly forged, broke with his kiss, as the much softer, more deep feeling and vulnerable Natalia from two hundred years ago emerged, silently crying. He pulled away, tasting the salt of her tears, moving to perform his compulsion, when she suddenly grasped both of his fingers on the side of her face, just as he leant down to lock his eyes with hers.

"Klaus, please...…"

Klaus hesitated, having never seen that look in her eyes, having never beheld this facet of hers, this beautiful fragility, this sweet, desperation.

"I don't want to forget...… not any of it. I was..... I was so happy, I was infinite, and unbroken, and I-I want to remember how it felt, even if it hurts now, knowing I'll never be that girl again. Never love that fearlessly. Klaus, I beg you...…. don't do this. Don't take it from me."

Klaus brought her to his chest, and she collapsed against him sobbing, as he enveloped her in his strong arms, resting his cheek atop her curly head, both palms pressed to the bare skin on her back, and he fought his own tears, so affected.

"I won't. I promise you...…. I could never do it, not now. Oh Natalia, My Darling Girl, forgive me, I-I am a selfish, cruel, jealous, insensitive menace, and I do not deserve such a fiery fairness to call mine."

Tal lifted her head to look at him, her eyes still glimmering, burning like candlelight with what he'd only caught a flicker of before. "You may be all of those things, Niklaus...…. but you are beautiful too. My Soulful Artist, My Sexy Sire."

Klaus shuddered, his lip curling around his next shallow breath, hurting as he drew it in, and he was sure he'd heard her wrong, though the euphoria coursing through his hybrid form heralded he had not.

"You...… think I'm sexy, do you?"

Natalia bit her lip, and while she should have been horrified with herself, cursing her weakness, she let that heaviness fall from her shoulders, casting off her armour, grinning like her former self, only this time her smile was indestructible.

"Sexy as HELL, Klaus! Please, like you didn't know!" Her dark eyelashes fluttered coquettishly, before she pointed her finger at him, fighting the smile that wouldn't die. You tell anybody though, that I said that, and I'll kill you."

"Fair enough," He chuckled, disarmed by her smile, his exhale sharp, breath drowning out useless speech, his cheeks hot, suddenly not trusting that this was in fact, reality. Sure he'd been praised before, mostly by insufficiently clad girls too drunk to know better, or otherwise flattered by feminine scheme in some nefarious attempt to abuse his family's power, but not by her...…. Never by her. In a thousand years, no words had ever affected him the way hers had. No woman had ever transfixed him like her, and nothing, not anything had ever terrified him more than siring this perfect creature, and craving her affection even more than her blood.

"You're ravishing to the point of madness," He rasped hungrily grabbing at her skirts to pull her up against him.

"Shut up, and kiss me already," She sassed, running her fingers through his curls, something she'd never done before, but hey, she would be lying if she said she never thought about it...…. among other things.

"As you wish...….." Klaus' smile was impish, the red satin positively sinful as it slipped through his fingers, his hands bunching it at her shapely hips, pulling her into the fevered kiss, pressing into her lips with a growl. But as he tasted the fire, as it burned on her lips, as it tempted him to devour her, the wolf inside fell silent. Instead of letting the heat rise, and work him up into an animalistic frenzy, instead of craving to control that beautiful blaze, stoke it relentless, he felt himself melt in it, the kiss softening, his lips succumbing to hers, as he sipped the exquisite wine instead of swallowing it whole, wanting to savour it more leisurely. His lips were delicate, as they moved over hers, lingering, breathing her in, overwhelmed with this strangely gentle sensation, something happening, something transcendent from the past stealing through him.

Natalia's lips trembled in the kiss, stunned as he painted his soulful passion in long, slow, careful strokes, ever the artist, their lips brushing against each other's over and over, uncommonly sweet, losing themselves to it, tasting the tenderness that they were both so afraid to feel. It had always been there...…. either masked in violent passions, or furiously fended off, but this time they were powerless. It flooded through the kiss, unyielding, and broke over Klaus like a wave smashing against a stubborn rock.

A thousand years of hardened anguish, of inescapable torment, and pent-up rage, fell away in one strike of an achingly soft kiss, as the Klaus hunted, the Klaus hated, the Klaus reviled, and corrupted by blood, dissolved, and transformed into the Klaus he never thought he'd be again. The noble, pure-hearted eleventh century boy stood in the ruthless Hybrid King's stead, and all he wanted in the world was to stay here, to keep kissing this mysterious raven-haired maiden with his shy, eager lips. This beauty out of time, the angel banishing his hell. His hold on her hips became more soothe than seize, clinging to her, needing her, delighting in her lips, kissing her seemingly for the first time.

Ridiculous. He'd kissed her before...… Fangs dripping with lust, ripping his shirt off, shoving her up against the wall, to have what was his, to take what the Sire Bond could not deny him. They'd kissed after killing, after feeding, blood smeared on both of their lips, sharing it between them, the victorious predators reveling, and GOD knows he'd kissed her just to shut her up when she was being impossible, difficult, captivating...… But this..... What the hell was this?

The boy felt the tears sting his crystal blue eyes, and while the Hybrid King would have railed against them, the human Niklaus let them fall, let them mingle with the sweetness of their dancing lips. The King marveled at the boy's answer to his wild-eyed quandary, his mouth falling open, paralyzed. No. No, it was........ impossible. But as Natalia's slender fingers brushed against his tidy, red blonde stubble, and disappeared into his crown of light curls, her lip lowering to retake his, he felt it truly, deeply, echoing like a forgotten song, reverberating through him, the sound frightfully pure. Innocence. This was the long absent taste of innocence, of a paradise lost, found.

They stayed that way for a heartbeat, perfectly still, lips still touching, but not moving, mouths slightly open, neither one of them wanting to be the first to break the kiss, but both knowing that they must. She pulled away, and he let her go, his trembling hands finding refuge in his tuxedo jacket pockets, her own lovely, lovely fingers flying to her lusciously red lips, and even as he watched them touch where he had kissed, he could still feel them on his face, in his hair, and she looked at him like the danger, the terror, the dire threat he truly was.

"Thank you," He rasped, still chasing his breath, and his chest broke inward as he saw the crystal trails glittering on her own bewildered face. She'd been crying too...….. Natalia almost never let him see her cry, and these weren't the tears he'd on occasion caught a glimpse of. You're crying...…. because you're happy...….. I made you happy. He brushed his lips against her wet cheek in one last ache of a final kiss, his palm cradling the back of her wildly curly head, and he felt a rush of fresh tears stream down his face, and though the king fought to keep his secret, the boy knew he was in love.

"Thank- Thank you," The words strangled in Natalia's throat, and she bit back her own tears, the shock, the anger, the enchantment, the emotional vulnerability all too much. What the hell was that? What- What did he think he was doing, kissing her like that, manipulating her, prying into the depths of her soul, all for what!? This is sick, this can't just be about Damon..... What was he playing at? But as she stared at him, the damning evidence of his own undoing painted in his broken expression, she wondered with a tenderly taken breath, if it all could be real. Do you- do you- love me, Klaus? God, could you love me?

"Thank you...… for tonight," She whispered in a different, much softer voice, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling naked, watching the warmth flood his eyes. "Thank you, Klaus, for letting me keep my memories, I know how hard it was for you, and you don't know what it means to me.

"I only let you keep them so I could outdo them, intending to create a new one with more drawing light, than that which has tarnished." Klaus' smile was playful, his voice still slightly breathless, cracking with his unleashed emotion, and he hastily rubbed his finger over the crest of his lip, to stop the tear that was resting precariously there. Get it together you blubbering fool, he cursed himself, but as he looked at her, at his Tal, his iron maiden, and saw her become as soft as water, his own eyes became sapphire pools, concealing no underlying menace, only drawing serenity, and his countenance became wholly innocent.

"Of course, always and forever, The Showman, Niklaus, but my, that you have done so, most dazzling." Natalia's smile was incredibly sweet, and so unlike her, her eyes dancing with an even more dangerous fire, that glowing candlelight that sought to warm instead of burn.

It sashayed over him in its beckoning shine, and he'd never felt less deadly, less immortal in his entire eternity, a dandelion blown to scatter, breathing in the sound of his full name, romanced by the scandalous way it rollicked, and rolled from her tongue, catching in her slight Spanish accent. She always said it the same way, spoke it aloud like a mantra. He'd told her his name when he first found her, amidst the remnants of the ruined house, trembling under a splintered table, her white dress covered in blood, taking her into his arms, and she'd said it then as if it named some mythic figure, some divine saviour. He'd never heard anyone speak it that way, and even after near two hundred years together, he still felt like that grand, miraculous rescuer, every time she said it.

"You are yourself, Dazzling, Natalia. I needed only provide the proper accoutrements." Klaus smirked, feeling himself returning, needing to take the power back, needing to be her Sire right now, and not...…. He sighed with the thought, though whether it was one of frustration or longing, he had yet to reconcile. Not........ Her peasant boy. As lovely as it had been to break with her, to be weak with her, to lose control..... He was still the king.....

"Klaus, this dress, it's-" Natalia laughed very girlishly, and he allowed himself one more moment of weakness, drawing back her ebony tresses to better see her face, knowing precisely what she wanted to say, and knowing full well why she couldn't say it...….

"Custom," He interjected for her with a handsome wink, and she smiled at him graciously. "I was painting one night, brushing the red against the white of the canvas, and let's just say I was...… inspired."

Natalia smiled again, and then gave him a teasing, knowing look, "So you're saying I'm in God-knows-where at midnight, as your Red Cinderella, because you had some artistic revelation?"

Klaus' grin widened, his eyes deviously sly. "Something like that, yes. However, our midnight won't break the spell, but rather cast a new one."

"Meaning?"

"The mystery awaits, and you're much smarter than Cinderella, so why don't you stick around and find out."

"You do realize, you're frustrating me by being cryptic, as we stand on the edge of a cliff, right? Hell yeah, I'm smarter than Cinderella, and much more dangerous in heels too." Natalia's laugh was full of mirth, even as she taunted him in that irresistible way of hers, and he smirked too, the sound surrounding him in its fleeting music. I'm much smarter than any clueless prince, My Fire. If he'd had any sense at all he never would have let you out of his sight...…."

"Well before you throw me over, and dash me on the rocks, why don't you wait until after our interlude. Come........"

He extended his arm to her, looking over his shoulder, with an arched eyebrow, and an insistent smirk.

Any other time she would have demanded an explanation, before she took one more step. He could be so infuriating with his flowery speeches, and his showy stunts, but God that kiss...… it was like a spell in itself, she couldn't shake it, and even more worrying, she wasn't sure if she wanted to...…. Damn you, Klaus Mikaelson.

She walked calmly up to him, and he smirked again, satisfied as she took his arm.

"This better be good."

"Oh My Darling...…. You'll never forget it...….. Not even if you are compelled to."

They glided through the ruins like elegant ghosts, transfixing, in their prim promenade, Natalia's crimson dress trailing behind her, passing the burned and worn down remains of what was once beautiful architecture.

"What is this place...…?" She wondered out loud, her voice hushed, the curiosity getting the better of her. Klaus smiled to himself as he looked out over the moor, the fog curling around the cliff's edge, and the bits and pieces of a fantastic colonial estate came together in his mind, flooding it with rich, oil painted memories.

"This used to be my favourite place in all of Mystic Falls. In fact...… it still is...... In the 1760's, in a glorious time before the stench of the Salvatores' arrival from Italia, isn't that a pretty thought?" He smiled mischievously, arching his eyebrow again. "This was the crown jewel of vampire society in the Americas. The lavish, extravagant parties, the reckless frolicking, all housing the collection of the most powerful creatures in existence, and we lived like kings. Mystic Falls was a cursed kingdom, a beautiful and terrible place under our spell, and it belonged to the vampires."

"What was it called?" Natalia asked stunned, this mysterious place holding such a draw for Klaus, as he stared mesmerized, his mind somewhere else, that far off look in his eye, centuries falling away, and she found it all so intriguing.

"Noirbloom Manor." The smile in Klaus' voice was pure, wicked pleasure, as the name formed on his lips, and lilted from his tongue. Even the very name...… the way it tastes on the tongue with such delicious menace...…. Such mysticism and infamy even still."

"I've heard of this place...…" Natalia said in a breathless gasp. I always thought it was a legend, a dark fairytale.

"It was a fairytale...…." Klaus' voice rasped with such profound awe, and Natalia watched him lean down in the grass, to brush his fingers against a beautiful, yet strange black flower, its center glowing the darkest of violet. "And yet fairytales almost never have happy endings."

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 

[peridot-tears]

MDZS but it’s Percy Jackson - chap2

AO3 link here.

Chapter 1 here.

Lan Zhan had trouble sleeping that night.

Not because of the new environment. The Aphrodite cabin beds were softer, more luxurious. His brother slept in the bunk beneath him, of course. There was nothing different, and whatever was different was heightened into something more comfortable.

But he had trouble sleeping that night.

“A-Zhan,” said his brother.

“Ge,” Lan Zhan said, feeling guilty, “am I keeping you up?” He had been tossing and turning more than usual, which is to say he had shifted his hands about five times now. He hoped that moving into Aphrodite’s cabin would not suddenly start a pattern of insomnia in him.

“Not at all,” Lan Huan said kindly, which Lan Zhan took to mean, Maybe, only a little, but that does not matter at all. “What are you thinking?”

Lan Zhan rarely vocalized his thoughts; he did not need to. Least of all to Lan Huan, who knew him the moment he came into the world, knew his thoughts before they were formed into any language humans speak.

But, anyway, that was why it was important to respond when he wanted to, honest to gods, talk.

“I did not expect our mother to be Aphrodite,” he rumbled, finally. 

If any of his new sleeping siblings woke up and heard, and were offended, then he did not care.

“True,” his brother responded softly. “I have thought that we could be sons of Athena, or perhaps, truly, sons of Hermes. Something about how much time you have been spending on the hills lately.”

Lan Zhan did not respond. He liked the feeling of the wind on his cheeks. It made him think that he was the son of Hermes, who flitted through the sky, or even a minor deity—someone who took care of the clouds and pushed them swaying through the sky like a boat down a lake. Something that connected his grounded self to something higher. It was quiet up there.

“I would have thought that Wei Ying would have been a son of Apollo,” Lan Huan continued. “That his father would claim him because he taught Wen Ning—of all people—to perfect his shots at the archery range today. He seems more sun than death.

“A-Zhan,” he said. “Perhaps a good nighttime walk will be good. It will tire you out.”

Although Lan Zhan did not respond, he did as his brother suggested; before he truly registered what he was doing, his shoes were on, he had tapped the post of Lan Huan’s bunk on his way out, and then he was in the open, the night still warm, but with a touch of coolness too. The hills promised more.

He decided not to go near the edge of the border; not because he did not want to see the outside world for a moment, which he did, but because Peleus was still there, and he wanted to truly, truly be alone tonight.

Gliding up the hill, he stopped when he could glide no more, and stood overlooking the valley. The lights were off; anything he could see was due to the moon. It cast everything into black, but blue as well.

The shirt he had chosen to wear to bed was white; when he looked down, that was all he saw of himself too. So different from the city mere hours away from Long Island Sound, the city that blasted all the colors of his brother’s light blue clothes into sharp relief.

His peace, however, was shattered by the smattering of grass sounds coming from his left.

With a silent sigh, he turned towards it. It could not be...of course it was.

Wei Ying was leaping and bounding up the hill, hands flailing in the most deft way possible. Was he coordinated or not?—Lan Zhan could never tell with him. But Wei Ying stuttered to a halt when he realized just who he was mere five feet away from running into. Uncoordinated. Uncoordinated, indeed, though he shot arrows so well it made the newer demigods quiver like the fletching on them.

He grinned, awkwardly and excitedly. Everything about this boy clashed, right down to his emotions. And even to his parentage...

“Wow, what a coincidence,” he said. “Lan Zhan, are you out here to admire the moon too? You son of Aphrodite, you,” he teased, tugging at his sleeve, like he had a right to touch him.

When Lan Zhan flicked his eyes downward, Wei Ying jerked back with a sheepish giggle. That was the quickest anyone had ever reacted to his gestures...other than Lan Huan, of course.

“Ah-ha,” Wei Ying said, mostly through his nose. “That’s so romantic of you, Lan-er. Out alone, on a night like this, and yet I run into you...”

Lan Zhan sent him a glare, which is to say he intensified the tension around his eyes, and Wei Ying laughed, again making that sound through his nose.

“My gods, Lan-er, you’re too easy to tease,” he said. “Do you think you could teach me that look sometime? Think of all the monsters it could chase away, I wouldn’t even need to fight.”

“Why would you not want to fight?” The words were out before Lan Zhan could really hold them back; perhaps it was because it was just so long past his bedtime, and his self-control was less than desired.

Oh no. I am making conversation with Wei Ying, he thought, scandalized.

“Fighting’s fun, of course,” Wei Ying said, without preamble. It was as though he had thought about this for a long time. “But think of the possibilities when you get creative. Using fear tactics. In the old days, they used to fight fully naked. If I was being charged at by a man with his dong hanging out, I’d run for my fucking life.”

Lan Zhan did not deign to say anything else. But Wei Ying was on a roll now.

“Ah, hey, there might be a little bit of Hades in me after all. But you being Aphrodite’s son? I guess because your brother is the one everyone ogles after in camp. He’s probably the hottest boy in Camp Half-Blood.”

It took so, so much self-control to not wipe off the shit-eating grin that crossed Wei Ying’s face, and it had more to do with the strange, horrible, weird, traumatizing realization that the people had unanimously voted his own brother the hottest boy in camp.

“Looks are not the only part of being Aphrodite’s children,” Lan Zhan said, affronted.

“Well, what else is there, then?” Wei Ying countered.

Lan Zhan had not considered the possibility of being one of the goddess of love’s children at all; nothing in him screamed the sort of reckless abandon with which she—his mother—pursued love. In Lan Huan, even less so. His brother kept his careful heart close to his chest, though he let anyone and everyone get a good, long look at it. They were not the same.

But, as his new cabin leader had led him there after dinner tonight, she had told him something her predecessor had said, “Aphrodite isn’t just about love. She’s about passion. That’s mixed in with the root of love. That’s the base of what makes any human being.”

So, there was more to his new mother than just lovesick songs and his brother’s good looks.

“Hm,” he said.

“Aiyaa,” Wei Ying clapped him on the back, like he could not keep his hands off of him. “Well, we’ll see in the future, won’t we? I got a new brother, even though he’s kind of a bummer. He’s cute, though, in a scene kid way.”

Scene kid...? Lan Zhan tucked that away to ask his brother, or Chiron, about later. He could not keep up with the trends; that sounded exhausting.

Wei Ying, meanwhile, was the trend. He poked at Lan Zhan. “While we’re here, I’ll share it with you. I reversed the spell on one of Mr. D’s grape juices...ta-da!” He seemed to materialize the small bottle of wine from thin air. “I bet it’ll taste the way ambrosia does if you drank too much of it. It’s literally a smile from heaven!”

That makes no sense, Lan Zhan thought, wondering vaguely why he was still here. And, he was sure that... “We are underaged,” he said. “That is not allowed here.”

“What are you going to do, arrest me?” Wei Ying pouted. “I’m going to warn you now, I’m the kind of person who, if you bite me, I bite back.” He cradled the tiny bottle to his chest, watching Lan Zhan suspiciously. And still smiling, of course. “Ah-hee,” he said through his nose, “just try and stop me, see what happens.” When Lan Zhan did not respond, Wei Ying nodded affirmative to himself and popped the top off, sniffing the mouth of the bottle like it was a flask of perfume instead. “Wow...”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said, and then inwardly cursed himself. Something about saying his name made this night too real, like he was conscious of it happening right now. “That isn’t allowed.”

“What’re you gonna do? Brush my hair too hard?” Wei Ying looked him right in the eye, and took his first sip.

Well, yes, his hair was flying in all directions right now, wildly, but just because Lan Zhan was a son of Aphrodite, it did not mean that he was tempted to fix everything on Wei Ying’s body—

His hand flashed out, seeking to snatch the wine; Wei Ying parried with a hand, leaping back. But Lan Zhan was adamant—he struck out again, harder, and Wei Ying jerked back in a way that made his hair splay into the breeze.

“I warned you!” Wei Ying said, blocking another strike, and shoving his elbow into Lan Zhan’s chin.

Lan Zhan jerked his face sideways just in the nick of time, catching Wei Ying’s now free-flying elbow. “Enough,” he snapped.

“Enough?” Wei Ying echoed, kicking out with a knee. “We’re just getting started! Don’t instigate a fight you can’t finish!”

Lan Zhan spun backwards, hating how he showed his opponent his back but needing to create space. That opponent dogged him; the grass rustled around what Lan Zhan realized were Wei Ying’s bare feet as he sprang at him—

Lan Zhan sidestepped, shot out a hand to intercept the wine bottle still cradled against Wei Ying’s chest.

Wei Ying is smart.

That’s the only thought rolling through Lan Zhan’s mind as he realized Wei Ying was now pulled flush against him, the hand holding the bottle the only thing in the way. Wei Ying had expected him to continue his endeavor for his forbidden drink, knew he would not move far, and changed the flow of his jump to press himself against Lan Zhan. Even Lan Zhan, the next Percy Jackson, could not do close-combat fighting when it was this close.

Or could he?

He wrapped his arms around Wei Ying.

“Aiya, aiya!” Wei Ying cried out. “We’re in full view of the camp, Lan-er, what will people think?” Even as he spoke, he squirmed to loosen his hand from between their chests, raising the bottle to his lips and nearly elbowing Lan Zhan in the face as he drank—still looking him dead in the eye.

“Shameless!” Lan Zhan gritted. And he swung Wei Ying bodily over his head.

“Ah, Lan Zhan!” Lan Zhan was sure that if he could see Wei Ying’s face right about now, his eyes would be popping out of his head. “My wine!” Sure enough, the tragically satisfying sound of something sloshing into the grass rang through Lan Zhan’s ears, like a finely-stringed song.

Above him, Wei Ying seethed. “You—”

More squirming; Lan Zhan may be able to do handstands while he copied his work, but the ground never decided to fight back. They tumbled into the grass together, clawing like unrefined schoolboys for dominance.

And as it was, Lan Zhan finally pinned the rule-breaking gremlin down.

“You owe me another wine!” Wei Ying accused, whatever remnants in the bottle still clutched tightly to his chest, Lan Zhan’s hand scrabbling around his fist for purchase. “Unless...” A grin crept up his face, like he took it very well into stride, that he had been immobilized and stripped of the drink he had put so much effort into obtaining. “Lan Zhan, do you think Aphrodite would be proud of you right now? You’re supposed to be gentle and loving, not violent and horrible.”

“You seem to be just fine being brothers with Nico Di Angelo.” There it was again, conversation. It was too far past his bedtime.

“Nico’s a sweetie,” Wei Ying laughed. “He’s grumpy, but he’s no Jiang Cheng. All he ever does is argue cutely with his boyfriend. It’s adorable. You should learn from my brother Nico.”

Lips thinning. Eyes narrowing. Mouth opening. Voice emerging. She’s about passion. “My mother is not just about romantic love. And you are not just about death.”

Wei Ying’s eyes widened, and the rest of him scrunched as he considered this answer. “Mm, you’re right,” he said. “My dad’s not just about the dead. He’s about taking care of the dead, and doling justice out to people when no one else can. Because when you’re dead, then no one can judge you but him, right? No one can touch you anymore. Ah, Lan Zhan, you should come to the Underworld with me when I go for the first time.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Why not?” Wei Ying said, eyes brightening with his own chatter. “Think of how different it’ll be. We might even meet those heroes they keep talking about, like Charles Beckendorf. Isn’t it weird, that someone’s gone, but then they’re not actually gone? Who would you like to meet down there?”

“No one.” If his parents were gone, then they were gone. Lan Zhan could wait until his natural death to see them again.

“Why not? Do you have anyone who you would like to meet? No idols? Lan Zhan, don’t be so boring. We all have people we want to see, who we’re not able to see. I’ve been sleeping in the Hades cabin for a few hours, and I already want to see my siblings.”

“You will see them again tomorrow.” Why was he so worried? They were right there. It was not as if they were going on a quest anytime soon.

“Jiang Cheng and my Jie are definitely not Hermes’s kids, though,” Wei Ying fretted. “I don’t know where they’re going to end up. What if they end up on the other side of camp from me? Well, that’s just some more exercise in the morning when I go prank Jiang Cheng, I suppose.”

“Wei Ying.” Saying the name just drove a nail into his skull. But it worked. Wei Ying stopped talking.

And promptly flipped them over, so Lan Zhan was the one drowning in grass now.

“Lan-er,” Wei Ying said on top of him, “you can really be a conversationalist when you try, you know?”

“You take that back,” he said blandly, though there was an intense trickle of something sliding up his ears.

Wei Ying’s laugh was like a bell, clear and loud. “I remember when I was younger, and Jiang Cheng and Jie’s parents took me in. But I remember a little before that too. Fighting dogs on the streets, and before even that, my mom telling me, ah, something about being sociable? Whatever it was, Lan-er, you’re better at it than people think you are.”

“You fought dogs,” Lan Zhan said. There was too much in that babble of words to really catch in a single cup, but he momentarily forgot he was underneath Wei Ying—well, there it was, remembered again—and asked, “Why did you fight dogs?”

Wei Ying seemed to cringe at the mere mention of dogs by anyone other than himself, but that was immediately swallowed by the realization that Lan Zhan was talking to him. He made himself more comfortable on top of him. “I was on the street for a while,” he said. It should have sounded like a confession, but it wasn’t. An experience is often truly lived, Lan Zhan thought at that moment, if the person who survived can speak so matter-of-factly about it in the aftermath. That was true of someone like Wei Ying. “My mother died, but I remember how...vibrant she was. I don’t remember much, just a lot of dogs chasing me off any properties I wandered onto.” He paused for breath.

“Mm,” said Lan Zhan.

“That’s why it would be nice to go to the Underworld,” Wei Ying said quietly. “I would like to see her one more time. And that’s why, Lan-er”—a playful nudge—“I don’t believe you when you say there’s no one you would want to visit. Think about all the possibilities. Be a little creative, Lan-er. Maybe you could learn from Robin Hood or...or Hou Yi or someone, who can teach you to outshoot me in archery.”

“Hou Yi isn’t real,” Lan Zhan said. “Neither is Robin Hood.”

And on it went, until they had realized that the sea of grass around them had lightened, and Wei Ying was yawning and Lan Zhan finally felt awake.

—

He saw this as a test of self-control.

They were both woozy this morning—surprise, surprise.

“A-Zhan,” Lan Huan said to him, “if you need the day off, you can just go back to your cabin. Insomnia is an understandable reason to be tired.”

But Lan Zhan gave a stubborn shake of his head. “No need.”

And he glided gracefully into the Hades cabin, which was dark and solid.

“Who’s there?” someone demanded. That someone was Nico, whose gaunt eyes emerged from the shadows, like he had been waiting.

Creepy, he could imagine Wei Ying saying. Probably yesterday, when he had first moved in with his new brother, only to be greeted by this.

“Wen Ning requests Will Solace at the shooting range,” he said formally.

“Oh,” Nico said. “It’s you.” He narrowed his eyes, making it look apathetic. “You should go to Apollo’s cabin. Will’s there right now. And he was with Wen Qing, the last I saw. You guys are kind of all over the place right now, huh.”

Lan Zhan (still woozy) bit back a retort. He was not tired enough to be snarky.

“Thank you,” he said, all politeness personified, and even dipped his head a little before he retreated into the light. Apollo’s cabin was much like Hermes’s, though conspicuously lacking in chaos. It was bright and cheery, and he heard at least five instruments that should never be played together played together. And it drifted softly like a harmony that should never end.

Surprise, surprise. Wei Ying was also there, perched on the steps right next to the golden boy himself. Will Solace was listening to him detail something apparently outrageously exciting, as he watched him with rapt attention. He was a far more appropriate match to Wei Ying than Nico’s shadow in the Hades cabin.

Wei Ying batted one bare foot at one of the yellow blossoms twined around the cabin.

“Try this, then,” Will Solace was saying by the time Lan Zhan was near, and he handed Wei Ying a recorder.

Oh no, said everyone’s faces as the little Apollo newcomers closed in to hear whatever disastrous excitement Hades’s Wei Ying could create out of a recorder.

He pursed his lips lightly, making the little doot-doot sounds into it. But it would be too much to expect a warm-up—he immediately jumped into a rendition of Hot Cross Buns that screeched.

Recorders are meant to screech, but...not like this.

Will was too polite to cover his ears; he was camp counselor, and too much of a big brother figure to anyone who crossed his path. He was dating Nico Di Angelo, after all. But his face strained as he listened, and Apollo’s little ones sucked in a breath.

Hot! Cross! Buns! Hot! Cross! Buns!

Then it mellowed, as though the recorder understood Wei Ying. In a few moments, he was piping away, the music a melody to the five-instrument harmony still seeping from within the cabin.

One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot. Cross. Buns.

There was a brief silence as the last note died away.

“Yay, A-Xian!” And the onlookers broke into applause as Jiang Yanli—who, Lan Zhan only noticed now—took the lead in clapping for her little brother.

Wei Ying swept into a grandiose bow from his sitting position—“sitting,” as his limbs were angled into different ways all over the steps—and winked in Lan Zhan’s direction. It was more of a blink, but Lan Zhan comprehended.

“Lan Zhan!” he called, waving. Lan Zhan refused to come hither, when that was so clearly what Wei Ying wanted, but that caught Will Solace’s attention.

“Ah, Zhan,” he said.

Lan Zhan inclined his head ever so slightly. “Wen Ning has asked for you at the shooting range.”

As they made their way to the archery range together, Wei Ying and his sister joined. Lan Zhan wanted to ask him why he seemed to be vibrating with excitement at someone else’s match, but he would not let his all-nighter win out.

But he and his sister were murmuring the answers to each other.

“A-Xian, Wen Ning has been improving a lot. Have you been helping him more than before?”

“He doesn’t really need much of it, truth be told,” he told Yanli. “But he’s finally worked up the nerve to ask Will Solace to train with him. Wen Qing might actually smile at me one of these days.”

Wen Ning was waiting at the range. Lan Zhan had seen him shoot—his hands were steady, for someone whose voice seemed ready to shake apart at any moment. His bow hung from his hands, pointed at the ground while his sister Wen Qing collected his shots from the bull’s-eye.

Their heads turned as Will Solace finally entered the scene, but they greeted everyone in turn. “Will. Yanli. Wei Ying. Zhan.”

Lan Zhan inclined his head politely. He saw these siblings—the famous Wen siblings of Apollo—every day. And yet they had never spoken.

“They say that every great medic has to carry a sword.” Yanli spoke first, gesturing at the long, slender blade of Celestial bronze in Wen Qing’s hand.

“Where on earth did you hear that?” Wen Qing said, the hint of a smile in her cheeks.

“I thought it was common knowledge here,” Yanli said sweetly.

“Eh, Wen Qing,” said Wei Ying. “Do you have a smile for me too?”

Wen Qing walked away.

He pouted. “Wowwwwwwwww...”

“A-Xian. Behave,” his sister scolded, in the least scolding way a human could muster.

“But, Jieeeeeee.”

Wen Ning gave Will Solace a small wave. “Thank you for coming,” he said. Everything about him was sheepish, even his words. “I didn’t think you would, but I’m glad you did.”

Will Solace, sunshine boy who was not Wei Ying, beamed at him in that elder-brother way, not unlike how Lan Huan faced Lan Zhan when he was truly encouraging him. “Yeah, of course. Did you want to verse me in a shooting competition?”

That light seemed to bounce off Wen Ning’s face. “Yes, of course!”

“My money’s on Wen Ning,” Wei Ying propped an elbow onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder, and for the first time, Lan Zhan felt the sway in his step. He was tired, after all.

Lan Zhan directed his stare at him, those big doe eyes still uncushioned by dark bags that would usually give away the night they had spent grappling and talking instead of sleeping; Wei Ying had not released the recorder, still twirling it in his hand.

“Careful there, Wei Ying,” said Will Solace, with a twinkle in his eye.

Wei Ying twinkled back. Lan Zhan felt that he may go blind. “I’m not scared of you. Wen Ning learned a few tricks from me.”

“What’re you gonna do,” Will said. “Play an evil melody? F-sharp me to death?”

“Something like that,” Wei Ying said. “Thanks for the tip.”

Wen Ning and Will Solace lined up, side by side, their bows at the ready; arrows nocked, one eye in each profile nailing into that one spot in the distance.

For once in his life, Wei Ying seemed not to voice what he was about to do, but Lan Zhan saw it in the cock of his lip. It was the same look he had worn last night, when Hades had claimed him.

He raised the recorder to his lips. Threateningly, of course.

The two sons of Apollo released their arrows, all angles curving back into flat, straight lines. And Wei Ying began to play.

Aura Lee. It was a soft love song, then adapted by Elvis to be even more unsubtle about the romantic feelings in it. Love Me Tender, it was called.

There seemed to be a cloud stuck in the dirt beneath them.

But that wasn’t right. It was black smoke, unfurling from the ground. Lan Zhan watched, fascinated, Wei Ying still on his shoulder, as he piped a love song, as the arrows bounced in slow motion off their strings.

As the smoke became a wall, and the arrows punctured through them. No, that wasn’t right.

Where Wen Ning’s arrow had been suspended, there was a hole to the other side. It was Will Solace’s arrow that froze. It would not move.

Wen Ning’s arrow thunked into the center of the bull’s-eye.

Will Solace immediately whipped around. “I’ll get you for that, Wei Ying!” he said, grinning appreciatively. Lan Zhan wondered why he was not the least bit intimidated, because he heard Wen Qing and Yanli take a deep, collective breath. “I’ll tell your brother!”

Ah. Because he was Nico’s boyfriend. And, Lan Zhan reflected quickly, of course, this was Will Solace. He had seen more than his share of battles—of outright war.

And yet, he could still smile.

“Wei Ying.”

They both started.

Will and Wen Ning had turned back to their match, and Wen Qing had engaged Yanli in talk about whatever technique they had in mind for curing what they agreed was Wei Ying’s brash genius. And Lan Zhan did not recall opening his mouth in the past few minutes.

He and Wei Ying turned their heads in unison to an approaching figure. The man had gray hair, and unreadable eyes. No...no eyes were unreadable. Lan Zhan knew that. And yet, when he looked into them, they seemed to reflect the world around them rather than hold their own depth. He stood there, seemingly out of nowhere, in a starched gray suit.

Who was this man? Lan Zhan’s hand twitched, but he had no blade on him right now.

“Who’re you?” Wei Ying blinked.

“That was a marvelous trick you performed just now,” said the man, as though Wei Ying had not spoken. “Your father is very proud.”

“I asked you a question,” Wei Ying said. He was still splayed, somehow comfortably, on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, but Lan Zhan felt him tense.

“Oh, but you will know very soon,” said the man, “son of Hades. And you as well, son of Aphrodite.”

Lan Zhan leveled his best cold stare at the man, which is to say he made a conscious effort to add tension to his eyes.

“Come to the Underworld,” the man said. “Don’t you want to be rewarded for your sleight of hand?”

Lan Zhan blinked.

And he was gone.

Wei Ying frowned, staring at the spot where he had been standing before the two of them had made the mistake of blinking their sleep-deprived eyes. “What the Hades...”

Lan Zhan turned bodily to look at the rest of their group, but they had evidently not caught any of their interaction just now. As he did, Wei Ying slid off his shoulder, surprised by the movement.

“Wei Ying. Lan Zhan.”

Another person? But it was just Chiron, trotting to meet them. Wei Ying, mouth just opened to complain before he had called out, stuttered on his own comment as he redirected it into a greeting. “Oh, hi there, Chiron! Fancy that, seeing you here.” He waved his recorder wildly.

Lan Zhan cringed away before it could whack him to death. “Chiron,” he said in greeting. “What brings you here?”

He looked troubled. Usually, he would look troubled, anyway—he ran a camp that had a pile of teenagers and pre-pubescent tweens and Wei Ying in it, of course—but more so than usual. Like he carried bad news.

“I’ll need to speak to you two,” Chiron said, “and I’ll need you to come to the Big House.”

[A/N: So the “A-” prefix that everyone uses in MDZS is a super regional thing, that is not a thing in my region of China. And I don’t know anyone who actually uses that in modern day, so I’m not even sure if it’s still a thing. But since we’re shedding courtesy names for this fic, which died out a long time ago, Lan Xichen calls his little brother “A-Zhan.” “Xiao Zhan” would be too cute and 肉麻. Fight me.

A-Xian—so, most Chinese people grow up with a cute, embarrassing nickname that we swear to never tell anyone once we’re older. Therefore, in this world, Wei Wuxian still gets to be called Xianxian by his family. Fight me.

Also, I’ve taken the liberty of letting Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen be modern people and occasionally use contractions. Fight me.

I didn’t realize how many exclamation points I’ve been using to write Wei Wuxian’s dialogue. Huh.

Also—sticking close to your opponent is an actual thing in fighting! But once you do, get ready to grapple.

Writing this was painful, as I haven’t read most of the Percy Jackson books in years.]

[sheriffkit]

Hey i have a first chapter for my story, please read it here. I’ll also include it below the cut, it’s quite long tbh lmao. 

Gambling was an addiction that I admittedly, could not leave behind. I just couldn’t help but enjoy the rush of risk coursing through me like a river as I bet more and more, the stakes getting higher and higher. Gambling was one of life’s many treasures, so I found there to be nothing wrong with merely using the treasure as I see fit.

Now some would call what I do “cheating” but I merely called it use your tools to the best of your advantage. Magus Arthur doesn’t like how I indulge in this sport, he thinks it’s a waste of time and money. Tsk. If he saw how I used my tool to my advantage he would surely keep me under house arrest.

The tool in speaking was of course, my wand. Or well the catalyst in which I produce my magic from, I’m not exactly the best at producing magic from the tips of my fingers just yet. I need a catalyst to help me, at least if I want strong magic. Such as right now, where I am balancing the wand to the side of the table, pointed at the troll across from me. I intended to cast a mere illusion spell on the cards just dealt in front of him. Again, not “cheating,” just using my tools to my advantage.

I muttered the words of the spell to myself, before retracting my hand and sliding my wand back into my boot. It didn’t seem like I was noticed, which was good. I had a perfect streak of not being caught, well...almost perfect there was this one time at a festival in town and let’s just say Magus Arthur does not let me go to such events anymore. Not my fault the guy just wouldn’t admit he lost...tsk people am I right?

Finally picking up the cards in front of me I let a grin creep onto my face, this was perfect. If the illusion spell worked correctly, and by the look on his face it did, his hand should consist of two kobolds, one dryad, and one dragon. Which was one of the worst hands to get in this game. I had gotten a pretty not-good hand myself, but a little hand magic will do the trick. I muttered the spell again and the shapes on the cards turned into one of each. A golem, dryad, dragon, and kobold. That was the best hand to get.

The name of the game, the one I was totally going to win, was called Golems and Dryads. It was a card game with four different races in it, the Golems and Dryads being the ones with the most points, the other two being the ones with the least. If you had a hand like mine you got automatically a set of bonus points for obtaining a hand with all the races, which was fairly rare because c’mon, you have a very low chance of getting one of each card. Another way was to have all Golems or Dryads, or a mix of both.

Now the troll sitting across from me, well his hand wasn’t particularly horrible, as I did play nice and give him a dryad, but it wasn’t great either. Especially against the hand I had.

I threw the cards, face up, on the table in front of me, a shit-eating grin tearing up my face. Those who had been spectating shot up and started clapping. Count Lucien, the troll,  looked full of rage as I brought the money sitting in the middle toward myself.

“Better luck neck time, Lucy Darling~!” I spoke in a sing-song voice, I was opening up my satchel at this point, beginning to push in the silver and copper pieces I had just won. It was then I had noticed the clapping faded out, but not like the usual fading out of clapping like...something had happened. I looked up of course, only to find everyone either staring at me or at the table. A bad feeling shot up my spine, and I directed my green eyes to where everyone else's lay.

As I mentioned earlier my skills in hand magic isn’t exactly the best, although it doesn’t wear off in such short amount of time. I reached my hand up to my ear, expecting to feel a big teardrop earring, I didn’t. There are...a lot of factors that comes with using magic, and all magic users tend to wear earrings. Like a wand they can be considered a catalyst, but more often than not they’re not even used for making your magic more powerful just controlled. It really depends on the person.

For me I rely on my earrings to control my magic. There have been times, especially when using a wand, where it has gotten...out of control. But there have also been times like now where it makes me look like some apprentice wizard. Which, okay I technically am. But a beginning apprentice wizard. Which I am not. I’m far from it---it’s just not showing right now.

Not that it’s the point for it to be showing right now, rather the point is I don’t have my earrings so my magic is less than par right now and I have just gotten caught as a cheater. Or, no not a cheater just...yeah.

My eyes wandered back to those around me, I get a small chuckle and looped the satchel around my neck, “would ya look at the time...I gotta g-” I was fiercely interrupted by a knife being slammed on the table in front of me. I looked up to see it was Count Lucien’s stoic bodyguard. I instantly scrambled out of my seat then under and out the table, my legs made a beeline for the exit, while doing so I was greeted with trampling of footsteps from behind me. Crashing of bottles against the floor was heard, there was yelling, tables being broken. Even a dagger flew right beside my head, actually trimming off some hair. God damn it not I’m going to to have to fix that later.

There really was no time to be thinking about hair right now, not when I tripped over myself and fell flat on my chin in front of the door. I begun to push myself up, only to be pushed down, feeling the point of a boot in my back. Whoever that was hadn’t been showing any mercy, as they pushed their heel harder into my spine. To say the least it hurt like hell. It didn’t help my chin was flat against the wooden floorboards of the tavern, yikes.

I felt as a hand grabbed my hair, the pressure on my back leaving, and I was lifted up against the front of another. I could only assume it was the Count’s bodyguard as I was a few inches above the ground, and could feel a knife pressed to my throat. Reasons to hate the rich, they can get away with this crap in public.

My whole body was shaking, and I hated the feeling of being held up by my hair, it was short hair too so even worse. Gritting my teeth I directed my eyes to the troll that now stood in front of me, although I had to strain my eyes to look down so I could actually see him. Short things they are.

Lucien spoke in a gruff voice, “ya really shoulda thought twice before tryin’ to make a fool of me, apprentice.” He then took a step towards me, lifting his hand up and grabbing my chin, which most likely had a bruise on it, he squished my face. “I don’t let cheatas get away so easily ya know, gotta teach ‘em a lesson, make sure not to mess with the big L, ya know?” He let go of my face, and picked up my right arm, digging his sharp nails into my wrist while he continued, “I think we’ll start with getting rid of these pesky hands. Can’t have ya castin’ any more spells ‘n cheatin.’”

Oh no. Oh god no. When he said that I automatically begun to squirm, making the pain from my hair being pulled worse, but it didn’t matter. I wasnot going to let this fiend take away everything I have worked for.

The squirming didn’t help though, that was obvious when his grip around my wrist tightened and my neck begun to tingle. I could only assume the knife was pressed ever so hard enough to cut me but not deep, just a scratch. Things weren’t going great. Not at all. Why wasn’t anyone trying to get involved? Sure he was a rich guy with power but god damn, this was just horrible.

“Ya not gettin’ out of this dearie, ya crossed the Count, ya gonna pay the price,” the ugly troll had turned around and reached his hand out for the door, “when ya cut off ‘er hands leave ‘er in the streets and take the bag with the money, Nine.”

Nine. That was probably the bodyguards name, why a number? I didn’t pay second thought to the usage of wrong pronouns, as whatever it didn’t matter considering the situation. This guy was going to ruin my life and I can’t let that happen, what would Magus Arthur do in a situation like-

Magus Arthur.

Speak of the devil.

I almost stopped breathing when Count Lucien opened the door and my mentor stood there, his ombre hair braided over his shoulder and obvious rage written on his face. I usually find people with glasses to always look calm, even when they’re angry. But Magus Arthur quickly erased that, not even his glasses made him look like his usual calm self. Oh god I’m in serious trouble aren’t I?

The count threw his arms up, almost like a hug, “Magus! Great to see ya bud-”

He was met with the back of my mentor’s hand across his cheek, the troll quickly fell to the ground letting out a curse, “don’t ever touch my pupil again.”

The bodyguard---er---Nine was then given a death glare and quickly let go of my hair, I too dropping to the ground. I heard Nine back away, I didn’t really care as I was now bent over with my hands over my neck. Again I knew it wasn’t terribly cut but...still stung. I wasn’t really given much time to recuperate though, as I heard my mentor speak, “Lita get up, we’re going home, now.” His voice had an anger I had heard many times before, I knew I was bound to get yet another scolding. I probably deserved it.

As I heard him walking away, I dashed up and out the door, catching up to him. It was dark out so not many else were out, it was actually the middle of the night. I had snuck out of the house, it’s safe to assume either my brother told on me or he looked in my room and saw I wasn’t there. Of course he’d know where I would go...it’s not my fault I like frequenting this tavern, guess I won’t anymore now that I know everyone there is a total scumbag who won’t try to step in and help. Also because of uh...the incident that had just occurred.

“I’m very disappointed in you,” his eyes flickered to me for a moment before he continued, “why can’t you be more like your brother?”

That actually hurt, a lot. Iita was just such...a perfect kid in everyone’s eyes! It’s not my fault I’m not perfect like him, he wasn’t cursed with this so-called “gift” called magic! It’s a lot of work to train and sometimes you just need a break...need a craving to be like everyone else for once. He doesn’t have it bad as me, I have an excuse.

Of course though I didn’t say anything, I just continued walking as he continued, “have I done something wrong while raising you? Is this you acting out because you can’t vocalize your feelings? Because trust me, you can tell me anything. I won’t hate you, I never could hate you, Lita. You’re-”

“- like my own child. Yadda yadda I know, you’ve said this a million times,” I interrupted crossing my arms. Every time I mess up he always says something like this why can’t he take a hint?

Magus Arthur sighed, “I wouldn’t say a million times. But yes,” he stopped in his tracks and I stopped after realizing he was no longer walking

. I was about two feet away, I rose a brow, “why’d you stop?”

He had a look on his face, one I’ve seen many times before. Magus has this special talent where he knows when something is happening, something bad. It’s almost like a sixth sense. He told Iita and I that’s how he found us when we were kids. Honestly it’s always scary when this happens because I know he’s going to leave and sometimes when he comes back he...is hurt. What if he doesn’t come back? What if he...no.

“I forgot I had a meeting.”

I snort, “this late?”

“Lita.”

“Whatever, seeya later Pops,” I put my hands in my pants pocket looking away, “I guess we’ll talk about my grounding tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Great. ”

Right as I was about to start walking off I heard him speak, “and Lita?” I turned my head back, brow raised yet again, “uh yeah?”

He was silent for a moment, looking as if he was contemplating something, he ended up just shaking his head with a small smile. How the moon light shined on him made him look...sad. Especially with the reflection in his eyes. “Never mind, just get home kiddo,” he said.

I don’t know why but I had a bad feeling, I decided to push it back for now and give the old man a thumbs up. I then of course, turned back around and continued walking home. I heard the sound of fire for a moment before everything went quiet, teleportation magic. Only certified wizards were allowed to use it. My mentor was one, he did have the title “Magus” after all. I hope wherever he went he’s safe. I hope he comes home.

☆*:.｡.☆.｡.:*☆

The next morning I woke up to ice cold water being dumped on me. I automatically shot up on my bed, my arms and legs flailing as my eyes landed on the figure beside my bed. That figure was of course, my brother.

The morning light that shone through the window hit him perfectly, his mischievous grin bright and eyes highlighted, the snow white hair reflecting the light to make it seem brighter than it was. Then there was the bucket in his hands, shining slightly at the top where a few droplets of water had been. That asshole.

As if he had read my mind, he dropped the bucket on the floor and began running. I followed in pursuit, “come back here you twerp!”

Out of the two of us I was the older one, technically. I was born just a minute before him, so I was the older and superior twin. I also had magic! So again, superior. Although he was taller...but aside from that we were pretty much the same! See we were fraternal twins, where in somethings we are the same (hair, eyes), others we were different (magic, height). By same I don’t mean personality wise, god no we are as different as a cat and a dog. He was always so...grumpy, although how he was acting now didn’t show that side of him.

No, rather he was acting like the twerp he is and pissing me off!

My feet clapped against the wooden floorboards, the clapping was louder than usual as I was soaked in water. Which almost made me slip a few times. That boy was lucky I didn’t just automatically pass out when I had gotten home, or he would be dead by now for ruining my clothing from yesterday.

He still was going to die, just not as painful of a death.

I ran down the stairs, seeing the tail of his coat round the corner, “IITA I’M GOING TO KILL YOU IF YOU DON’T COME BACK HERE!”

Rounding the corner when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was automatically greeted with my brother sitting on the couch with his not-girlfriend. They’re basically dating but refuse to admit it. She had a basket in her lap, and lifted her hand, waving at me.

“Hello, Lita! I hope you don’t mind if I come along with you and Iita while you both shop! I need to do some shopping myself actually,” spoke the half-elf, a bright smile on her face.

Geez this girl. My rage was put to the side as I gave a small smile in return, “hi Eleanor, give me a sec will ya?”

My eyes flickered to Iita as I stomped toward him, leaving wet puddles in my trek, he wore an obvious face of fear as I approached. Eleanor on the other hand wasn’t phased by this at all, she had grown used to our antics by now after all these years. She simply just scooted over when I got to the couch, probably not wanting to get wet, and I merely opened my arms wide then plopped on my brother, engulfing him in a big hug. I made sure to squeeze tightly.

“OH MY GOD GET OFF ME YOU’LL RUIN MY CLOTHES!”

“Aw, c’mon I just wanna show my lil bro some love!”

There was of course thrashing around from him, admittedly he was stronger than me though so he did evidently push me off. I fell onto the floor with a satisfying “thump.” Before I could say anything I heard a pair of hands clap, and looked toward the kitchen to see Eleanor, “if you two rascals are done shall we go shopping now?”

Iita and I exchanged a look, before I shot up and quickly ran up the stairs to change.

☆*:.｡.☆.｡.:*☆

The two love-birds sat across the table from me. It had been around noon now, so we decided to take a break from our shopping to eat. The shopping had turned from buying food to just spoiling ourselves, I ended up getting my haircut again, so now my hair was all soft and cleanly cut. It was more of a trim than anything, but I had my undercut once more so I felt content. Aside from that I got things to restock the supplies for potions and the such, we had been running low on frog legs and summoning powder.

I lifted my pinky fingers as I ate the sausage and cheese sandwich, I scarfed it down quickly. In my defense I didn’t have breakfast this morning and not a big dinner last night, so I was pretty hungry. I grabbed my big wooden mug and began chugging, it was apple cider, not the alcoholic kind though. I never really liked alcohol the taste was too bitter for me.

I swiped a slice of bread from Iita’s plate when he wasn’t looking, I nibbled on it while I eyed around the tavern. This was a different one from last night, this one was actually the only one I refuse to do any gambling in because a friend of ours works here. Or well a friend of Magus’, he was there from the beginning along with Magus, so I would never gamble here. Maybe as a respect thing, or maybe because I just don’t want to screw up and get in trouble. Either way it’s a promise I’ve made to myself, I just don’t want to start crap in this tavern. Any other one I don’t care.

There were a lot of people in the tavern though today, which wasn’t surprising since it was a Saturday afternoon, it was just slightly overwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, I love people, especially lots of people, it’s just...so much. Like my senses felt overwhelmed, it could be from all the noises and smells too, either way it was just a bit too much. I sunk down in my seat.

I gave a big yawn as I begun spacing out, the noises around me slowly becoming slurred together, the world getting foggy. Even the seat beneath me felt like it had started to leave, and suddenly it was like I sat in a thin cloudy mist of air. The only thing that really registered in my brain was the slice of bread in my hand, but even then it was barely there it felt like. I was just...floating with a blank mind.

The world around me changed once more from a foggy atmosphere to a setting I was all too familiar with. My feet touched the ground that looked like it could be water, but it felt solid but gave off a ripple just like water does when you touch it. In the reflection of the not-water ground was the sky above me, or what I assumed was the sky. I looked up, the purple, blue, and pink hues of the sky with freckles of stars reflected into my eyes. This is the setting I was always greeted with in my dreams.

When I first started getting dreams with this place in it I didn’t really pay mind to it, is was when for over a month I continued having it that I thought something was wrong. When I told Magus he was surprised, at the time I was nine, so ten years ago. He had been surprised because I shouldn’t have been getting these dreams until much later in my training. He said that this place was a pocket realm of sorts, all magic-users have them and have access to them at any given moment.

I don’t have control of when I enter it or not, but I know it was mainly used so people could just get away from everything, or to train. Here’s the thing though, only  your soul can come here.

For instance, while I am currently in the pocket realm, I’m not here physically. Meaning my body is vulnerable to the outside world, in a way my body is just a puppet with no master. My body is not the only thing that’s vulnerable, my soul is too. Especially since I’m still a wizard in training. There have been stories about magic-users who got stuck in their own pocket realms, their body dying from lack of proper care leaving no vessel for them to return to. Which then leads for the soul to eventually wither off into existence, as a soul can’t exist without it’s originally body still in tack. At least a living soul, dead souls are a completely different subjects.

You can also be attacked in these pocket realms if you are not exactly...stable.

By stable I mean your mental state. The monsters of your mind can take form and destroy your soul, which then leaves the body to die from lack of proper care. Despite all these risks though these pocket realms are still great.

I throw the bread in my hand to the liquid-like ground, and begin running before taking a leap and falling onto a bed of flower petals.

Although I don’t have full control over the pocket realm, more so of when I leave and enter, I do have control over what goes on in it so long as I’m mentally stable. Which I am.

I roll over on the petals, looking up at the sky again, a dopey smile on my face. Magus says I should be using this place for training rather than lounging around, but he just doesn’t understand. Sometimes I need to get away from everything and this place always seems to do that for me, although I don’t control when I enter or leave I always seem to come here at the right moment.

Magus said to be careful about that though, as I could be doing something and suddenly I’m pulled here, hence as to why I need to learn to control my entering and leaving of this place.

Grabbing a handful of the yellow petals, I threw them up into the air. They emitted a small glow, and against the pink and purple sky it looked beautiful. This was something I’m sure I’d never see in real life. Like sure, there’s stuff like magic but this , no this isn’t something that I would see in real life. I don’t think there’s a place on Terra that exists like this.

Of course there were stories about so-called “magical” places on Terra, but those had mainly been folklore, just made up and used as bedtime stories for little kids.

Turning back onto my side, I see ripples in the watery ground as a memory is played in front of me like a play. I loved those made up stories as a kid, that certainly showed here. With both Iita and I under a pillow fort, huddling together over a big book. I don’t quite remember exactly when this happened, but considering we both look genuinely happy and that book was one I got after Magus...well it’s safe to assume it was after we had been “taken-in” by him.

I don’t really consider what he did taking us in if you can’t tell. To me that term is temporary, rather than taking us in he saved us. Plus although it’s not official, he’s pretty much adopted us at this point. After all he has said on several different occasions how the two of us are like his own children, which I’m fine with. Now I won’t be calling him Dad anytime soon, that’d be weird even if he basically is that.

Plus the term Dad has mold grown over it the past decade for me. After my actual one left us, two small defenseless kids, alone in a shack in the middle of the woods, the word “Dad” has lost all meaning to me. It’s just another title, and I don’t care if others use it, but for me it’s a useless word. I can’t say the same for Iita.

I shouldn’t have begun thinking of Dad now though because the pocket realm has decided to begin playing whatever memories I have left of the old man. I cover my eyes as I let out a groan, there had been times where I considered casting a Forget Spell, or drinking and Amnesia Elixir, just to be rid myself of whatever memories I have left of my so-called, “Dad.” But I knew that in doing that my whole memory would be lost, and I’m not willing to sacrifice everything I’ve been given over the past decade. Forgetting the deadbeat isn’t worth forgetting everything else.

Sure, he may have ruined my view of what a Father should be. Sure, he may have ruined my early childhood. Sure, he may be the reason Mom left. But I won’t let these thoughts control me. I can’t let them control me.

I push myself up, having enough of the memories playing, and step off the thick pile of flower petals. Usually I would have pulled my wand out of my boot, but considering I have free will here and what I do won’t actually hurt someone, I lunge at the figure that depicted my father in the memory.

Like most everything else in this pocket realm, the figure was solid and I crashed atop him on the wooden ground. Wooden due to the setting of the memory. My arms then made a beeline for his neck, and I wrapped my hands around his throat, nice and firm. He wasn’t struggling, and for a second, considering this was my first time actually attacking something here, I had thought memories weren’t able to fight back.

Boy was I wrong.

He soon began thrashing when I pressed my thumbs down against his adams apple, and ended up pushing me off. I had been caught off guard, and landed a couple feet away, outside the memory. Water rippled around me, and this time it felt like I actually had gotten splashed with water.

I barely had time to recover, as by the moment I looked up the figure that once had looked like my old man, was now me. I was stunned to say the least, and a bit afraid. It didn’t help seeing the wicked glint in the green eyes of mine, they looked...dark and unforgiving. A scowl across the figure’s face as they lifted their foot and pressed the heel of the boot to my throat. They twisted their foot around, and pushed down hard. I felt like I couldn’t breath.

Oh no. Fuck. Shit.

I began thrashing around as I felt like I was being brought down into the very ground beneath me, like it had been some sort of goo. It had been like the ground had a mind of it’s own, bringing me down the more the fake-me pushed.

I didn’t have much more time to think, as my need for air became more and more critical. I didn’t even have much time to breath though when in swift movements a wand was whipped in front of me, then a bright white light encapsulated all that I could see.

I sat up in my seat panting, opening my eyes and looking around. What in the hell just happened? Yet again I had no time to think, as my senses were filled up again and I the voices of Iita and Eleanor began to register, I was bombarded with questions from the two. I didn’t know what to say, or what to do. For a minute I sat there staring at them, mouth open wide.

Only when I had mumbled a small, “I…” the tavern doors were kicked open. I instantaneously looked toward the sound of commotion, and a group of five guards flooded in, looking around. Everything was so overwhelming, I didn’t know what was going on.

It got worse when one of them made eye contact with me, before waving the others over and the group of guards marched up to our table.

Fear dripped from every ounce of my being as I looked up at them, the only words my mind seemed to register had been, “you’re under arrest.”

Whatever they said or had happened after that was just a blank.

What in the hell was going on?

☆*:.｡.☆.｡.:*☆

The next thing I knew I had been thrown in a cell in the dungeon, hands locked up with no explanation as to why I was here. Or at least to what I remembered, because I’m pretty sure when I blanked they had said why I was arrested, but all I remember was being told I was arrested then it was like a sudden gap in my memory. One moment I’m at the tavern, the next I’m sitting in a cold cell with cobwebs and rats. Pretty fucking awful. Especially if I’m waking up from basically, to this. Well maybe this was better than dying, probably, hopefully.

I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. It was cold in here. The dungeons were never exactly a great place. The guards didn’t care if the people down here were comfortable, after all if they are down here then they must deserve to suffer. Even if it’s for something small as stealing bread. Which I swear I haven’t done. Ever. I mean there was that time in school, but that was in school, and years ago too.

Point is, the law system for crimes was screwed up. Someone who stole bread could be in here for as long as a serial killer, which was just really unfair. I don’t understand how you can give the same punishment for stealing bread as you do to someone that kills. It’s immoral in my opinion. If you steal a night or two should be enough, maybe even a warning if it’s for something small like a loaf of bread.

Then again if someone is stealing bread that means it’s the kingdoms fault for not providing enough jobs or protection for their citizens. Vruviel doesn’t have an overwhelming amount of beggars or thieves, but they still exist. I feel like they have every right to steal bread every once and a while if they are so poor they don’t even have a house. Especially if it’s for a family.

But enough about my thoughts on the horrid system here, I don’t understand why I’m here. I’m a good citizen. Or well, at least that’s what I like to think.

I mean sure, there are a few times where I have gotten into trouble but it wasn’t anything that would’ve gotten me arrested. No rather it was just casting a spell I don’t know how to cast...or being a kid playing in the market and to say the least I was scrubbing floors for a month. My face scrunched up, at least I wasn’t chained to the wall like a certain skeleton friend beside me.

God what is Magus Arthur going to say? The thought of my Mentor rose my anxiety and frustration. He’ll kill me.

In an instant I stood up, jumping to the metal bars and kicking my feet against them, “let me out of here!”

I regretted that automatically, and ended up hopping on one foot, hands wrapped around the one I hit against the bars. God damn it. This sucks. First Magus caught me last night, then I got water poured on me, and now here I am in some stupid dungeon with a newly hurt right foot. Universe why must you hate me so?

I plopped back onto the cold cobble floor, crossing my legs and gritting my teeth. Iita better have told someone. How long have I been here? I really hope not long. I mean I don’t feel hungry, so can’t be that long...right?

Yeah, right.

I huffed again, I could just...break out?

I mean it’s not a bad idea.

What am I saying it’s a horrible idea. Magus would actually kill me.

I was pushed out of my thoughts of hatred for this situation by the hearing of footsteps, now’s my chance.

I pushed myself up, wrapping my hands around the metal bars and even trying to shake them a bit, “let me out! Let me out, let me out, let me out!!! ”

Well the universe can’t hate me that much cause the person who came down here was obviously here to get me, as the guard gave me a cold gaze while sliding the key into the lock of my cell.

“...let me out please?”

Click.

I just about jumped for joy, until I saw a different guard enter the cell, holding out any magic users worst nightmare. Magic Prevention Gauntlets. I’ve never worn them, just read about them after Magus had mentioned them in a lesson a few years back. Pretty much used on criminals who are able to use magic, it prevents them from doing anything that would help them. In regular hand-restraints a magic-user could get out without a sweat, but these have a spell only magic-users in the courts of Kingdoms know. The spell is Evanescent , just like the name means when you put your hands in these things...your magic just fades away, at least while they are in them. Outside it’s back, but from what I’ve read it’s a bit of an...interesting experience to go through.

The guard gave a cough and I almost jumped at the sudden noise, before taking a deep breath and reluctantly moving my hands towards the gauntlets. Magus really isn’t going to like hearing about this. God I hope he got home and Iita told him what happened, I really need the guy right now.

When my hands were fully encapsulated in the gauntlets the guard almost instinctively took a step back, for a moment I didn’t understand why, until the pain hit.

It felt like I was being torn in half, my legs wobbled and I fell to my knees, screaming in pain as tears from my eyes splashed against the cobble floor. It was like a part of me was being ripped out, and it hurt, so much. This wasn’t how it was described in the books, it was described to feel like a weight was gone, like you were lighter. It never mentioned this. This was...inhumane, it was torture. What could I have done to ever deserve this?

What could anyone have done to deserve this? No one deserves to feel like they are being ripped apart, to feel like your very being is being broken. It’s a horrific feeling that the book never could have readied me for, even if it had a correct description...I don’t think anyone would be ready to be put through this feeling.

The pain stopped suddenly, and I felt...empty. I didn’t feel complete. I felt numb almost, it was a sickening feeling. I also felt drained of energy, which had made me fall to the ground on my side, my cheek pushed against the cold cobble. Tears still streamed from my eyes.

I couldn’t feel anything.

I wasn’t given time to even take this in, and I was pulled up by my arms, being pushed out of the cell, I automatically hit the ground again. I felt like goo, but that of course didn’t matter as I was pulled up again, although this time the hands remained on me, and I was basically being dragged on the floor but what I assumed to be two guards. The hallway was dimly lit, and my eyelids felt heavy it just all, any ounce of energy I had was stripped from me. Because of these stupid gauntlets.

I was blinded by a bright light, only lifting my head slightly to see we were now outside, I guess I got one of the cells that wasn’t so far below...lucky me. I let my head slump back down though, this is going to be the last of me isn’t it? They’re probably taking me to a guillotine for something I don’t even know I did.

That was the worst thing really, I’m being tried for something I didn’t know I had done. It was garbage. Okay I’m assuming I’m being tried. I guess I could be jumping to conclusions, but it’s kinda hard not to when you’re in this sort of situation.

The blinding light went away and I assumed I was back indoors, okay so they probably dragged me through the courtyard. But that’s where the guillotine is so...am I not being killed? The thought gave me a small sense of hope, enough to inject energy into my limbs once more. I gained control of myself, and rather than continue to let the guards drag me actually use my own two legs to walk, they still though held onto my arms. I only noticed now how tight they were holding, it hurt like hell.

Now I usually don’t do illegal things, sure I gamble and get into trouble a bit but, I don’t want to end up in jail for something I didn’t do. There’s very little chance Magus has returned knowing him, and Iita isn’t the best at convincing, so the chances of getting out legally were slim to none, even if I’m not facing death by guillotine I rather take a risk than just give up like this.

Earlier I was foolish to not break out when I had a chance, it’d be foolish of me to not try to do the same now with what little strength was given back.

That’s it, no backing down now.

I threw myself against the guard on my left, it hurt because of the armor, but I knew I caught both of them by surprise from the noise that left their mouths, also their hands around my arms had left. The left guard though had crashed into the wall, and groaned, a smirk started on my face only to quickly leave when I heard the unsheathing of a sword. Shit.

I took that as my cue to begin running, although I went the way we had come as I don’t want to be anywhere near where they were taking me.

It was hard with my hands in the gauntlet in front of me, but adrenaline kicked in now and before I knew it I was greeted by blinding light again. I wasn’t out of the red yet though cause I could hear the clanking of the other guard swiftly behind me.

There had of course been people out in the courtyard, but it was mainly maids and a few, from what I assumed, royal visitors from other kingdoms. I again didn’t have much time to think, the clanking of feet still behind me. I continued running and pushed through the group of royals, all gasping and letting out cries of offense. I then ran down the open corridor just past them, inside once more.

I took two sharp right turns, a left, then up a spiral staircase, all the while pushing aside those in my way with my shoulder. It seemed from the noises behind me I was losing the guard a bit...or should I say guards? I’m fairly certain that by now he’s gotten reinforcements, which is probably logical to assume. Although I really hope not.

As I turned a corner I spotted a door open just a crack, sprinting to it I was able to enter before those following noticed. I knew they had left as I heard their footsteps run right past the door, although yet again I was not given much time to think when I turned around.

I was greeted by a very dressed up room, along with a very dressed up girl sitting at a vanity.

She let out a scream.

Lovely.

I ran around the bed to the vanity, trying to shush her, she instantaneously slapped me across the face, I’m sure it left a mark. Before given a chance to respond though she tackled me to the floor, sitting atop me and holding her hand up ready to slap me again if she needed to.

The girl was small but...she sure was strong. Then again everyone’s stronger than me.

“Who are you to dare barge in my room like that?” She questioned in a very cold and icy voice. Yikes.

I was only now getting a better look of her, and I knew all hope was lost when I had recognized the girl to be the one and only, Princess Abigail VII of Vruviel. The blonde hair and blues eyes didn’t really give it away, but the gold and ruby heart necklace is what did. I stiffened a bit, “erm...I am...uh…”

“Go on, spit it out.”

“Ever heard of uh...Magus Arthur?”

She rose a brow for a moment, “he’s part of the royal guard, so yes.”

I honestly forgot that my Mentor was, what with his sixth sense he’s a fantastic item to the guard, I didn’t think the Princess would pay attention to that sort of stuff though.

“I’m his uh...apprentice.”

“Since when did he take on apprentices?”

“I’m a special case.”

She rose a brow, “what do you mean?”

“Uh...not the point. Anyways, that’s who I am, the old man’s apprentice, you can call me Lita.”

The princess stared at me for a few moments, said few moments felt unbearable and I honestly wanted to die. But she eventually gave a slow nod, and got up, yanking my arm to bring me to my feet, it was really only then she had noticed the gauntlets. My face heated up with embarrassment, lucky me.

Although to my surprise she merely pushed me to sit down on the edge of the bed, before turning to her vanity, dug around in a drawer, before turning back to me. She kneeled a bit, and had a thing knife, along with a lock pick. Odd for a princess, but I won’t judge.

It had only been then that I realized what she was about to do.

“Oh that won’t wo-”

She seemingly ignored me and just automatically went to trying to pick the lock. Which was magically sealed, so I knew it wouldn’t work.

Again that’s what I thought until there was a click, and she removed the set of gauntlets. Suddenly everything was returned to me, it was like taking a big gulp of air after being suffocated, and it felt so good. I was still exhausted, and I looked at my hands shakily.

I looked at the blonde who had been awaiting a response, “thank you, Princess.”

Her cheeks got a small red tint, and she stood straight up again, scratching the back of her hair, “it’s no problem, darling. I can’t imagine what Sir Arthur would do if his apprentice was locked up in gauntlets, whoever did this to you will surely pay. I will find the guard that did this and fire them on the spot...also you don’t need to be so formal. Please,” she folded her hands together giving a soft smile, her blue eyes twinkling, “call me Abigail.”

My heart automatically felt like it had been squeezed, she was so nice. She didn’t even know half of the ordeal that I was going through, and I wasn’t a very good person so I didn’t deserve this kindness from her. I merely gave a nod though, “right, Abigail.”

She blinked, obviously expecting more before suddenly jumping up and down, she grabbed my hands holding them up with hers as a huge smile overtook her face, “I just had the loveliest idea! I am to have a ball in a few weeks, as my birthday is coming up, I shall be turning eighteen! My parents were wanting a Prince from the Sledora Dynasty to be my escort at the ball, but I really do not want to go with the man. He is much older than I am and I do not believe in...relationships of those types. I have a feeling they are wanting to marry me off to him, but since you are the apprentice of Magus Arthur I’m sure they would let you escort me!”

This was very sudden and my face had grown to the deepest shade of crimson there was. Was she...asking me to be her royal date? No no no, that can’t be. That would be ridiculous why would a Princess want me to escort her? All the while I was becoming more and more brain dead by the moment, it seemed to be worrying Abigail, who had promptly moved her hands from mine and to my shoulders, shaking me a bit.

“Lita! Lita are you okay? Lita! Hey, Lit-”

“Yes,” the word sputtered out of my mouth.

“What?”

I took a deep breath, standing up now and looking down into the blonds crystal blue eyes, my hands having moved to being rested on her waist.

“Yes, Princess Abigail the Seventh of Vruviel,” then being the master of smooth moves I am, no matter how flustered I was now, I removed a hand from my shoulder and brought her hand up to my lips to seal a kiss, “I accept your offer to be your escort if you’ll have me.”

[daffronc-blog]

Final Project Part One: Attack of the Killer Fan Fiction

Reflective Essay:

When I was starting the assignment, I decided the best thing to write a fan fiction of would be Harry Potter because of the sheer amount of directions I could take the story and characters. I decided I wanted my story to take place after the series had initially ended, that way I would have more freedom to write my story without fucking up any sort of series canon. Once I had decided that I had no idea what I should write. So, I was pacing my room thinking and listening to The Lawrence Arms when their song “Are You There, Margaret? It’s Me, God” came on and it gave me an idea.

Over the weekend, I had just re-watched Stranger Than Fiction, so I thought, “What if I wrote a story like that?” But who would be in it? What would I do?

Then, I remembered the plot line in the sixth Dark Tower book where Roland and Eddie enter “the real world” to talk to find Stephen King after Father Callahan found a copy ‘Salem’s Lot (this is what Hermione references in the story in case you were wondering). And that’s when it really started to come together.

I’ve never read The Cursed Child, but even before we talked about it in class I had heard that it was kind of shitty.

Lightbulb.

What if, in a very Stranger Than Fiction-esque way, Harry hears J.K. Rowling narrating the beginning of The Cursed Child in his head and decides to find her and stop her before she fucks up his life/story? And that’s when it all came together. I cranked out the initial draft in one sitting and it was about 3000 words, which seemed like a little much for the assignment, so I edited it down to a much more manageable length for anyone who doesn’t want to spend a million years reading a poorly written Harry Potter story.

So, several cups of coffee and several Dillinger Four records later, I present you Harry Potter and the Ill-Advised Author.

Enjoy,

Charlie

Harry Potter and the Ill-Advised Author

Harry burst awake, his scar burning. He gasped and reached up to touch his forehead. It had been many years since his scar had hurt and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He carefully got out of bed, trying not to wake Ginny, who was still sleeping peacefully.

He stumbled out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, the pain from his scar beginning to subside a little bit. He looked out the kitchen window to see the first rays of sunlight had just begun to appear on the horizon.

“Maybe my scar is hurting because I’m nervous about sending Albus off to his first year at Hogwarts today,” Harry thought. Yes, that must have been it. After all, it had been 19 years since Voldemort had been defeated, so there was no other explanation.

As the Harry sat in the kitchen watching the sunrise and waiting for the rest of his family to wake up so they could make their way to Kings Cross station to drop off Albus and James at platform 9 ¾ he slowly began to forget about his scar hurting. He didn’t even think to mention it to Ginny when she woke up.

***

The Potter family quickly piled out of the family car once they had arrived at King’s Cross. Albus and James pulled their trunks behind them, chattering excitedly. Harry and Ginny followed behind them with Lily.

“Dad, my legs are tired,” Lily complained, tugging on Harry’s pant leg.

“Honey, we just started walking,” Harry said, smiling down at her.

“I know, but I’m tired,” she said.

“Ok,” Harry said, “I think I’ve got just the solution.”

He scooped her up and put her on his shoulders, so she wouldn’t have to walk anymore. Ginny smiled at them as they opened the door to King’s Cross.

As soon as they entered the station Harry was hit with a burst of pain from his scar so intense that his legs almost buckled underneath him. Lily giggled, thinking her father was going to pretend to drop her. As soon as Harry had recovered his balance he heard the voice.

“A busy and crowded station,” a woman’s voice said, “Full of people trying to go somewhere. Amongst the hustle and bustle, two large cages rattle on top of two laden trolleys. They’re being pushed by two boys, James Potter and Albus Potter, Their mother, Ginny, follows after. A thirty-seven-year-old-man, Harry, has his daughter, Lily, on his shoulders.”

“What the hell?” Harry said, looking around in bewilderment.

“What is it, Harry?” Ginny asked, watching Harry with a concerned look on her face.

“Do you hear that voice?” Harry asked.

“What voice?” Ginny responded.

“That woman’s voice,” Harry answered, putting Lily down and continuing to look around.

“What are you talking about?” Ginny asked, stepping closer to Harry.

Just then Ron and Hermione approached. Lily squealed in excitement and ran toward them. Meanwhile, James and Albus looked at their parents, confused as to why they had stopped.

“Ron turns towards them as Lily goes barreling up to him. He picks her up into his arms.” the voice narrated as Ron greeted Lily by lifting her up into the air just like it had said a moment before.

Hermione, noticing the confused look on Harry’s face approached them, followed by Ron.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry explained how his scar hurt and he had heard the woman’s voice narrating exactly what was happening as it happened and that only he seemed to be hearing it.

“Are you sure you’re not just schizophrenic, mate?” Ron asked jokingly.

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs angrily.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down.

“Harry, if you are hearing this voice saying things that only you could know, and your scar is hurting again, this could be something serious,” Hermione said, “We need to find out where this voice is coming from as quickly as possible before it can say more things.”

Harry looked at Ginny.

“Go figure this out,” She said, “I’ll make sure the kids make it to school.”

Harry nodded. He kissed her goodbye and said goodbye to each of his three kids and left King’s Cross with Ron and Hermione.

***

As soon as they had arrived back at Ron and Hermione’s house Hermione went straight to the living room, where a long bookshelf stuffed full of books of all shapes and sizes took up one wall. She searched the bookshelf until she found the book she was looking for.

“I’ve heard of this happening to someone else before,” Hermione said, quickly flipping through the book, “It turned out a muggle writer was writing a story about a priest, not realizing that the story influenced the events in that person’s life. The author wrote an unpleasant ending and it came true. We need to find whoever is doing this to Harry before they finish the story.”

Ron and Harry nodded, watching her continue to flip through the book.

“Aha, here it is!” Hermione exclaimed, pointing at one of the pages.

She showed it to Harry and Ron. There were two words written on the page: Narritoris Aepearious.

“Harry, since only you can hear the voice you need to cast the spell,” Hermione said, “Once you’ve cast it, a portal should open and lead us to whoever is responsible for this.”

Harry read the words on the page and just like Hermione said, a portal opened on the wall, leading to a large house in the countryside. The three wizards stepped through the wall and the portal quickly closed behind them.

They approached the house cautiously, watching for anyone who may have been guarding the premises. When the reached the door, Harry tried the doorknob to see if it was open. The handle wouldn’t budge, so Harry produced his wand from his robes and pressed it against the lock.

“Aberto,” he said quietly.

With a click, the door slowly began to open. Harry pushed it all the way open and they entered the house.

After a few minutes of wandering through the seemingly empty house, the three wizards arrived at a set of double doors. Harry pushed them open and they entered the room.

The walls were decorated with posters of teenagers in cheap looking wizard robes, holding what looked like imitation wands. As Harry looked closer, he realized these teenagers vaguely resembled him, Ron, and Hermione when they were younger. The one that looked like Harry even had something on his forehead that looked similar to Harry’s scar. Harry looked at the caption below the poster. It read Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

“What the hell?” Harry thought.

“Harry,” Ron said nervously from behind Harry.

Harry turned to see Ron holding a large leather-bound book. He held it up to Harry to see.

“It’s about us finding the Horcruxes and battling the Death Eaters on the night you killed Voldemort,” Ron said.

Harry took the book from Ron and examined it. Ron was right, it seemed to be a spot-on account. Harry looked at the cover. It said Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It also said it was written by a “J.K. Rowling”.

“Harry, come here,” Hermione said.

Harry turned to see her standing in front of a desk on the other side of the room looking at a typewriter. She pulled the piece of paper from the typewriter and handed it to Harry.

“Is this what you heard the voice say?” Hermione asked.

Harry read the page and nodded. Hermione showed him another page that said, “Harry Potter and the Cursed Child written by J.K. Rowling”.

“This J.K. Rowling must be the woman I keep hearing in my head,” Harry said.

Suddenly from behind them, there was a gasp and the sound of glass shattering. All three wizards whipped around to see a woman standing in the doorway of the room pointing at them.

“Y-y-you can’t be real,” she stammered, stepping backward.

“Are you J.K. Rowling?” Harry asked.

The woman gulped and nodded slowly.

“You’re the one writing these stories?” Harry asked, holding up the page from The Cursed Child.

She nodded again.

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said, “You need to stop writing these stories about me, they’re affecting my life. I’ve already defeated Voldemort, there’s no need for you to write these stories and drag me into more conflicts, especially if they might endanger my family or friends.”

“B-But how can this be happening?” J.K. Rowling asked.

Hermione explained the magic to her and she slowly seemed to understand.

After talking to her for several hours and answering all her excited questions, Harry, Ron, and Hermione left, apparating back to their homes, satisfied that J.K. Rowling wouldn’t write about them again.

***

After the three wizards had left, J.K. Rowling immediately burned all her notes and the page she had written for The Cursed Child. Her mind was still reeling from her encounter with the three people, who until an hour ago, she considered her fictional characters.

With every trace of the manuscript destroyed, She called Jack Thorne, the manuscript’s co-author and the person who was going to adapt it into a script for the stage and told him that she was canceling the project.

When he asked her why, she just said, “Harry’s story is done, it’s time to leave him alone.”

She hung up the phone, still shaking. “What am I going to do now?” she thought.

She decided she would finally start writing those Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them films that Warner Brothers was so eager to produce. After all, they would be prequels set many years before The Philosopher’s Stone takes place, so there was no way Newt Scamander could show up on her doorstep, right?  

 Cited Sources:

Thorne, Jack, et al. Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. Playscript. Scholastic, 2017.

“List of Spells.” Harry Potter Wiki, harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/List_of_spells.

[rubiesintherough]

i am thoroughly convinced i will never hear a song more fitting for amara than  cursed by lor.d  huro.n.     examples: 

Oh, I wanna know what I did, I wanna know her game I wanna learn her wits and how she plays her tricks, oh, I gotta know

I was under her spell And today I feel like hell

Cause I don't know how to walk out of this deal The spell she cast on me is real I don't know how to right the wrongs I've done She bends the wills of men for fun

I don't know how to fight what I can't see That girl has laid a curse on me

There are runes on my skin They appear when she walks in I am bound by her spell I am chained to do her will

like....   tell me that doesn’t sound like a song someone would write about her?? 

[purplesurveys]

1108

[created by: vyvyan86]

What did you think you were good at, until you saw someone else do it? Probably at being detail-oriented. I’ve always held secretarial positions so I knew I was somewhat good at it, but my manager is far more capable than me to a ridiculous extent; she’s great at catching mistakes or knowing the right questions to ask.

What's a fun fact you tell in social situations? About me? The go-to fact that has never failed me before is that I don’t like fruits. Alllllllways riles up an entire crowd, and it’s such an easy way to break the ice hahaha.

What's something you're positive that only you do? I don’t enjoy chicken meat too much, so when I eat fried chicken I usually tear off the chicken skin (the only part I like) and give the rest of the meat to whoever wants it - usually my parents, or my dogs if they’re around.

What is something nice going on in your life right now? I’ve been feeling more free than lonely, which is a crucial mindset shift I needed in order to start healing.

What was the pinnacle of wealth to you as a child? Probably Lisa Frank merchandise, or a Speed Stack set.

What's something that you hate, but can't live without? Delayed flights are extremely inconvenient especially when I’m already itching to be back home, and they’re bound to happen every now and then, so.

What skill do you not talk about, because you feel it sounds like bragging? I’m not sure if I can say anything in the field of skills, but there are topics outside of talents that I do shy away from talking about because I don’t want to sound like I’m showing off. One of them is certain relatives I have.

What is an absolute 100% fact? I have work tomorrow and I’m dreading it as always because Monday. I already have 11 items lined up on my to-do list and it’s making my stomach turn.

What's the most useless thing you've memorized? Multiple episodes of Friends in their entirety.

What is your personal curse? My...what?

Who's the worst person you've encountered on the Internet? The trolls/bots employed to praise the government.

Do you ever stop and think, “what the hell am I doing with my life?” Just every once in a while. I don’t run into this crisis too often, and most of the time I always have a reason to be satisfied with where I happen to be in life.

What are some of the small things in life you enjoy? Feeling fresh after a shower; the scent that wafts from the kitchen when my parents have started cooking or baking something; lightning-speed internet; and driving at night.

What happened recently that made you really happy? I took myself out on a self-date for the first time last night. I’ve taken myself out before, but it was always at some coffee shop where I can stay for a few hours and take a survey or two – and people are usually alone there, anyway. I’ve never eaten out on my own, or went beyond getting coffee, before. I feel like last night was such an important mark for my newfound independence, and I let myself be emotional while I was downing my ramen. I can’t believe I’m getting better; I never thought I’d see the day. :)

If death wasn't a consequence, what would you try? Probably touching stuff that aren’t meant to be touched to know how they’d feel like, like lava.

What's the dumbest thing you've heard someone say? Superlatives are always hard to determine...but I’ll be happy to refer you to most of the quotes Duterte has said over the last five years of his presidency.

What is the worst smell you can remember? The sour stench of rotten food always gets me. Other than that, my stomach is a bit of a trooper when it comes to smells so I haven’t smelled a lot of stuff I’ve found to be terrible.

What's something you want that doesn't exist yet? Some kind of invention that lets you Control+F in real life. I can’t even begin to imagine how infinitely convenient this would make things.

Where is your happy place? In my car, driving at night with the right mix of songs to accompany me.

What song gets better the louder it gets? Born For This by Paramore or New Day by The Bouncing Souls.

What's the most deceptive advertising you've seen? Menu items, mostly. Like the one time a local pancake joint promoted their limited edition red velvet pancakes; I was big on red velvet at the time so I hurriedly ordered it, excited to see how they applied it to pancakes; but was disappointed to see that they were only about the size of my palm. 

I honestly don’t mind deceptive advertising for fast food since people should really expect to get what they pay for - so for the most part I don’t find myself feeling betrayed by sloppy-looking Big Macs hahaha - but the pancake place I was referring to was a sit-down restaurant so I did feel a bit upset seeing how sad and tiny my pancakes looked.

What's a joke you always tell people you meet for the first time? Back when I still went to school and we were required to introduce ourselves on the first day of classes, my go-to line was a joke in itself. I liked saying, “Hi, my name is Robyn. You can call me Robyn,” because for some reason it was the quickest way to get chuckles out of my classmates. I guess it’s in the way I deliver the line, but yeah that’s my way of breaking the ice.

What's the biggest inconvenience that does NOT ruin your day? When my dogs do their business somewhere they’re not supposed to. My dogs are my babies haha, so it’s easy to forgive them.

What's your best wrong number story? I don’t know if I have one. I usually ignore/block wrong numbers lol.

What's something everybody should know how to do? Approach intersections slowly, whether they’re walking or driving.

What is a great movie no one knows about? I suppose it’s quite known given the cast is has and the awards it got to have or be nominated for, but no one in my circle knows about it - Revolutionary Road.

What type of person could the world use less of? People who spit in public.

What makes you think, 'Oh dear, I'm old...'? Erm, maybe the fact that you can ask some kids if they know who Hannah Montana or Drake and Josh are, and it’s very likely that they would say no. Also, the fact that current college students were born in the 2000s.

What is one food that you hated as a kid, but love now? Vegetables and my grandma’s chicken curry.

What makes you tingle? Whispering in my ear.

What was your travel nightmare? Any time our flight would get delayed 2-3 times and we have to wait an extra hour per announcement. Even worse if the plane itself takes foreverrrrrrrrr to get clearance to take off.

What’s the best Wi-Fi name you’ve seen? Nacho’s wifi was “Yell ‘Bayani si Marcos’ for password,” which is “Yell “Marcos is a hero” for password.” It’s in reference to Ferdinand Marcos, a former president who doubled as a murderous dictator and thief and is of course not a hero, but for some weird reason is still revered like a god by people from his hometown, including my mom and grandmother. I’ve kept his wifi name on file on my laptop and have no plans to delete it.

What weird thing turns you on? Haha I don’t think anything I’m into can fall under ‘weird.’ I’m not into anything much in the first place.

What's easy to learn, but hard to master? Any sport.

What's something you've changed your opinion on? Certain politicians I used to look up to, but have since learned that they have unfavorable tendencies or traits as well.

Describe your favorite movie as obscurely as possible: A couple drives for the entire movie.

What's the most satisfying thing you've ever felt? So at work I have to use this extension called YAMM and it’s basically a way to be able to mass-send emails to hundreds and even thousands of recipients. I use it regularly to send press releases to media, and it makes me anxious every single time because one mistake can fuck up the spelling of names or the order of email addresses. Every time I accomplish a YAMM send-out without any mistakes I exhale a giant ass sigh of relief.

If you had a refilling bowl, what would you want it to contain? Money or macarons.

Where do you mostly live? In the past, the present or the future? Up until recently, I used to think a lot about the future; in the latest ~chapter of my life I had been finishing up college, figuring out what job.I wanted, and was in a long-term relationship, so it was inevitable for me to think about next steps. Now that I’ve gone/am going through all these massive changes, I’ve found that this time around it’s a lot healthier for me to stay in the present and be happy with what and who I have.

What is more important to you, the way you look or the ideas you present? The ideas and thoughts I have to offer, of course. The current generation doesn’t care as much for physical looks anymore, which I’d say is a great improvement from before.

What don't people get about what it's like to be you? I’m not that rare a snowflake lol, but I guess when it comes to certain things, like my breakup, I’ve since preferred to be insanely private about them (except on here, of course) so that I don’t have to take the whole neighborhood along in my healing process.

If your bedroom had three portals to anywhere, where would they lead? Another country, a coffee shop, and a beach.

How is parallel universe you doing? I hope she’s happier when it comes to love.

Which historical event should be the next huge television series? I’ve always wanted a fictionalized take on the British royal family, so The Crown already works out pretty well for me, actually.

What country should fictional villains be from? Any answer to this would be offensive lmao, so pass.

What is your imaginary Eden? Living conveniently in the condo of my dreams, making enough money to live comfortably and having easy access to whatever food I’m craving at any given moment.

Which Disney princess would make the best villain? I haven’t seen all the princess movies, so I’m not so sure if I can judge well on this.

You can ask any author one question about their story. What do you ask? I’d probably just ask Angie Sage if movie adaptations for Septimus Heap will still push through because I’ve been waiting on them since I was a lot younger.

Would you want a rewind or a pause button for your life? Why that one? Pause. So that if I’m feeling happy, I have the option to stay there longer if I want.

Are you worth your weight in gold? Idk.

[poetnumber17]

XIX: The Wall (Reprieve)

With Alla gone and Trysrtin left

The pair spoke even less bereft

Again, another morning came

The pair went to the wall to blame

“Ali,” Trystin spoken with cracked lips

“Her death I still have not come to grips.

Though disease seems to abate each day

The majority have now died om way

I can barely recall your noble face

Or Kyver, his fur and eyes, a mortal grace

We stand here as we have for years

And oh I wish it would abate my fears

Ali, I pray all has gone well

If you’ve forgot me, at least your story tell.”

His hand pressed to the stony face

It was indeed how engrained in place

Every day he wished the same

That perhaps in love, his dear, would hear her name

That spells that bound had never weak

Strong, so strong, and wondrous feat

He stood both hands pressed in

If such a thing could forgive his sin

That just two hands to send his fate

So other’s might have broken gate

A tumblr came from the wall

Trystin frowned - sound  only small

It came again went through his hands

What was this that shook the lands?

A spark struck somewhere in his eyes

Arosha perked and hearing skies

“Something changes, near it comes.”

“Be it good or war, they know its sums.”

Agreed they set to Nanter’s heart

Where council set to agree a start

When they hear to tell their tale

Suspicion breed like far off wail

The wall now speaks? It became a god?

The prince suggest it just thing odd

They jaya decide to post a guard

Three times a day they listened hard

Trystin sat on his ledge and gate

To see what came from that fate

Four days later a little quake

And Trystin eyes flicked to see a break

It seemed something was amiss

Prince descend and listen hard to this

“Sometimes coming,” he whisper barely yet

“I don’t understand,” said the jaya fret

He felt it deep within his bones

“I think we’re going home.”

The guard then yelled to call the rest

And several drew near, perhaps had guessed

But no change was seen or heard in pure

Though Trystin stayed, he had to be sure

The rumbling he heard not too far off

It had to be the lifting of an enchantment doff

“Quicky! Pull it!” Trystin whispered beg

Not knowing exactly what might happen reg

When the pair leaned near

The human of air  was none to clear

Then snap, something sharp and slick

Trystin’s head spun round, what was that??

No change to wall but in his chest

He felt a shift, sometimes best!

More people came to whisper well

What was happening? None could tell?

“They’re trying, someone’s trying, to break the wall

“The wall! We need it!” said a girl, raised within its call.

When this got out, some had their mind

They brought pick and shovel and more to mined

“We’ll break through, help them! This is our day!”

With some hope, who would cross their wayÉ

They struck out strong, despite the spells

Caused pain, though they continued on despite the bells

Though trystin advice against their toil

Not with strength could he say, he want to spoil

“Ali,” he whispered beneath his breath, hands to wall, “Ali”

It hurt a little less to touch the stones, he see

“Arosha, we have to try, nothing’s happened in fifty years.”

She looked up at him, otter eyes full of tears

When had she lastly spoke

He could not remember, barely woke

“I don’t know if I can for your sake.”

“You must,” Prince whisper, “For Kyver make.”

Took long to ask her to help him

The magic coursing running round the rim

He sent the spell through the wall to break

It did not at all, but even trystin felt surprise from beyond

Someone knew a thing to awned

Suddenly it was him and Arosha in epic dance

Amongst those pulling stone and brick by chance

They tried spell, and pic, and ear splitting cry

For moment nothing moved despite their ply

The second crack was moments later, not to do with them

“It weakens yet,” the Prince murmured,a  cheer arose

The effort fresh to bring it down, the people knows

Soon the city was poured along the wall

The Kansen quick to cast their strongest spell

While Jaya tried to using their physical strength

To argue with them it wasn’t length

The third snap followed the rest

“The sound of spells breaking!” Trystin yelled

They pulled at the wall all to felled

With heave and song and hearty shout

With each passing clang it softened doubt

The Prince tried every spell her knew

Move and pull and collapsing too

The fourth crack ran through the city

Its strength did others hear it pretty

“It cracks it cracks!!!” another screams.

Nanter North did announce their ream

“Pull harder! “Push harder!” jaya cheer

Each grunt draws something near

Sweat bead up on Trystin head

The fifth crack between his hands was led

The wall itself could now be touched

The magic before no longer clutched

Full force the city of Nanter raged

These fifty long years kept in a cage!

The fifth chain broken ahd Trystin grunt

“Don’t let the destruction of the hunt!”

Whether it did anything new

The thousands people knew what to do

The six one broken with jarrying clang

And now everyone trembled, and with it rang

The Empress looks down on all her sons

Even the new Prince hold out for the ones

Was there just one last magic that had to break?

The stones look like things just to tea make

This eventh bar it had to break

Would the fall fall, his dreams to make?

:Push on, push on! Did trystin call

And at the moment he thought might fall

The crack, the seventh, rocked North Nanter

This last wild sound caused all to stir

The wall of stone that barred their way

For two generations here to stay

Now just a thing, not magic held

No tinge to wall our outside spelled

This day, now freedom, the liberation

A roar went up, such a cheer not heard!

For all the people trapped within time blurred

Immediately the pick met the stone

Those who could struck to make their own

The smallest children climbed its heights

Like Trystin wish he might

Instead wih Arosha’s eyes a little bright

He cast the magic that might make hims light

The curse blew all the stone away

So this piece of wall rightly no longer stay

When dust was clear, through it could see

Nanter: the south they to many had never be

He cough so sudden for dust to pass

Theyn stepped throught ho a world

He’d not seen in an eon furled

He blinked and stared at it

As he recalled of its lips

Hit the ground, tears in his eyes

At last, his hopes had been realized

He kissed the ground with Arosha’s tears

The wall was destroyed after all those years

[kvotheunkvothe]

I love this song.

There are runes on my skin They appear when she walks in I am bound by her spell I am chained to do her will I'm a goner, I guess Who knew love was gonna be like this? She has cloaked me in black And there ain't no turning back Cause I don't know how to walk out of this deal The spell she cast on me is real I don't know how to right the wrongs I've done She bends the wills of men for fun I don't know how to take my own life back Everything she touches turns to black I don't know how to fight what I can't see That girl has laid a curse on me