#you cannot stop me from thinking about fear and hunger

[katkit-42]

I have brainrot but I'm thinking about Marina and Samarie and Levi and how they're all three kind of inversions/deconstructions/desecrations of the "childhood friend" trope.

In most games, if you have two or more characters who spent time together in childhood, they have a sort of immutable bond, unbreakable by time or space. Even if you only met once for like five minutes, they're extremely important to you. Even if you guys meet again later and don't recognize each other, later on the reveal that you're actually from the same town is a huge revelation and basically jumps your relationship from "acquaintance" to "incredibly important person".

But FnH2 completely inverts these hallmarks. Marina and Levi grew up in Prehevil but Marina was in a position of privilege, while Levi was in poverty. Marina was sent to a special school to hone her natural talents, while Levi was forced into the army and had his childhood and natural hobbies stolen from him by the military and addiction. Perhaps they came across each other once in town--Marina's father ran the orphanage Levi was in--but they don't remember each other because why would they? Even if they spent an afternoon playing together, as children often do, they forgot each other as soon as they went home.

Samarie met Marina at school and fell in love with her. I'm not sure how much of a weeb Miro is, but yuri as a genre has a lot of hallmarks to school years due to having a deep connection with "class S" schoolgirl friendships. Schoolgirls, straight and queer, will often have romantic friendships with other girls in their class. Marina was popular and well liked, yet her only classmate we see is Samarie who she doesn't know. Despite having actual friends, we don't see Marina's relationships with them--Samarie takes their place as "schoolgirl friend".

And the final kick in the teeth: if you want to have this "childhood friend trio" in game, well, you can't. Getting them to interact with each other at all is like pulling teeth--besides the specificity of Samarie's events, Levi is difficult to take anywhere due to the addiction mechanic.

Marina and Levi and Samarie, in another game, would have been a classic RPG childhood friend trio. But Miro took the trope and completely tore it apart. I don't even think I can call it a deconstruction or an inversion--its a complete desecration. And honestly, that really fits with the FnH meta. First, Miro twisted and warped the tropes of a traditional DND group, and now he's twisting more RPG tropes.

TLDR: playable samarie when

[stllmnstr]

sacred monsters: part two

pairing: lee heeseung x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, vampire au, slow burn

part two word count: 12.4k

part two warnings: swearing, more blood and other vampire-y things, me forcing you to read extensive vampire lore, the supernatural elements are ramped up a notch (or, like, eight notches), semi-graphic descriptions and depictions of violence

soundtrack: still monster / moonstruck / lucifer - enhypen / everybody wants to rule the world - tears for fears / immortal - marina / supermassive black hole - muse / saturn - sleeping at last / everybody’s watching me (uh oh) - the neighbourhood

note/disclaimer: and to absolutely no one’s surprise, I cannot stop talking about vampire heeseung, so this story will be more than two parts. this is not the end. I want to say it will be around 4-5. potentially more. (yay if you’re excited, and my apologies if you’re not.) again, I want to name the sources I used to help me create this: the dark moon webtoon is where lots of the lore comes from, and influences from twilight are also scattered throughout. okay I think that’s it. for now at least… as always, happy reading ♡

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A literature student in your third year of university, you’ve been dreaming of having your writing published for as long as you can remember. With a perfect opportunity dangling at your fingertips, the only obstacle that stands in your way comes in the form of a ridiculously tall, stupidly handsome, and unfortunately, very talented writer by the name of Lee Heeseung. Unwilling to let your dream slip out of reach, you commit to being better than the aforementioned pain in your ass at absolutely everything.

But when a string of vampire attacks strikes close to your city for the first time in nearly two hundred years, publishing is suddenly the last thing on your mind. And, as you soon begin to discover, Heeseung may not quite be the person you thought he was.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Everything hurts. 

As your consciousness slowly begins to trickle back in, pain is the most prominent sensation. It comes in slow, steady waves. With a certain kind of deep ache. 

Eyes still screwed shut, your brow furrows. The movement only inspires anothing intense wave of throbbing pain that thuds against your temples. 

As senses begin to emerge, you can tell that you’re horizontal. Lying down. The surface beneath you is soft. It dips and curves, gives to the shape of your body. A bed, maybe. 

Delicately, you try moving your right arm. Wiggling your toes. Both are responsive, but there’s a profound soreness sitting deep within your muscle that makes you strain against a whimper from even the tiniest of movements. 

And your throat. It’s so dry. Scraped raw as if someone has taken sandpaper to it. As if you’ve been screaming. 

You inhale deeply, assessing the way air inflates the lungs beneath your ribs. Even there, deep within you, there’s a dull, muted ache. A pain that lingers. As the ensuing exhale leaves your body, you note another sensation. 

The emptiness of your stomach. The deep pangs of hunger that roll like nausea. 

With no small amount of reluctance, you begin the arduous task of opening your eyes. One slow blink that bleeds into another. 

At first, the only thing you see is a vast expanse of white. Blinding light makes you want to squint. Close your eyes again. But it’s nothing but a trick of your own senses. Causes by eyes that have gone unused for an extended period of time. 

Slowly, the space above you begins to take on its true tone. A soft, even light gray that coats the expanse of the ceiling. Turning your head to the side, you ignore the protest of pain from your neck. 

You let your eyes wander for a minute. But as the space around you begins to come into focus, you’re left with more questions than answers. 

Your earlier assertion had been correct. You are lying in a bed. But it’s not the one you’ve grown used to. This isn’t your apartment. 

No, the bedroom around you is an unfamiliar one. But that’s undoubtedly what it is: a bedroom. Threadbare maybe, but with small touches of life. Aside from your current resting place, there’s a desk on the opposite side of the room. A nightstand right next to you. A small lamp that emanate a warm, golden glow. 

Forcing your body into an upright position, you wince at the effort it takes just to sit upright, to maneuver every aching limb into place. 

More details of the room come into focus. A computer monitor and keyboard on the desk. The small stack of books next to it. A record player. A small dresser. Little trinkets of personality, but nothing that serves you now. 

Even through the haze in your sleep-addled mind, you’re sure you’ve never seen any of it before. Why are you here? Where is here?

And why does your body hurt so damn much, nerves under your skin singing like they’ve been wrung out to dry?

The fog in your mind refuses to clear. Soon, another emotion begins to emerge alongside the confusion as the reality of the situation sets in. 

You’re alone. In an unfamiliar room. Hungry as if it’s been days since you’ve eaten. 

Judging from the way your limbs respond to even the most minute of movements, you’re injured. Badly. 

Flexing your left leg again, you wince. Can you even walk right now? 

This is bad. This is very, very bad. 

The beginnings of panic begin to trace your mind. Again, you’re searching the room. This time, however, you focus on memorizing the layout. Finding anything that might be of any use to you, that might help you identify your location. That might help you craft an escape.

Your search turns up two doors, one to your left and one directly across from the foot of the bed. Both are unmarked. Both are pulled shut. 

It’s possible that your panic is premature. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that this was nothing more than the bedroom of a rather minimalistic university student. But if that were the case why did you wake up here alone, head pounding, body aching?

That alone is definitive. Something is very wrong. 

Instinctively, you try to retrace your steps. You must have gotten here somehow. But the more you try to walk back through your memory, the hazier things become. The inside of your mind is like a murky labyrinth, dead ends at every corner. Rearranging and shifting the more you try to focus. 

It’s as if a dense fog has clouded over your ability to think, to recall. No matter how close you get to a memory, you can’t see anything. 

That alone is enough to send another fresh wave of panic straight to your bones. Alone, injured, and you can’t remember any of the events that led you to this strange place. 

Gingerly, you turn your body so that your legs hang off the side of the bed, bare feet resting lightly on the floor. That movement alone requires several of your deep inhales. 

Slowly, you try putting weight on your feet, your legs. It’s not pleasant by any means, but they hold steady. Or at the very least, they don’t buckle beneath you. Aside from the soreness, there’s a distinct fatigue in your extremities. One that gives them a slight shake the longer you try to stand. 

You doubt you can run, but at least you’re not completely immobile. Maybe, given enough adrenaline, you can walk. Crawl. 

But now you’re faced with another dilemma. Two doors. Two points of entry, two potential routes to escape. Or two paths to further danger. Trapped in a windowless room, you have no way of knowing which of your two choices, if any, is better. 

But you can’t just stay here. Backed into a corner, practically a sitting duck. Eyes darting between the two doors, you steel yourself for the inevitable flash of pain fully standing will inevitably cause. 

The door to the left of the bed. The door at the foot of the bed. 

Just as you’ve decided to veer to the right, muscles tensing in anticipation, a knock rings out. Your breath catches in your throat, panic reaching its peak as your heart beats a furious rhythm in your chest. There’s nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go.One rap against the door to your left. Two. Three. 

You won’t make it to the other door in time. Not on your legs. 

There’s a moment of suspended silence. And then, the door is opening. 

Instinctively, you push yourself backwards on the bed., trying to put as much space as physically possible between you and the stranger that enters. 

And a stranger he certainly is. With a tentative sort of slowness, a boy peers around the edge of the door, squinting in the low light. 

When he sees that you’re upright, he pushes into the room fully, closing the door quietly behind him. The glimpse you get over his shoulder doesn’t reveal much. Another room, maybe, but it’s gone too quickly to be certain. 

“You’re awake,” he nods, more to himself than anything. “I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

Back pressed against the wall, you have nowhere left to go. Still hunched as if that will do anything to protect you, you stare at the boy in front of you. 

Maybe, you think. Maybe you could move fast enough to grab the lamp from the nightstand before he realizes what’s happening. Could use it as some sort of weapon, some meager means of self-defense. 

“Who are you?” Your throat is scraped raw. It hurts to speak, to think, to do much of anything. “Where am I?”

“Oh.” The boy pauses for a moment. For the first time since he entered, he stops to look at you. Really look at you. The extent of the terror that’s embedded in your features, written in the positioning of your body. 

Immediately, he stops in his tracks. Retreats a few steps until he’s back at the far edge of the room, just in front of the door he entered from. “Sorry, I guess it was probably quite the shock to wake up here. My name is Jake. You’re in our…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Well, our home, I suppose.”

For a moment, you just look at him. Chest still rising and falling rapidly as you struggle to even your breathing. You can still feel your pulse in your neck. 

If the situation weren't so disorienting, so terrifyingly confusing, you might be mildly amused by the almost… sheepish look that crosses his features. Where he avoids eye contact with you from the doorframe, this boy certainly doesn’t look like a threat. 

If you had to guess, you’d say that he — Jake — is around your age. With dark hair that falls across his forehead and wide, dark eyes, he has a distinct sort of beauty that almost reminds you of… 

Suddenly, in the confines of your missing memories, you’re grasping at straws again. 

“Specifically,” Jake adds, realizing the information might be pertinent to you, “this is Heeseung’s room.”

Heeseung. You know that name. You think it’s the one you were searching for. 

Heeseung. 

It sparks something. A flicker of a memory. A ghost of the answers you seek. 

You feel like you’re on the verge of a revelation when you ask, “Where is he? Heeseung?”

Jake’s expression betrays no surprise. He’d expected you to ask him that, you realize. It does, however, suddenly appear a bit more guarded. “He’s recovering. That poison he got out of you really did a number on him.”

For a moment, his words do nothing but reverberate in your aching skull. And then—

“Poison?”

Jake just looks at you for a second, brow pulling down in confusion as if you’re the strange one in this situation. As if poison and Heeseung’s apparent removal of it should already be old news. Then, a flicker of realization crosses his features. His brow softens. 

“That’s right,” he mumbles. Again, it seems more for his benefit than yours. “I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

Moonflower? In humans? 

“Memory loss?”

“It’s only temporary,” Jake says, as if that’s enough to make everything better. “Everything will start to come back soon, I’m sure.” He pauses, frowning. A flicker of sympathy enters his gaze. “I feel like I should warn you, though. Judging from the way you and Heeseung came in here a couple of nights ago, it might be a lot to take in all at once when they do.”

A couple of nights ago. Which means—

“How long have I been asleep?”

“Just over two days. It’s Friday night now. Almost midnight.” While the shock of that settles into your system, Jake continues, “Which reminds me, I brought you some things I thought you might need.”

He turns away from you, opening the door. When he closes it behind him again, he now has two bags in his hand. Carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal, he takes slow footsteps towards you. 

Setting the bags down next to the nightstand, he explains, “This one has water and food. I wasn’t sure what you would like, so feel free to have whatever, and let us know if there’s anything else you want.”

Looking at the second bag, he adds, “I also brought you some clothes. We didn’t really have anything for a girl here. I mean, Sunghoon had a couple of things, but I didn’t really think you’d want them. Sunoo and Niki went out and got some stuff. I’m sure they did their best, but, uh,” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “No promises.”

Jake nods towards the dresser that sits by the desk. “If you hate everything, you can also look through whatever Heeseung has in there. I’m sure he wouldn't mind.”

That name again. Heeseung. There’s nothing solid in your memory, but heat finds itself on your cheekbones anyway. The thought of wearing his clothes just feels like something that should warrant that reaction, even if you’re not sure why. 

“There’s also a bathroom through that door.” Jake jerks his chin towards the door across from the foot of the bed. And maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t have enough time to craft an escape through there, you think. This conversation might have been significantly more awkward in a bathroom. “Feel free to use anything in there, including the shower, if you want. There should be clean towels in the bottom drawer.”

He takes another long look at you, that same sympathy from earlier coloring his gaze. It feels weighted, heavy. As if he’s forseen some great tragedy you’re not yet privy too. As if he knows something you don’t. “I’m sure you have a million questions, but I think you’ll feel better with some food and water in you.” He nods towards the bags he set close to you. “And a fresh change of clothes.” 

He’s probably right. With the urgency of your former panic subsiding, you still don’t feel at ease. But neither fight nor flight seem like appropriate responses to this situation. Which leaves you stuck with a third one: reluctant trust. 

As you make your peace with it, something begins to press at the fog in your mind. It swirls, collects as if being pressed against a glass window. Your memories are still evasive, but there’s something there, in that haze. Syllables stuck on a loop, a constant repetition that begs your attention. 

Heeseung. 

There’s a sudden urgency in your gut. The distinct feeling that things will start to make sense again if you can just see him, talk to him. Jake said that he’s recovering. From poison. But you don’t know what that means, don’t understand what kind of gravity it might hold. 

Vague sentiments conveyed through a messenger are hardly enough to satisfy the tugging in your mind. 

So you ask, “Can I see him? Heeseung?”

Something flickers across Jake’s gaze, too fast for you to catch it fully. Concern maybe. A premonition of fear. Still, he says, “He’s okay. I promise. You’ll be able to see him soon.” For a moment, Jake falls into silence, weighing words on his tongue like he can’t decide if he should share them or not. “But he’s not really in the best shape for visitors right now. Take care of you first, and then we can talk more if you want. And when you’re both ready, you can see Heeseung, too.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer, but Jake holds the cards here. You have nothing to leverage, nothing to bargain. 

Before he leaves, he reiterates, “I’m sure that your memories will start to come back soon. Like I said, it might be a lot all at once. I’ll let you eat and get changed, if you want. The door locks.” He nods to the door handle. “So does the one on the bathroom door. And please, let me know if you need anything. I’ll be just outside.”

Gently, Jake opens the door, pulls it shut behind him. And then you’re alone again. 

Gone is the frantic terror you awoke with, and left in its wake is a gentler sort of fear. A deep sense of unease that refuses to fade. 

Pushing it aside for now, you attend to your baser needs. Heeding Jake’s advice, you retrieve the first bag he left for you, pulling it up onto the bed. 

The first thing you see is a bottle of water. You make quick work of pulling it out, removing the cap, and taking a long sip. It’s cool, refreshing. Soothes your aching throat before settling heavily at the bottom of your empty stomach. 

Taking another handful of gulps, you replace the cap before setting it on the nightstand. Opening the bag further, you reveal its other contents. 

It’s possibly the strangest assortment of food that you’ve ever seen. Frowning in confusion, you take stock of what you’ve been given. It just gets weirder the more you look at it. It’s as if Jake went to the grocery store and just grabbed the first thing he saw in every aisle with no regard for how they would fit together. As if he hasn’t made himself a meal since the day he was born. 

The first thing you pull out is a box of dry pasta, completely inedible without cooking utensils you currently have no access to. Jake did say you could ask him for anything, but even boiling water has a way of feeling like an insurmountable task in your current state. You move on. 

What follows is hardly better. There’s a singular, unripe avocado, an entire family sized bag of clementine oranges, three boxes of breakfast cereal, a loaf of bread, and — you pause a moment to count — eight different kinds of granola bars. 

Pushing past the strangeness, you figure you don’t need a Michelin star meal to ease the hunger. For now, you decide that one of the granola bars and a clementine look the most appetizing. 

After a few minutes, the blunt edges of hunger lose their sharpness. But even with a bit of food in your system, the nausea hold steady. 

Mind addled, you curse yourself for not asking him the most obvious question. What the hell happened to you? 

But he did say your memories should be coming back soon, and you decide you’ll just have to trust in that for now. 

Next, you reach for the bag of clothes. You didn’t think it was possible, but it somehow manages to be even stranger than the food. 

To your shoppers’ credit, they are girls’ clothes, yes, but it seems that was the only criteria for selection. It’s the dead of winter, and the first two things you pull out are a pair of denim shorts and a sundress. Frowning, you refold them both, placing them back in the bag. At least they still have their tags. Hopefully the two boys Jake mentioned kept their receipt. 

That leaves you with your other option. Glancing over at the dresser, his dresser, you’re at an impasse. 

Even with gaping holes in your memory, it feels invasive, far too intimate to look through his things. To go through his clothes until you find something that suits you. To wear it without his permission. 

Taking a sidelong glance at the pair of denim shorts, you decide you don’t have all that much pride left to barter, anyway. After all, you work up disoriented, weak, and missing all of your memories in the boy’s bed. What’s a spare change of clothes in comparison with that?

As you gingerly pad your way to the dresser, you decide it feels less like snooping if you only reach for what’s on top. Luck is on your side. The first thing you see when you open the top drawer is a sweatshirt and matching pair of sweatpants, both of which are ridiculously soft. 

Stolen goods in tow, you continue towards the bathroom door. Pulling it closed behind you, you see that Jake was telling the truth. The lock slides into place with a small click.  

Like his bedroom, Heeseung’s bathroom is fairly nondescript. Devoid of decor, it holds what he needs and little else. Opening the bottom drawer of the vanity, you find a clean towel and set it down on the counter, next to the clothes. 

Lifting your head, you catch your reflection in the mirror. It’s enough to have you double take. You almost don’t recognize yourself. The tangled mess of hair and dark circles of exhaustion beneath your eyes are things you could forgive. Two days of straight sleep is enough to wreak at least a little havoc on anyone. 

But that’s not what has your reflection freezing. 

Delicately, as if the truth will somehow be less awful if revealed slowly, you tilt your head to the side. Pull your hair away, tuck it behind your ear. Expose the dark, mottled assortment of discolored marks that extend all the way from your jaw to the base of your neck. 

Bruises. Deep, dark bruises. 

And on top of them, uneven, flaky patches of multicolored crimson. Dried blood, you realize as your stomach gives a sickening lurch. 

Is it yours? Heeseung’s? Someone else’s? 

The fog in your mind suddenly feels like an enclosure. Holding you hostage and dangling your forgotten memories just out of reach. Trapping you in the darkness and offering no way out, no way through. Just a dim candle against the vast, midnight darkness of terror. 

You’re too wrung out to cry, too confused to so much as gasp. As reality unfolds, devastation seems to be the norm, not the exception. Even if your throat weren’t raw, you’re not sure you’d scream. 

With trepidation, you raise a hand, watching the way your fingers tremble in your reflection. And then your run a gentle touch over the evidence of destruction, a war waged on your skin. Once it nears your jaw, you feel something. A small bump that has you hissing at the contact. 

Leaning forward, you examine it closer. It’s a tiny wound, barely perceptible. It reminds you of a vaccination at the doctor’s office. Neat, sterile. 

Enough to be confusing, yes. Arguably even concerning. But it’s not what has you reeling. 

Because around the tiny mark are two more puncture wounds. Perfectly circular still, but decidedly larger. Rougher. Deeper. They’re embedded into your skin on either side of the smaller wound. And if you didn’t know any better, if your mind had any more capacity for the impossible, you’d almost think they look like…

You’d almost think they look like bite marks. 

The longer you stare, the more sinister they appear. The more hopelessly horrified you feel. What happened to you? Why does the side of your neck look like a watercolor painting of violets? Why does it look like you’ve been bitten?

If this is what you look like, what kind of state is Heeseung in? Jake said it himself that he’s in no condition for visitors. 

What if he’s not recovering as well as Jake said? What if it’s your fault—?

No. You won’t let yourself spiral there. 

Memories, you just need your memories. 

Which means you just need a little more time. 

The shower, to your relief, has plenty of hot water to spare. For long minutes, you just stand there, letting it pour over you, your skin, your aching muscles. As water seeps through the drain, it carries some of your tension with it.

You watch as the water that circles the drain runs red before it clears again, blood washed away from your skin.

It’s instinct, mostly. The desire to confirm what you already know, that has you retracing the strange marks on your neck. 

A hiss of pain is the only thing that ensues in response at first. But then something else comes. 

A flicker of a memory. 

A strange place, a dark room. 

New Haven. The publishing house. Because you had gone there to meet Professor Kim, to show him your draft, to see the space you’d won an internship in. 

It’s coming back now, in fragments. 

There had been something strange, though. It was dark when you arrived. Dark and empty and quiet until—

Until suddenly it wasn’t. Until Heeseung was there with you.

Warm water traces steady lines on your skin. Your memory reappears in tangled, discombobulated jumbles. Things clicking into place as you do your best to sort them chronologically. 

Heeseung was there, but he wasn’t supposed to be. You had gone there to see Professor Kim. Why wasn’t he—?

The sudden flash of memory is sickening. Has another bout of nausea threatening the contents of your stomach. 

It all comes back, all at once. Replaying like a nightmare, like a scene plucked from a horror film. 

Blood dripping from your professor’s mouth. Clothes tattered on his body. Heeseung shielding you, protecting you. 

But Professor Kim wasn’t himself. He wasn’t right. He threw something at you. Something that hit you right where he intended. 

Without your permission, your fingers are back on the slippery skin of your neck. The blood is gone, but the wound remains just the same. The wound that Professor Kim gave to you. 

You remember the feeling of floating, of being distant from your body, removed from reality. Mind on some other plane of existence. 

You remember gentle, insistent, desperate hands on your waist. Your jaw. Your forehead. 

Heeseung, bent over you, consuming your limited plane of vision as your eyelids became too heavy to remain open. 

Pain in your neck. Sharp at first. Then dull, numbing. 

Heeseung. Heeseung bit you. Held you in his arms as consciousness drained from your body along with your blood. 

Poison, Jake had called it. ‘Poison he got out of you.’

It’s all so strange. They’re your memories, yes, and you’re sure of them, but why was there poison in your neck? Why was biting you the solution? How did his teeth leave such perfectly circular marks on—?

The final puzzle piece clicks into place. 

Vampire attacks. You had been worried about Heeseung, relieved to see him safe and sound at New Haven. Because you had just read about vampire attacks. 

Robotically, you turn the water off. Step out of the shower, wrap a towel around your body. 

His clothes are soft against your skin. 

Heeseung saved you. Of that, you’re sure. But what about the three people at the river? The three victims of a vampire attack?

It can’t be true. It can’t. You don’t know him, not really, but he’s just… Heeseung. 

An annoyingly competent poet and a massive pain in your ass. Someone that walks you home when you stay too late in the library. Someone that calls your writing awful when it is, when you need a cold, hard reality check. 

He’s… he’s just Heeseung. He’s not a—

You can’t even bring yourself to finish the thought. 

But your memories are back, and there’s a alertness to your mind that only sharpens as the fog clears. 

At the edge of your mind, Jake’s voice replays. Something you glossed over in your confusion, something you fixate on now. 

“I always forget that moonflower can cause memory loss in humans.”

“I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up.”

The strange assortment of food. Jake’s undeniable, uncanny beauty. The kind you’ve only ever seen in one other person. 

Jake was right. You do feel a bit better with food and water in your stomach. With the last three days of horror washed off of your skin. But your mind is alert now. The memories are coming back. Puzzle pieces rearranging and clicking into place with alarming accuracy. 

And as the dust settles, you’re suddenly very, very afraid of the reality that greets you. 

In your mind, the facts play on a loop. 

You don’t know where you are. You don’t know how to leave. Jake has been nothing but kind, but if he so wished, you’re sure he could overpower you easily. And he insinuated that he’s not the only one here. 

You need answers. You need to leave. But Heeseung…

You have to know. 

Is the boy you’ve been trying to outwrite for months, the boy you shared a moment under a moonlit sky with, is he a… a vampire?

Why was he at New Haven that day? Did he know about Professor Kim? Did he know about the deaths at the river? Was he complicit in them? Was he responsible for them?

Clothed in determination and a fleeting moment of bravery, you undo the lock on the bathroom door, passing through the bedroom, his bedroom, on furious footsteps. The second door opens just as easily as the bathroom had, and suddenly, you’re in the room you caught just a glimpse of before. A living room, of sorts. Some sort of common area. 

True to his earlier word, Jake sits nearby. Planted on a navy sofa, he looks up when you enter. “How are you feeling? Do you need any—”

Manners are the last thing on your mind when you interrupt him mid-sentence. “What are you?” Not ‘who are you.’ That won’t give you the answer you seek. The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Jake’s mouth falls shut, presses into a line. Hesitation paints his features. “I don’t think this is the best—”

You won’t hear it. “What are you?”

Jake holds up his palms in surrender. “Your memories are starting to come back, I take it. Look, we can explain everything, just—”

On the far end of the room, another door opens. Another boy enters. Just like Heeseung, just like Jake, he’s beautiful. Moves with that same unnatural grace that you used to admire when you thought no one would notice. Now, it has another surge of nausea rolling in your stomach. 

Jake glances at the new arrival. He sighs. “This isn’t really a good time, Sunghoon. Why don’t you—”

The boy, Sunghoon, never hears Jake’s suggestion. Instead, he cuts him off. And once again, your world is spinning. 

“He’s back.”

…..

You are the last to enter the strange room. On the heels of Jake and Sunghoon, despite the former’s insistence that you wait and see him later, you take in your surroundings. 

Odd enough was the long, winding hallway that led you here, but this is even stranger. Instead of a proper door, the room is guarded by long, thick metal bars. They stand ajar now but bear a rather impressive lock. You have the distinct impression that this place was designed to keep people out. Or maybe rather to keep someone in. 

You hear him before you see him. Memories recovered, the sound of his voice is something you’re well attuned to, even if it flickers with a strong tone of annoyance. 

“Yes, I’m fine. I told you, it’s a ridiculously strong sedative at its core. We’ll react strangely, yes, but it’s not the same as bloodlust—”

“Still,” another voice argues. “We all saw how she looked when you brought her in. You had to have drank a considerable amount—”

“I told you I’m fine, Jungwon,” Heeseung counters. “Do I look out of control to you? Would I be sitting here having this conversation with you if I was?”

“Fine.” It’s the same voice. Jungwon. “If you’re alive and well, then maybe you can answer my question. What were you doing at New Haven? Do you know how long we’ve—”

It’s probably stupid, shoving past people in their own home. People that you suspect are dangerous, that might not really be people at all. But you have to see him. You have to know. 

Once you finally get around Sunghoon, your view of the room opens up. Sparsely decorated, dimly lit, and there are four other boys you don’t recognize. You pay them no attention. 

Because in the middle of it all stands Heeseung. Maybe, if you squint, you could argue that he looks a little worse for wear. There’s a pink flush under his eyes, a slight disarray to his usually perfect hair, but other than that, he paints the perfect, untouchable picture he always has. 

At the commotion of your sudden movement, all eyes in the room turn from Heeseung and land squarely on you. For a moment, seven gazes just look at you. All of them are blank. Lost. Out of depth. 

All except for the one you match. 

Where he stands, Heeseung stares at you with an intensity you’ve only seen once before. In a moment you wish you could forget. In a fragmented memory you already know you’re cursed to carry forever. 

Slowly, his eyes scan the length of your body, something in his jaw tightening when he notes the clothes you’re wearing. His clothes. 

Jungwon is still pressing him for answers. Heeseung doesn’t bother to provide any. 

Instead, he says, “Give us a minute.”

He’s still looking at you. Frozen in place, his eyes trace the line of your neck, ghosting over the array of bruises, the twin wounds he left there. His voice betrays no emotion, but his eyes flash with something that looks all too much like regret, shame. 

Jungwon balks for a moment. “No, I’m not giving you a minute. You could have jeopardized everything we’ve been working towards—”

Heeseung does break eye contact with you then. Turning to the boy that stands next to him, he says, “What’s done is done, Jungwon. A few more minutes won’t change that. You can shout at me some more in a minute.”

“Ouch.” A boy that you don’t recognize winces. 

“Right?” another one of the strangers agrees. “A pretty human over five hundred years of brotherhood.” He shakes his head. “I’d expect that from Sunghoon, maybe, but—”

Behind you, Jake sighs. “Is this really the time, you two?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon agrees, arms crossing his chest as he pouts. “And I take offense to that, you know. I would not put all of your hard work in danger for a human.” Sunghoon takes a sidelong glance at you. “No offense.”

“Just give us a minute,” Heeseung repeats again, more command in his voice this time as he slides a palm through his hair in frustration. “Please. All of you.”

There’s enough authority in his voice time. Or maybe enough pleading. Whatever it is, the rest of the room files out, one by one. Even Jungwon, although he does cast one final, warning look over his shoulder. 

It’s lost on Heeseung, who has already turned his attention back to you. “Are you okay?” 

An echo of the past, a reminder of why you’re here. Of why your throat threatens to close up now, just looking at him.  

Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how you’d answer him. Physically, you’re sore. Tired even though you’ve been sleeping for days. Temporary aches. Things that will heal with rest and time. 

Mentally, though… Your mind is spinning a million miles a minute. Even now, face to face with him, you can’t reconcile all of the pieces of Heeseung you’ve gathered. 

Indifferent student. Brilliant writer. Honest reviewer. Maybe even a friend. 

Vampire. 

You don’t know what to make of him. You don’t know how to piece him together. 

He’s here, standing in front of you. You used to stare at the back of his head during lectures. Used to fantasize about him giving you a minute of his time. 

And now, it’s just the two of you. Alone. His eyes search your face, his focus consumed by you. And he’s never felt further away. 

You don't answer his question. Instead, you ask one of your own. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is small, holds none of the command you wish it could. “And don’t… don’t you dare lie to me.”

Across from you, Heeseung exhales. There’s a distinct sorrow in his eyes. “I won’t. But it’s a long story. And there are parts of it I’m not sure you’ll like.”

“I don’t care.” But you do, so much that it hurts. You almost wish you were still begging for scraps of his attention. At least then, you knew where you stood. “I want the truth.” That much, at least, is honest. 

Heeseung nods, as if any of this is simple. “Then you’ll have it.”

A beat of silence passes. You remember the question you had asked Jake less than an hour ago. What are you? You can’t quite bring yourself to ask it now. Not with everything that has passed between you. Not when it feels like more of an accusation than an inquiry. 

You wear his wounds on your skin. You don’t know why you still want to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, you ask, “Who are you?” The difference is subtle. The difference is cavernous. 

Heeseung doesn’t smile, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips. “I’m not undercover. My name is Heeseung.” The flicker of amusement dies. He knows what you’re really asking him. He knows it’s not an easy answer to give, not an easy truth to receive. “But I’m… different. I was born with a strange ability.”

You breathe. “What kind of ability?”

Heeseung looks down at his hands. Studies them for a moment before turning back to you. “It would be easier to show you, if you’ll let me.”

Instinctively, your hand finds the wound on your neck. 

A dark shadow crosses Heeseung’s features. “That’s not the ability I’m referring to.” 

There’s a chair in the room, just behind him. He walks to it and sits down at the edge, knees wide. “Come here.”

You shouldn’t. You should stay as far away as space allows. You shouldn’t let him do anything. In every sense of the word, he holds the advantage here. You’re in his home. He has knowledge you don’t. The only thing you have left to leverage is the distance between you and your decision to maintain it. 

But every inch between you was doomed to be a losing battle. Steady, slow footsteps erase the distance between you as you come to stand directly in front of him. 

At this angle, with your positioning, he’s forced to look up at you. Chin lifted, he whispers, “Hold out your hand.”

You could try to fight. You could question him. You don’t. Resistance was always going to be futile. In no time at all, your hand is outstretched. 

Once again, Heeseung studies his own fingers. A shudder traces the length of his spine. Hesitation spills from every minute movement, every microexpression you’re allowed. It’s straining him, you realize. This ability is not something he’s excited to share. 

You can’t decide if that eases your worry or increases it tenfold. 

But after another wasted moment, his right hand reaches out to encircle the skin of your left wrist. For a few stilted heartbeats, it’s just the two of you in a strange room, a cage of sorts, your wrist cradled in his loose grip. 

Then, your vision begins to flicker. At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. Something lingering side effect of a long sleep as everything begins to go out of focus. 

But as the room around you fades, something takes its place. It takes a moment to manifest completely, for your eyes to adjust. 

In front of you, Heeseung still sits in his chair, gaze trained on your wide eyes. But the two of you are no longer in the small, threadbare room. Instead, you stand in an open field, freckled with wildflowers and teeming with butterflies. Above you, the sky is blue and vast, the late summer sun casting a vibrant glow over everything. 

In your shock, you nearly wrench your arm out of Heeseung’s grip. He senses the movement, tightens his fingers around your wrist before you can pull away. 

“Sorry.” He glances at where you two are touching. “It’s better not to break contact once you’re in. It’s quite disorienting if you do. And it will give you awful motion sickness.”

Once you’re in where? Turning your head, you look for something, anything, that makes even the tiniest bit of sense. But all you see is grass. The vast expanse of an open field that only ends where it meets the sky. 

“Where are we?”

“Still in the same room,” Heeseung says. “Physically, at least.” He takes a deep breath. “This is the ability I referred to. It’s a bit difficult to describe, but I can… project my consciousness, I guess. As long as we maintain physical contact, I can show you things from my mind. Memories, visions, anything I dream up. What you see now is the field where I discovered my ability, actually. A friend and I were playing here. I was ten.” He pauses, looks at you. “The year was 1534.”

The full weight of his words barely has time to settle before the vision is morphing, the scene changing into another. 

“It’s difficult to know where to start, but I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any. In the Kingdom of Celedis,” he narrates, “there were eight noble families that had been feuding with each other for over a century. As a result of their petty infighting, the common people suffered. There was constant strife throughout the kingdom. Pains that caused immense suffering but left the nobles untouched. There were frequent blockades, limits on trading, restricted movement, and nasty skirmishes along the borders. Petty crime ran rampant, unchecked. People weren’t safe anywhere, not even in their homes.”

You see it just as he imagines it. Tired, hungry, exhausted people. Mistreated and left to the whims of whatever best suited the nobles’ current desires. 

And the rulers, the nobles themselves. Eight men, adorned in finery, showered with gifts and praise and fine wines while the people just outside the walls of their ornate homes suffered just to survive, starving to death while they gorged themselves on luxury. 

You wouldn’t consider yourself an expert in history, and it’s not like the scenario is exactly uncommon, but you still find it strange that you’ve never heard of this place, not even in passing. 

“Celedis?” You frown. 

“It’s been erased now,” is all Heeseung says. “From both existence and memory. But it was real, a long time ago. And it was where I was born.”

Again, the scene around you starts to take on that odd, unfocused quality. It’s changing again. By now, you almost feel accustomed to the way images and light start to distort as one vision bleeds into another. 

“Celedis was a strange kingdom,” Heeseung continues. “Full of old magic. Ancient rituals and rites that faded from most places but held true there. The land was, in many ways, just as alive as you and I. And it grew weary of seeing its people suffer.”

You see a man now, dressed in simple clothes, tucked in the back corner of what appears to be a shop. He’s surrounded by crystals, trinkets, and old, leather-bound books. 

“One night, the eight noble lords received a message from a seer, one that claimed to communicate with the land, to speak for Celedis as its messenger. The seer told them that the old magic of the land would grant them a single wish on one condition: There had to be peace in the kingdom by the night of the blood moon. A night that comes only once every hundred years. When the moon itself shines bright red.  

“Seven of the lords, eager to have a wish granted, did as the seer advised. They ceased their fighting, recalled their troops. Began to support and protect their people once again. The eighth lord, however, did not.”

After a moment, you’re plunged into darkness. Above you, the night sky of Heeseung’s mind twinkles with distant stars and a distinct, crimson red moon. Seven men, all dressed in finery, stand around an oak tree. The rules of Heeseung’s ability don’t seem to be governed by the laws of physics. You watch as an eighth man appears, seemingly out of thin air. The same man from the crystal shop. 

“The seven who heeded the seer’s advice gathered on the night of the blood moon to pass along their wish — they wanted their bloodlines to endure forever. 

“The seer passed this message along, but old magic is a fickle thing. You have to be precise with your words, or things will be lost in translation. Interpreted in strange ways.”

Now, you stand in a nursery. There’s a crib in the corner. A pregnant woman bends over it, singing a soft lullaby. 

“Within the year, each of the seven noble lords gave birth to a son. They took this with great joy, a sign that their wish had come true. Before the year reached its end, each of the seven had procured a strong, healthy heir to succeed them.”

Suddenly, you’re back in the endless field from before, watching two young boys play in the distance. 

“But these were no ordinary sons. And around the age of ten, each of them revealed a special ability, a supernatural gift.” 

The two boys are playing a game, you realize. You can’t decipher the rules, but you watch as they throw their heads back in a burst of carefree laughter. The first young boy grabs his friend by the wrist. A harmless gesture. A meaningless touch. 

The second boy recoils as if he’s been burned. Hand back at his side, he doubles over in pain, emptying the contents of his stomach. 

In front of you, Heeseung looks away. 

In the distance, another version of Heeseung apologizes profusely as the other child turns his back. 

He changes the scene before you can watch any further. 

You’re in a bedroom now, watching a young man put on a jacket. It’s startling, almost, how similar he looks. The two of you watch as Heeseung, because it is undoubtedly him, pulls the jacket over his back, slides his arms through the sleeves. 

The resemblance is so uncanny that the only thing that sets this Heeseung apart, really, is the style of his clothing. The coat that obviously belongs to another century, lost to time. 

“And once each son reached their twenty-first birthday,” Heesung says. “They stopped aging.”

Heeseung and his jacket dissolve, change into something else. The new scene you look out upon is somber. Heeseung is there again, this time dressed in all black. The clothes of a mourner. Aside from that, he looks exactly the same. 

Then you see the casket. The portrait standing next to it. It’s her, you realize. The woman from the nursery, the one who hummed the lullaby. Much, much older though. Fifty years older. Maybe sixty. 

You look at this vision’s Heeseung again. He hasn’t aged a day. Still the epitome of youth, even as he mourns the death of his mother. 

“This was the interpretation of the wish, how it was warped through old magic. The bloodline would endure forever, because each son that had been born in the year of the blood moon was born immortal. But by doing so, the seven lords’ wish had also effectively ended their bloodline. Their sons would never grow old, never bear children. And none were ever given a sibling. 

“The eighth lord, the one that did not agree to peace and therefore did not receive a wish, had not yet foreseen this tragedy. He didn’t understand the implications of immortality, the terrible burden it brings. All he saw was an opportunity that he had lost. In his eyes, it had been stolen.”

You watch as the eighth lord bangs on the door of the crystal shop, face red, fury obvious in every inch of his visage. 

“When he discovered the nature of the gift the other lords had been given, the eighth became enraged. He went to the seer and demanded that he pass along his wish to the old magic of the land. That his son, born as an ordinary human, would also be given the gift of immortality.”

In front of you, the lord lunges at the seer, rage in his eyes. The seer raises his hands in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. 

“The seer pleaded with the lord. He tried to explain that he had no way of passing his request along. That the ability to communicate with old magic was not something he could do whenever he so pleased.”

The scene changes, the seer and his shop disappearing. Again, you see the oak tree. This time, though, it is only the eighth lord that stands before it. His eyes are sunken, shaded with deep, dark shadows. A mad desperation is painted across his features. 

“After murdering the seer for his insolence, the eighth lord went to the oak tree, a place rumored to be full of old magic. He wished for his son to become like the other seven sons, and he gave the seer’s blood as an offering.” 

The scene morphs again, fading until you’re surrounded by the ghastliest thing you’ve seen yet. You and Heeseung are in a small room. In the center, there’s an ornate dining table adorned with expensive cutlery and fine china. Lined with a lacy white tablecloth. 

And blood. The room, the tablecloth, the plates, are covered in dark, red blood. 

“There was one last thing that the eighth lord did not yet understand about immortality. About the other seven sons.”

One by one, you watch as they appear. 

Jake. Sunghoon. Jungwon. The others whose names you do not yet know. Heeseung.

Their mouths, clothes, faces, are all covered in it, dripping with it. Blood. 

“The old magic, above all, favors balance. In exchange for eternal life, it deemed that the only thing capable of sustaining it would be the life of others. Their blood. Once a year, on the anniversary of the day the seven noble lords cast their selfish wish, their seven sons would need to feed. To consume blood. This would sustain them for the rest of the year. They did not need to eat, drink, or sleep on any other day.

“But that one day, every year, they would always need blood.”

The horror of the bloody dining room fades. Now, you see the eighth son. Your eyes widen in fear as the image continues to develop in front of you, one ghastly scene traded for another. He is in a throne room, back bent unnaturally, a predatory glint in his eyes. Blood covers his mouth, his jaw. And as he rises to his full height, the rest of the horror is unveiled. 

He stands above the pale, drained, lifeless body of his father. 

“As I said before, old magic is a fickle thing. It listened to the eighth lord’s request that his son ‘become like the other seven sons,’ but not everything was the same. He was granted immortality, yes, and he also needed to consume blood to sustain himself. Unlike the original seven, he needed to feed frequently. Consume blood often. If he didn’t, the urges would drive him mad. Send him into a frenzy. 

“It was in such a state that he killed his own father. Murdered the rest of his family and every other living soul he found in the castle.”

You now stand in the dim light of a castle corridor. Beams of moonlight cast a cool glow as a soft breeze rustles tree branches just outside the window. It’s quiet, eerily so. In front of you, a person lies motionless. The wound on their neck matches yours, but instead of bruising, it’s surrounded by fresh blood. 

You watch in silent horror as the eighth son’s victim begins to twitch. At first, it’s just the fingers of their left hand. A spasm that shakes their shoulder. And then their mouth opens, face contorted in agony as they let out a long, blood curdling scream. 

Heeseung spares you the burden of hearing it.

“One of his victims, however, he did not drain fully of blood. Lost to his instinct, he had gorged himself so full that he could drink no more. This human, nearly dead, began to transform. And after long hours of acute agony, turned into a vampire of the same nature as the eighth son. Uncontrollable. Frenzied. And full of bloodlust.”

It reminds you of a montage, the scene that plays next. Still standing in front of Heeseung, your wrist still between his fingers, you watch as villages appear and fade. Families, lovers, children running in fear as the domino effect begins to take place. As one vampire becomes ten. As they fall into bloodlust, leaving a bloody path in their wake. 

The image of a young woman, mouth agape and features frozen in terror, remains imprinted on the backs of your eyelids as the small, dark room of Heeseung’s home comes back into view. As the last of the illusion fades, he releases his grip, freeing you from his ability. 

Your arm falls limply to your side. 

“For years,” he tells you, and there’s no image to accompany his words now. Nowhere to look but his eyes. “We just existed. Tried to carve meaning into our lives, tried to find a reason to keep living once it became apparent that was never something we would need to fight for. 

“But terror continued to reign. Vampire populations continued to spread and after three hundred long years of acting only in our own self-interest, we decided to intervene. To help the human effort to eradicate vampirism and the blight it had become. 

“But we never wanted to become judge, jury, or executioner. And playing god was never something we found pleasure in. We let many live. Vampires that demonstrated restraint, that chose to live far away from humans. Vampires that we came across on days we were tired of killing. Of being monsters.”

His words hang heavy between you. Was it a mistake, not finishing the job? Was it mercy?

“Professor Kim is what brought us here, actually. He has an unnaturally high level of control over his instincts. One we’ve never seen from a descendent of the eighth son.”

You inhale, more pieces beginning to fall into place. “So you enrolled in his course—”

“With the intention of winning the internship, yes,” he confirms. “Of getting a chance to study him up close.” 

Heeseung smiles wryly. “You were quite the pain at first, actually. After those first few days of class, I wasn’t so sure I could outwrite you.”

You have no idea what to say to that. An apology feels strange, but he’s just told you that you essentially foiled a grand plan to reduce the threat of vampires, to better understand their nature. “I…”

Heeseung pushes on, “It didn’t end up mattering, though.” He frowns. “The last day of the semester, the day I was late. I’d been following him. Trailing him from his house when he…” He trails off. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what happened. But I think he scented me. Or somehow realized I was on his tail.”

You frown. “Is that unusual?” You remember Jake’s words earlier. I thought I heard your heartbeat pick up. “I thought that vampires had heightened senses.”

“We do,” Heeseung clarifies. “But there are differences between us — the original seven — and all other vampires. Our senses are much stronger. They still have sharper senses than a human, yes, but I accounted for that. He shouldn’t have been able to detect me.”

“What are the other differences?”

“The seven of us are the only ones with any kind of additional abilities. We each have one, and they’re all different. We only need to feed once a year, and we have far more control over our instincts. We don’t experience bloodlust nearly as strong.” He passes you a meaningful glance. “Unless we’re feeding.”

Looking around, Heeseung confirms your suspicions.  “That’s what this room is, actually. A precautionary measure. It hasn’t happened in the last five hundred years, but we like knowing that there’s somewhere we won’t be able to escape, should the need for that ever arise.” 

“And you’re in here, because you… you drank my blood.”

Heeseung’s expression is unreadable. “Yes. The others thought it would be wise. It was precautionary. And ultimately unnecessary.” Again, he glances at your neck. “I didn’t experience any bloodlust. I was weak for a couple of days, but that wasn’t because of you. The dart that the professor shot you with had traces of moonflower in it. It’s poisonous for us.” 

As he looks at you, he explains, “Humans can ingest it safely in small doses, usually. Some brew it as a tea. You just have to be careful not to have too much, since it can cause temporary memory loss. But injected straight into the bloodstream, the effects are unknown.” His eyes flicker with a memory. You, crumpled in his arms, losing your grip on consciousness. “But it didn’t look good.”

So he had sucked it out of your neck. 

Your neck. Where he bit you.

Another piece of the vision he’s just shown you comes flashing back. 

“You bit me.” 

Heeseung meets your gaze. “I did.”

“Am I…” It’s hard to quell the panic once the realization starts to set in. Flashes of faces contorted in agony swim across your vision. “Am I going to change?”

“No,” Heeseung shakes his head. Leans forward, as if to reach for you. He thinks better of it, letting his hand fall back to his side. “No, that’s another difference. The seven of us can’t create new vampires.”

“Oh.” As the panic ebbs, you find yourself at a loss again. He saved you. Knowingly ingested a substance that could harm him to do so. Gratitude feels in order, but you can’t quite bring yourself to express it. 

The truth you want most to avoid dances on the tip of your tongue. “And you only… feed once a year.”

Again, Heeseung nods. “It doesn’t hurt us to ingest blood more frequently, but it’s not necessary. And like I said, we avoid it. We’re better at maintaining our inhibitions, but blood still has power over us. When we feed, it’s in a room like this. One we can’t get out of until we have complete control again.”

The questions that arise are morbid. How much blood is required to satisfy a year’s worth of thirst? How do they choose? Who lives, who dies for the hunger that binds them to this world? In the last five hundred years, how much blood has been washed from their hands, from his hands?

You can hardly ask him, but the truth still remains. “You’ve killed people.”

Heeseung’s gaze falls to the floor. “I won’t pretend to be innocent.” There’s a distinct edge of self-loathing when he says, “I won’t pretend that I’m not still… a monster. But the blood we ingest comes from animals, not humans.” 

He looks back to you, gaze searching as if he craves something from you. A flicker of trust. The reassurance that you’re not appalled by him, by everything he’s told you. 

You match his eye, and he hates the fear he finds reflected there. 

A moment of stilted silence passes. Another. The weight of a million revelations and a thousand unanswered questions rests heavily between you. It’s a lot to digest all at once. Too much. So much that your mind struggles to bear the weight of it all, to organize the information you’ve received into categories that give sense to the illogical, the impossible. 

Outside the barred door, you hear the whisper of a scuffle. 

“Stop that!”

“Move over. It’s been way more than a minute. I don’t care what he says. I’m going to—”

Heeseung sighs, rolling his eyes as he turns towards the door. “Just come in if you’re going to.”

Six boys tumble through the door in an excited heap. It reminds you a bit of overenthusiastic puppies. Again, you find the differences hard to reconcile. Killers. Monsters. Immortals beings with unnatural powers. 

And they look about as threatening as a gang of kittens. 

“So,” Jake starts, glancing between the two of you. “Did he tell you everything?”

You spare a look at Heeseung. The long fingers that rest at his side. “Showed me, actually.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Jake’s features. “Oh.” He tamps it quickly. “That is more efficient, I suppose.”

“Well,” another boy pipes up, one you don’t yet have a name for. “At least now you know why he’s been following you home like a lovesick puppy every night. You can rest assured he’s not just some crazy stalker, and he—”

“Jay,” Heeseung bites. “Would you shut up already?”

“You’ve been following me?”

“Oh.” Jay winces, realizing the misstep a moment too late. “Sorry, man.” 

Heeseung exhales again. “We were worried Professor Kim might do something,” he explains, looking at you. “It was a precautionary measure.” 

Behind you, you hear a snicker. “Precautionary measure, my ass.”

But you’re too caught up in a sudden realization. Your professor. “It was Professor Kim, then. Those bodies at the river…”

“No, actually.” Jake shakes his head. “We don’t think he was responsible for the bodies at the river.” He nods towards another boy. “Sunoo had eyes on him that night. He was home when the attacks occurred.” 

You frown. “So who was?”

“We don’t know.” Jungwon’s ire may not be directed at you, but you feel it all the same. “We have no idea, and your professor was our best shot at figuring it out.” He looks at Heeseung. “Thanks to the stunt you pulled, we have no way of getting closer to him now.”

Heeseung glares back. “If by stunt, you mean saving someone’s life, then yes, I pulled a stunt.”

“And now there have been three more attacks in the last two days!”

“Wait.” For a moment, your voice reverberates off the walls as all seven of them fall into silence, gazes turning to you. Your face heats at the sudden influx of attention. Finding your words again, you state the obvious oddity. “But it doesn’t make any sense that Professor Kim is a vampire. He hates vampires. Everything New Haven has published is essentially just anti-vampire propaganda.”

“That’s another mystery,” Heeseung says. “Something else we were trying to figure out. And honestly, Jungwon, I don’t think it would have mattered. I told you, he scented me that day, so I’m sure he already knew—”

“That’s impossible.” Jungwon scoffs. 

“And yet it happened.” Heeseung frowns. “There’s something strange about him.”

Jungwon’s lips pull into a thin line. “Something that we’re no closer to finding out. It will take months for another one of us to get any sort of trust from him. Never mind access to New Haven.”

With the urgency of an alarm bell, an idea starts to take form in your mind. Rough around the edges but solid in shape. “I think I can help with that.” Again, seven pairs of eyes fall on you, all in varying states of disbelief. “I’m interning with him. At New Haven.”

Heeseung is the first to break the silence. “Like hell you are. Or did you forget that the last time he saw you, he shot you with poison?”

Sunghoon nods. “It does seem like a pretty bad idea.”

“No, it doesn’t.” You shake your head. “Think about it. He shot me with something that’s poisonous to vampires. And I think it’s because he saw Heeseung. If he really did… scent you, then he knew you were a vampire. I think… I think he might have been trying to protect me.”

The room is quiet for a moment, your inference settling into the air. It’s a long shot maybe, but it’s starting to come together. 

After a minute, Sunoo says tentatively, “She might be right.” No one else speaks up, but you see a few heads nod in agreement. 

Heeseung is quick to shut them down. “No way. No fucking way. Those are terrible odds, and I’m not betting on them. None of you should be either.”

But the more you think about it, the more it makes sense to you. Why else would your professor shoot you full of something poisonous to vampires? 

You try to think of the scene from his eyes. He walked in on you and Heeseung alone in a dark room. You were frightened out of your mind, and in the split second he had to analyze things, he could have misjudged the source of your fear. One vampire for another. 

So you double down. “I’m serious. This could be the in we need.”

“There is no we,” Heeseung shakes his head. “You’re not a part of this.”

His dismissal makes you bristle. If what Jungwon said is true, the attacks are only increasing, leaving more victims in their wake. And your professor may have unusual amounts of control, but he certainly wasn’t demonstrating that two nights ago. 

“So what, I’m supposed to go home, pretend that everything is normal, and just let people keep dying?” Your gaze meets Jungwon’s. “That’s what will happen, isn’t it? You said there were three more attacks just in the time I was unconscious. How many people have died now?”

Jungwon’s lips are tight. “Eleven.”

“Eleven people,” you echo. “If I go to Professor Kim and tell him—”

“You’re not going anywhere near that man,” Heeseung counters. “We’ll take care of it. It’s what we do.”

But his excuses are wearing thin in your mind, turning flimsy the more you consider them. “How? If he can identify you as vampires, then there’s no way you’ll ever get close enough to figure out how he might be connected to all of this.” You turn, addressing all seven of them. “I, on the other hand, have a draft written about the intrinsic evil of vampirism. I have a bite mark healing on my neck. If I go to him and say that I hate vampires too, that I was attacked by Heeseung, and his poison was the only thing that saved me, then I’ll earn his trust.”

Heeseung just scoffs, shaking his head. “Are the rest of you hearing this?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth hesitantly. “I mean… she kind of has a point.”

Heeseung glares. “Besides you.”

Sunoo frowns for a moment, parts his lips. 

Heeseung doesn’t let him get a word out. “Don’t even try it.” He turns to the others, something pleading in his gaze. “Jungwon, Jay, Niki, Jake, you have to see how insane this is. She’s a human.”

Your lips pull tight. “A human that’s standing right here.”

Jungwon maintains an even tone when he restates the simple fact, “If this professor truly can scent us, we don’t have any way of investigating him further. Not without using force.” He turns to look at you, gaze assessing. “Do you really think he’ll believe that you’re on his side?”

Do you? Maybe Heeseung is right. Maybe you’re betting on ludicrous odds, wasting the last of your luck on a game that was rigged from the beginning. But why inject you with a substance poisonous to vampires? Why publish all of those anti-vampire stories?

You match Jungwon’s eye. “I do.”

“Okay.” Jungwon nods, mulling it over in his mind. “Okay.”

Heeseung watches the exchange with heated eyes. “Absolutely not—”

“You’ve been overruled,” Jay interjects. 

“Six to one,” Niki agrees. Glancing at you, he amends, “Make that seven to one.”

Heeseung is still seeing red. “This isn’t a fucking group vote. We’re not deciding which coffee table to put in the living room. This is a life.” Turning to you, his voice softens, an edge of pleading in his tone. “This is your life.”

“Exactly.” You’re begging too, for a bit of understanding. “It’s my life. A week ago, it was completely consumed by winning an internship, getting my writing published. And now there are vampire attacks ravaging my city. The professor I wanted to impress so badly might just be one of them. Even if I walk away from here and vow to never go near New Haven again, my life won’t go back to what it was. I won’t be safe. So I’m going to do what I can to get back to the things that are important to me.” Eyes heating, you add, “So yes, I am a part of this now, whether you like it or not. And I have the marks on my neck to prove it.”

“Damn,” Sunghoon whistles lowly. “That was kind of beautiful.”

“You have a way with words,” Sunoo agrees. 

“Of course she does,” Jay nods. “Remember how frustrated Heeseung was a few months ago after she presented her analysis or whatever in class? He was so stressed he’d lose out on the internship bec—”

Heeseung’s glare could freeze hellfire. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“It’s late,” Jungwon interrupts, sensing the response that builds on Jay’s tongue. Pouring water over the flames before they can escalate into a full blown argument. Again, he addresses you. “You’re welcome to stay here tonight.” He glances around the room, and you imagine he’s trying to see things from your perspective. “Or any one of us would be happy to take you back home, if that’s what you prefer.”

There are aspects of your apartment that appeal to you. Sleeping in your own bed comes to mind. As does getting some distance from all of this. From him. You’ve taken in far too much information in the span of a few hours, and the throbbing against your temple has yet to ease. 

But your apartment is also empty. Quiet, isolated. With recent events in mind, you’re not sure it would feel like such a safe haven. If you’re quite ready to be truly alone. 

Still, you’re tentative. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re not,” Jake shakes his head. “It’s been a long few days. I’m sure you could use some rest.”

“Hasn’t she been asleep for, like, two days straight?” Sunghoon whispers to Jay. 

The only thing he gets in response is an elbow to the ribs. 

Jungwon ignores them. “You’re not overstaying anything. You can go home when you’re ready.”

“Ugh,” Niki grumbles. “Does that mean Heeseung’s gonna try and hang out in my room again? Because—”

He falls silent when at least three matching glares turn in his direction. 

Suddenly sheepish, you offer, “I can sleep somewhere else.” Glancing at Heeseung, you add, “I’m sure you want to sleep in your own bed again.” 

Heeseung just gives you a strange look. Niki bursts out laughing. 

“Damn,” Jay says. “Two hundred years really is a long time, I guess. Humans these days don’t remember anything about vampires.”

Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you realize your mistake. Of course. Not only are the boys in front of you blood-drinking immortal beings that have been alive since the early sixteenth century, but they also don’t sleep. 

Mollified, you feel the urge to defend yourself. “Why do you even have beds, then?”

This time, it’s Sunghoon that erupts in a fit of laughter. The other six avoid your gaze pointedly. 

You didn’t think it was possible, but once the realization sinks in, your cheeks heat even further. 

“Oh, cut the poor girl some slack,” Sunoo scolds. Turning to you, he’s kind when he explains, “We don’t sleep, but we do relax. An old force of habit, I suppose. It’s nice to just lay down sometimes.”

Jay can’t help himself. “Among other things, right Sunghoon?”

“Ignore them,” Jungwon advises. “Five hundred year old children.”

“Hey!” Sunghoon protests. “We’re not the ones that couldn’t handle a sex joke—”

Heeseung just sighs, a stray strand of hair falling over his eyes. For a moment, he looks like the boy you used to sit behind in class. Dreamy. Moody. Untouchable. So painfully out of reach that spite made you want to try anyway. 

He’s here now. Within your grasp. And when he looks at you, the quiet words he whispers are meant only for your ears. “I can walk you to my—er—your room, if you’re ready.”

You’re not ready. You don’t think you ever will be. But even a life spun on top of its head has a way of unfolding in predictable ways. Such is the nature of things, and so flows the progression of time. 

You don’t say anything, but you do nod. 

Trailing after him silently down the hallway you came from, you’re not sure if it feels more right to fall into step beside him or let him lead you. In the end, he makes the decision for you. Without breaking stride, Heeseung slows down until your shoulders are aligned, eyes facing forward. 

He doesn’t say anything as the two of you track a steady path to his bedroom. Mind leaden with the weight of the last five hundred years, you remain silent as well. Finally, you pass the common room again. 

He opens the door to his bedroom, steps to the side to let you walk in first. 

Unwittingly, your eyes land on the most conspicuous piece of furniture in the room. Your cheekbones are flaming again, and finding sleep in that bed suddenly feels like an arduous task. 

Heeseung follows your gaze. The golden glow of his skin remains the same, but his eyes flash with embarrassment. “You don't, uh…” He trails off. Even poets struggle with finding the right words at times. Finally, he settles on, “Not all of us live like Sunghoon.”

“He seems nice,” you say, desperate to draw your minds away from where they’ve wandered. 

“That’s one way of putting it.” But there’s affection in his voice when he says it. Brothers, you think. All of them. They seem like brothers. 

Heeseung’s eyes scan the expanse of his bedroom as if he’s looking at it for the first time. “There’s not much.” He seems almost apologetic for it. “But help yourself to whatever you like. The computer doesn’t have a password. And there’s books on the desk, too.”

“Thank you,” you tell him. And you mean it. He’s not someone you expected to be generous with their space, their belongings. Another aspect of him you had all wrong. 

“I’ll let you have some space then.” He pauses at the door. “Don’t be afraid to let me know if there's anything you need.”

“Okay,” you whisper. 

He hesitates a moment longer. You can see it in the curve of his lips, the arrangement of his features. There’s more he wants to say. Something else he wants to tell you. 

Instead, he closes the door behind him on his way out. Gently, so that it hardly makes a noise. 

His bed is comfortable when you lay down, even if your mind is still racing a million miles a minute. Distantly, you wonder if he can hear your heartbeat now. What he thinks of the way it picks up speed every time certain moments replay in your head. 

But despite yourself, despite him, despite everything, you manage to drift off after only a few long minutes. Tucked away in the corner of a strange home, the sleep that greets you is blissfully dreamless.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: WHEW. This is the most info-dumpy we'll be getting, so I hope this made for an enjoyable follow up to the first part regardless. The relationship between our two leads will really start to take off in the next part, as will the remaining aspects of the ~mystery~ now that (most of) the lore/backstory is covered. as always, I love to know what you're thinking!

[senualothbrok]

Enough

Summary: You agreed to help Astarion with the Rite of Profane Ascension, but you can't watch him go through with it. You interrupt the ritual, and Astarion turns on you. Now, you must deal with the aftermath of your actions.

Word count: 3.6k

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Astarion x female Tav. Angst. Trauma and recovery. A very angry Astarion.

AO3 link

This is the first fanfic I have written for about 20 years. I should be working on my novel, but this story honestly possessed me. I hope someone out there reads and enjoys this! If not, it was therapeutic and cathartic to write it.

-----------------------------------------------------

You have heard it a thousand times. The tales and the histories, all the songs you have sung. You are a bard, after all, and this story is as old and worn as your heart. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You know this, and you have seen it. You have seen it twist kind men into savages, transform wary women into beasts. Your own family had suffocated you under its clutches, leveraging your gifts and talents for ever more power and influence. Stripping you bare, squeezing out every drop they could get from you. You were their very own song bird, pushed about and paraded until your fingers were raw and throat was hoarse, to grant them entry into the best parties and social circles. But you were never enough. You never sang sweetly enough, or got large enough crowds. Not enough people knew you. You should have been prettier, more alluring. All the things they made you do, but you never did enough. It was never enough.

When you had escaped from them, you had vowed you would never be like them. You had promised yourself you would never become the thing you fought against. You would be different. Better. You would be good.

And yet.

You are standing in Cazador’s palace. Blood spatters the smooth ivory of Astarion’s skin. In the nightmarish hue of the ritual chamber, he glows a strange green. His crimson eyes are all fear and desperation.

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

In that moment, you cannot say no. If it were anyone else, you would refuse. There have been many conversations with Astarion - around the campfire, in his tent, even as you walked around the labyrinth of Cazador’s living hell. You have talked to him at length about this moment. You have listened as he has confessed guilt and need and hesitation and rage. You have been kind and patient, always careful not to criticise him, not to push back too much, not to hurt him. You have been good. He must make his own decision, you have been telling yourself. He has suffered enough.

So you open your mind to him, because he asks you to. You feel his frenzied hunger as he devours the sight of every scar on his back, as though their cruelty is now beauty. You watch his features which you have come to know so well. You have seen them in sleep, in battle, in laughter, in pain.  You have seen them shrouded and masked, bare and open. You watch now as they contort into something that you recognise from so many other faces and times. And as you watch, you can barely hear Cazador’s deafening screams, or register the way his mangled mess writhes and gushes. All you can see is Astarion’s widening smile as he carves at Cazador’s back, his eyes dilating like sinkholes.

You think it, even as he whisks away Cazador’s mutilated body like a rag doll. Even when Astarion slams the staff on the ground and everything around you blazes red as the blood of his convulsing siblings and the seven thousand spawn about to be slaughtered. Even when Gale and Karlach cry out at Astarion to stop, that this is a mistake, that the cost is too great. Even then, you think to yourself: this is what he wants. It is his choice. It is his right.

But in the scarlet haze, you are remembering. You are thinking of his trembling voice when he promised a broken husk called Sebastian, just moments ago, that he would free him. You think of the way his soft eyes glistened when he had thanked you and clasped your hand, stunned with the realisation that he was not just a thing to be used. You feel the crushing weight of Vellioth and Cazador and the decaying dungeons and centuries upon centuries of madness and terror. And you remember the tenderness with which he had looked at you, not days ago, believing the power of the ritual would keep you both safe. That he would protect you with it.

“I can feel their power flowing into me!”

You stare at him, spreadeagled, monstrous.

Something has begun to well inside you, like a cracking of ice, a convulsion of tears. In that whispering, you remember the promise you made yourself all those years ago.  And you know, from a deep and tattered place within you, that that promise is greater than your yearning for his love.

The blade springs from your hand on its own. You watch it sing through the air and hit its perfect note in Cazador’s maimed gut. Astarion and his siblings crumple to the floor. The crimson mist lifts, and in the silence you know, with the certainty of death, that you have lost him.

You say something, but you know it is meaningless. Nothing can repair the mistake you have made. You could have refused to help him when he asked. You could have reasoned with him, urged him to stop and think. You could have told him, from the start, that you could not go through with it. And now, you have kept your promise to yourself, but not to the man you love.

When he rises from his knees and turns to you, it is the face of a stranger that you see.

“I was so close. I could have had it all, but you took everything from me.”

Hatred hardens in his every word. And then, a tide of despair.

“Cazador won after all. I’ll never escape the hell he built.”

You cannot bear it. Your failure rips through you, and you want to reach out to him, to beg and plead and weep. But you just stand there.

He looks down at the staff in his hand.

“And if I can’t escape, then no one can.”

He splits the staff on his knee. It makes such a small sound as it splinters, but it echoes through you like an avalanche. It is the sound of seven thousand spawn being condemned to death. It is the sound of their eternal suffering. And it is all because of you. The horror and guilt erupts inside you.

It happens so fast after that. There is no time to think, to feel, to act. There is the glint of a dagger raised. You are knocked back, and a searing pain slices through your shoulder as you stare up at bared fangs looming over you. Your limbs are heavy with shock, and suddenly you feel a surge of heat and the great arc of Karlach’s war hammer over you. You hear Gale shout out a spell, and you watch as Astarion topples to the side, frozen except for the furious twitching of his eyes.

“Don’t!” you hear yourself shout. “Please, stop!”

Karlach and Gale rush to your side, cradling you up, fussing over your shoulder. But you do not feel it. You do not really feel anything. All you can do is look from them back to Astarion, pleading, but you are not sure what for.

---

“You can release his hold now.”

You are back at camp, and you have recovered your voice. For a long time, you could not speak. Shadowheart and Halsin tended to your arm, speaking soothing words over you. Gale and Karlach came to sit with you, their faces creased with concern. Wyll, Lae’zel and Jaheira stood at a distance, arguing in hushed voices. All the while, you stared into the distance, thinking of the hatred in Astarion’s gaze, and everything you had done to deserve it.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gale says, frowning.  

“We can’t keep him like that forever.”

“The man turned on us. He tried to kill you.”

You look into Gale’s eyes. There is warmth there, streaked with pity.

“Can you blame him?”

Gale scoffs. “Yes, I can.” Then he pauses. His voice softens. “Well, perhaps in the circumstances, in the heat of the moment…” He shakes his head. “But he truly would have killed you, had Karlach and I not intervened. And that is inexcusable, after everything you – all of us - have been through with him. After everything you have done for him.”

Your vision blurs and stings.

“I fucked up, Gale. How could I have fucked up so royally? I should never have let him start the ritual. I should never have agreed with it. I’ve broken him. Seven thousand innocent people will die in agony because of me. Because I was…”

You are not used to burdening others with your emotions. You give and not take, even when you have nothing. When you are nothing. But now, you are afraid that you will break.

“…Because I failed.”

Without hesitation, Gale lays a hand on yours. It is a such a kind gesture that it chokes you. You have always been the one to look after others, to give them what they need. That is your role. It is what you exist for. If you cannot do that, what are you good for?

“Those things were never your responsibility, my dear friend. They were never your burdens to carry.”

“But he trusted me.”

“That does not mean that you must give him everything, or watch him destroy thousands of people and himself.”

You ball your fists. “Then I should have told him that, from the start. But I went along with it-”

“Because you love him.”

You have not spoken about this with Gale or anyone else. You know it is common knowledge that you and Astarion are entangled, but you have always wanted to hide the love you feel for him away. You have always known that whatever it was that lay between you was fragile. Astarion himself was not sure what you were.

Attachment does not come easily to you. You know that if you give people what they need, there is a chance that they will stay. But there is also a chance that they will snap their heads one day and no longer want what you have to offer. And then, they will go.

You have always tried to guard yourself against the pain of that departure. Even with Astarion.

“Many a mistake has been made for love,” Gale continues. “I understand this better than most.”

“This is a monumental fuck up,” you breathe. “Not a simple mistake.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Do you really want to start a competition about the magnitude and impact of our mistakes? Because if so, I believe that I would be a clear winner, and some others in our camp may also be worthy competitors.”

You are too weary to laugh. Too broken.

“Besides, I am sure if we knock our considerably enriched heads together, we can find a way to open those dungeons and release those prisoners. Especially with such a range of talented and well-resourced allies to draw on.”

You can see the questions taking shape in Gale’s head already. You give him a weak smile.

“You are only human, my friend. I know you try to be better than any of us, but even you are permitted to make mistakes.”

When he clasps you tightly to his chest, you let yourself rest into it. You want so badly to believe he is right, but you are not sure you can.

---

As you approach Astarion, you gesture behind you. You know the rest of them are all watching, wary and ready to strike at the faintest sign of danger. But you stand them down, and they linger at a respectful distance.

Released from Gale’s hold, Astarion hunches over slightly, like a cat backed into a corner. He knows he is outnumbered and vulnerable. He does not lunge towards you. His arms lie flat against his sides, his hands free of weapons. His fangs are hidden behind the tight line of his lips.

“What you did to me is worse than staking me. You might as well finish me off now.”

Every word is a cut. You flinch at each one, but you do not avert your gaze from his. Any gentleness, affection, and truth in those eyes is gone, locked behind blood-red walls. And in his abject contempt, you find a kind of freedom.

If he has already left, then you need not please him. If you are not enough, then it does not matter what you say. You have lost him already. He does not love you.

So you say what you wish you had said, from the moment that he showed you who he was, the moment you fell in love with him.

“The ritual would have killed you, your siblings, and seven thousand innocents.”

“Spare me,” he snarls. “You nodded and cooed at me, like you understood me, like you would help me. ‘I’m here for you, Astarion. I’ll help you Astarion. Tell me what you need and I’ll be there, Astarion.’ You fucking liar. You godsdamned hypocrite. You never understood me. You never wanted to help me.”

His fury is like a lash, but the pain is sobering. You brace yourself against it.

“I never said I would help you become Cazador, or let you kill thousands of people for power.”

“Please.” His laugh is vicious. “I told you from the start what I wanted. If you didn’t see that, then you’re blind. Delusional. A self-righteous idiot, living in a fantasy.”

“You wanted to be free, Astarion. To be safe.”

“You never wanted me to be free,” he seethes. “You liked me weak and broken, so I could come to you on my knees, and you could nod and smile and promise to fix me. Your own personal project, kept on a leash like a little puppy. Cuddly, harmless Astarion, healing from his hurts, all thanks to you. My saviour.”

Behind you, you can hear voices erupting and subsiding, a scuffle of shifting feet. You are grateful when no one interjects or rushes forward. This is for you and Astarion alone. It is your punishment to bear, and his truth to hear.

“You took all that power away from me,” he hisses. “It wasn’t your choice to make. It was my decision. You’re worse than Cazador.”

The words wound you like arrows, but you half expect them. You have called yourself worse things.

“Cazador would have just compelled me not to do the ritual. But you gave me a taste of what I wanted, then ripped it away from me. You’re the cruellest bitch I’ve ever known.”

You do not care that hot tears stream down your cheeks, and that your voice trembles. You let yourself say what needs to be said, not what you think he wants to hear.

“You’re right.” You take a step towards him. “I should never have let you do it. I went along with it, when I should have pushed back. But I wanted you to feel you always had someone on your side. Someone who understood. I wanted you to feel loved.”

His disgust does not deter you anymore.

“You think that this is all you are. You can’t see beyond it. What was done to you. What he made you do to others. But it isn’t. It never was. You were always strong. You can be more than what happened to you. You are more than what happened to you.”

“Like you?” he sneers. “A hero? Someone so chained to other people’s approval that you’re lost without a saving mission? That’s what you so desperately want to see when you look at me, isn’t it?”

“No.” You are surprised by the strength of your voice. “Only someone who won’t let thousands of people suffer just because you did.”

Jolts of anger course through him. “You have no idea what I suffered,” he growls. “No idea what I am owed. If you had the faintest idea of it, if you truly loved me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You would be burning the world with me.”

You have listened silently before, when he talked about this. What he deserves after two centuries of agony. His comeuppance. You did not challenge him because you were afraid. Afraid you would offend him. Terrified that he would leave.

“Look around you, Astarion,” you say now. “Look at everyone here. We have all suffered. No, none of us have suffered what you have suffered, and I am so deeply sorry for that. But Cazador is dead and no one else will have to suffer under him. And now, no one will have to suffer under an Ascended either.”

A snide sound of disbelief. “You are so full of bullshit I can hardly breathe from the stench.”

Your tadpole rages, ramming into his mind. You expect the resistance of loathing, but he does not fight. He allows you in. And for the first time, you show him. You let him see him your parents, and your pain, and everything that was done to you. You open yourself up, the masks you put on that you recognise in him, the performances you too are familiar with in the economy of survival. You show him your promise to yourself, and your choices, and the failures you carry around with you like a noose.

He glares at you after it is over, but you think there may be less hatred in his eyes than there was a moment before.

“Why did you show me that?”

It is easier, now that there is nothing to hide.

“Because if we all burned the world because of our suffering, there would be nothing left. And because you said you wanted something real.”

He seems backfooted that you mention it. His first moment of honesty. Your first moment of connection. The beginning of your love.

“This is real, Astarion.” Your gaze is a waterfall. You cannot stop it. “Real love, messy and painful, with a real person who makes mistakes and tells you things that you don’t want to hear. Someone who sees who you really are and who you can be, the worst and the best of you, and still loves you anyway.”

He steps back, his features clenched in spasm. You think of how his hands felt on your skin, cold as ice to the touch, yet warming you inside out like summer sunlight. You remember the lilt of his laughter as you traded jibes and jests under the furs of your tent on cold nights. You breathe in his scent on the air for the last time, those hints of bergamot, rosemary and brandy that you could recognise anywhere. You are already mourning their loss.

“Then I don’t want it,” he spits out. “And I don’t want you.”

And then he leaves.

---

You are alone. You are lying in a clearing a short walk away from camp. It is spring, and the smell of earth and grass hangs around you as the sun streaks through the trees above you. Your ears are drunk with birdsong.

It has been weeks since he left. You would be lying if you said you did not miss him. Sometimes you feel his absence like a presence. It haunts and stalks you, and when the darkness comes, you cling to your pillow in your tent and weep through waves of grief that surge through you like labour pains. But at other times, you find a kind of solace in your solitude. You are not shackled by a desperation for love from a man so broken he is not capable of giving it. You are not trapped by your own brokenness in this yearning, this ache to fill the holes in his heart. And this freedom is worth the pain.

When you had asked Astarion what he wanted, he had never known. And perhaps that had struck you so deeply because you had never known either. You had never truly known what you wanted, who you really were outside of what you could do for others. You thought you were only a thing to be used, a tool to fill someone else’s need, whatever that may be. You could be good at that. You needed to be good at that. If not, you were nothing.

But you are learning. Since he has left, you are learning that you are more than that. You are learning that you can live with your mistakes. That you are enough, just as you are.

You find that you sing now, even when there is no one around. Even when it is not for a performance, or for support in battle. You sing for yourself, and you take pleasure in it, even when your notes are off key and you cannot remember the right words, even when no one is there to praise you or reward you for it. For the first time, you are enjoying your gift for no other reason than that you wish to. It is a gift, and it comes without dread or shame or conditions.

You are humming softly as you stroll back to camp. Scratch greets you with a frenzied tail, and you roll around with him, kneeling as he plasters sloppy kisses all over your face. The simple joy of this dances over the cracks in your heart. When Scratch suddenly stops, you are almost disappointed. You glance in the direction where he has bounded, an ecstatic flurry of delight. Then your eyes catch on silver shining in the sun, two bright rubies on white silk. Your breath halts.

There he is. He is different, but the same. You look at each other. And in that moment, it is enough that there is no hatred in his eyes, which flicker with uncertainty. It is enough that his mouth is not curled into a sneer, and his brow is soft and even. It is enough that you have both survived. You have shown each other who you are, and you are still here.

He reaches his hand out to you, and you take it.

---

Liked this fic? You can find more of my work here.

[allyriadayne]

yeah i'm gonna need a full breakdown of the deleted rhaenyra and jace scene

LET'S GO THEN

there are SO many things i want to say about it. it's literally been my white whale since it was announced as a cut scene. i was hopping one of the scenes op talked about with jace was that i'm sooo happy it was. my main reasons were that 1) it's a jace/rhaenyra scene and those are always juicy and 2) jacegon reasons. i'll be using text from the original post here btw.

under the cut for more jace, rhaenyra, jace AND rhaenyra and some jace and aegon <3

"Daemon fights like an unrelenting tempest with little regard for his well-being [...] Daemon hungers for war, and he'll have it one way or another"

I love that the scene begins with daemon fighting other knights and in a sort of frenzy. he's obviously expressing his grief over viserys and visenya both, and how angry he is about the situation. i think it's such a great contrast with how rhaenyra and jace are presented in comparison. jace finds rhaenyra in "deep contemplation" as she watches over daemon. it's such a great element in their dynamic because as much as rhaenyra doesn't want war, she's as angry and as grief-stricken as daemon, but cannot express herself in the same way for fear of losing her image in front of the other lords. daemon has always been her outspoken twin, he's her sword and shield and like a dragon he's expressing what she cannot. it really is so good how they represent one half of a whole. delicious.

then jace comes to her and says

"Daemon wants to fight for us."

SO interesting that earlier in the episode we have jace and daemon in explicit opposition. daemon wants to act, jace is heeding rhaenyra's orders of not doing anything except by her command. daemon obviously doesn't respect him because he's a man who respects actions and jace is still a boy without experience neither political or in a war. i'm in the camp that while jace also doesn't respect daemon nor wants or likes him as a stepfather/father figure, he accepts him as part of the family and implicitly feels safe in his presence. he is his siblings' father, the man who raised (loosely! daemon is still daemon <3) joffrey when harwin and laenor died. he's known him for six years and seen him every day.

this scene is also after daemon threatens the KG in front of jace with caraxes so i think a minimum of respect for daemon's war knowledge made jace trust the he would do anything for rhaenyra and her children. /he wants to fight for us/.

"I wonder. Will you?"

"will you?" SO delicious because while jace will heed her commands to stop daemon from plotting, he does NOT agree with her approach! very very interesting. makes sense when he says "send us" when all rhaenyra wants is to keep her children safe. obviously direct parallel to ep 2:

"I will always fight for my family... but this is not as simple as one of the other"

rhaenyra is understandably reticent to enter war full on. her first experience with it has her losing a baby. and added to this is that just /the day before/ she's spent and more or less amenable afternoon with both family. it's not easy when it's not what viserys would want and what could possibly be his last wish.

it's also about alicent of course. it's not easy to give the order to kill or imprison the woman you considered your best friend and who probably is one of the few people with whom rhaenyra had a deep relationship in her life.

"It could not be simpler. If you accept Aegon's terms, you will forfeit my life. And Luke's and Joff's."

another crash between them! as much as they are a lot alike, they butts head more often than not, esp when jace doesn't agree how rhaenyra is handling an issue like harwin's funeral and now the war. but in all this, he still supports and respects her because he very pointedly questions her in private, both in driftmark and in here. when he was younger, he could've confronted her in public out in the yard, but to me jace learned very early or assumed to himself that he could be (and is!) her mother's most steadfast ally as her heir and young prince and that meant playing the politics game, and in this case to question her in private rather than in public where he could undermine her.

it also comes from the very public humiliation the kids, and jace as the eldest and most cognizant of the situation, have faced by their peers. he knows the power of rumors and whispering, what it does first hand and would not and does not want rhaenyra to face them too, or at least not from something he could've avoided. in this scene he is acting like one of her loyal lords, advising her to take one way or the other. acting like the prince he is.

it is also very interesting that he mention's "aegon's terms" when it's very obvious the terms came from alicent, maybe he doesn't know the full extend of the conversation on the bridge. in any case, it's clear aegon's on his mind. in early 2023 all we knew of the scene was that jace said "we shouldn't trust the usurper". jace wants to know what is to be done about him because he knows how aegon is, how long aegon holds grudges and his negative attitude (indifferent more like) to renew their old bonds (ouch!). esp after last night's dinner where aegon couldn't wait to bother him and join aemond in the antagonism to jace's immense dislike.

he thinks that if aegon had the chance he would kill them because they represent a risk to him claim. i personally don't think aegon would, but it's a real risk that jace is aware and that rhaenyra doesn't seen to grasp.

"Rhaenyra looks at him quizzically." "If you do not claim the throne, we will be taken hostage, or sent to the wall, or put to the sword. I do not know which fate will await us, but I do know they will call us "bastards" first."

the first line kills me because out of context it makes rhaenyra look naive but i think it does make sense for the rhaenyra we see in the bridge. what i said earlier, she's still reeling from the alicent from the diner /the night before/. the alicent that proclaimed her a good queen and begged her to stay with her. it's difficult! but i think it shows very well how complicated her feelings are in this.

this is also the point were jace and rhaenyra start having two different conversations: rhaenyra is still absent, "deep in contemplation", while jace is pushing and pushing. he wants answers, he wants to act! he doesn't care about alicent the queen who always sneered at him and called for luke's eye, he wants to ask about the boy from his childhood (girl, the parallels) who betrayed him so many times. and he's right! i think he's trying to soften the blow, this is the second time he's said he and his velaryon brothers will forfeit their life if they lose, if rhaenyra fails to act. this talk is also driven by self preservation and it's why he's siding with daemon this time. it kills me that rhaenyra has comforted luke all ep 10 but because jace is presenting himself as an equal in this conversation, not as her son, he doesn't get any kind of comfort. he's clearly thinking of death. and he's sixteen. and his mother doesn't know how to comfort him.

in this case, it's jace wanting rhaenyra to see him beyond of what he presents. beyond the perfect prince who's pushed through earth-shattering revelations about his identity. he wants her to see him and answer for once.

"but I do know they will call us "bastards" first". this jace knows with certainty. they might kill him or they might sent him to the wall, but they will call him a bastard as they do it. this is one of jace's touchiest points and weaknesses. every time he's called that he's flipped, due to under processed anger issues (hii harwin) and the repression he's going through to Just Not Think About It. i think it took a lot from jace to say this to rhaenyra's face. the first time it's when he confronts rhaenyra after harwin leaves and you see it's something he has thought about for some time

and later when they are in driftmark where the passions are high

note that he doesn't yell the word. he whispers it to her. he knows the power of it and how angry rhaenyra would become, it's a key word there. and one here too. in the cut scene he's trying to get... let's say a rise out of rhaenyra. to make her understand what will mean for them to get captured. to me it's so visceral because i don't think jace had ever consciously said or thought himself in such after driftmark and after aegon's betrayal. and i don't think that is how he framed it for luke when he told him about their parentage either. even in the audition for child luke, jace's lines frame the issue differently: "I think he thinks we don't belong here [...] we don't look like Targaryens. You must have noticed".

"Alicent gave her word that you would be treated kindly."

they are NOT having the same conversation!

"The word of an usurper means little and less."

either aegon or alicent, jace doesn't trust their word. the king and queen are one power in paper, but i bet jace is thinking about this too

his words means little and less to jace, he who was a victim and at the same time someone who enabled most of aegon's bullying behaviors. he knows him best. but jace also knows that aegon wouldn't bother with lies either. he was trying to unite the family during dinner, but time has shown him he shouldn't have bothered to carve himself to be someone aegon liked anymore. from the same audition video jace says: "so let us be good sons and please those who love us so they may forget what we lack". aegon will never forget! and even if jace or aegon want to break from this, they must play their part because they are too far along.

"In the yard below, Daemon can be heard SHOUTING for a fallen knight to get up and to come at him again. He prowls the fighting ground like a tiger protecting his den. He calls them out, taunting them -- a cruel avenger."

once again daemon as the externalization of their anger! "like a tiger protecting his den"!

"Jace and Rhaenyra reach stalemate; the conversation ends in silence."

my favorite part! this conversation could've never reached anywhere with these too. the issue is too thorny and they are too alike to want to see the other completely. jace is too angry and rhaenyra is too detached.

all in all, i wish they had kept the scene. it furthers rhaenyra and jace's relationship and gives a little bit more of characterization to jace and his relationship with aegon. loved seeing jace oppose rhaenyra and at the same time support her and take the lead when it's needed.

thanks for asking!

gifs mine, screencaps mine. script from the link above.

[remindingpersephone]

Curveballs

When life gives you . . . stitches? So I had to have a cyst removed from my back and it was a big boy, so it took 13 stitches to close that hole up (there are so many jokes here). The doc said no lifting, no stretching, because stitches on the back (it's actually closer to shoulder) can rip easily. Since I can't get into the pool - healing wound = no soaking - and it's 9,823 degrees outside so no walking, my living room workouts are the only option. But when I do those it's a lot of arm flailing and improvising because I cannot follow choreography to save my life.

Now, there was a time when I would have used these restrictions as an excuse to completely abandon my fitness goals. I would stop all cardio, sit on the couch, eat way too many brownies, and totally derail my fitness progress.

But this time was different. I've kept up with all lower body strength workouts, and for cardio I bought an under-the-desk, mini-bike-peddle machine. Now, no one is going to mistake this for a real bike. But let me tell you I have gotten my heart rate way the hell up on that little thing. And I can keep my upper body stabile so as not to rip those stitches.

I've also been trying out intermittent fasting, although it didn't really start out with that as the goal. I wanted to see if I was eating because I was hungry, or just out of habit/schedule/when I thought I should eat. Also, my 6:30am breakfasts were starting to feel like habit instead of hunger. So I stopped eating until I was actually hungry. Turns out I'm not really hungry until about 11:30 AM. I also stopped eating after 8PM at night. I had always been a late dinner and even later dessert/snacker. Not only has eating mostly between the hours of 11:30am and 7:30pm helped my digestion, it's lowered my overall calorie intake. It's also making me stop and really think if I'm actually hungry before I eat. Do I need that snack or am I just bored? Do I need that treat or am I just emotional? I know the word "intuitive" is over-used these days, but that's pretty much what I did.

Now, I know tomorrow or next week this could all change. I am a person who not only embraces change, but seeks it out. I am always changing things up in small and large ways. Sometimes routines work for me and sometimes they don't. I'm getting better at not trying to force myself to do things just because the generally accepted wisdom says I should. Or the current trends are encouraging this thing or that thing.

Since we're talking about health, I will tell you I've cut way back on my social media consumption. It just got to a point where I was internalizing a lot of what I was reading and watching, and as we all know, a lot of what's on social media is negative. That negativity was having a bigger effect on me than I realized. Until that over-exposure was gone, I couldn't make the connection on some unexpected effects it was having. Sorry, I'm not intentionally trying to be vague. I just can't really explain it other than to say reducing my exposure to the ugliness and fear that perpetuates even Tumblr and Instagram has had a positive effect on my state of mind. This is a long and rambly way of me saying I'm sorry if I haven't been hearting and commenting on my mutuals posts like I once had. I try to pop in when I can, and I really do read what I heart. I just can't consume it at the rate I once did. But please know that I am always here for DMs and you can email me at anindependentguinevere {at} g mail dot com anytime you want to chat or need support. I am here for that always.

Wow, that was way longer than I intended. Hugs and kisses to those you who made it all the way through. Now let's go get some ice cream!

[fuckitwebhaal]

Sure sure. Astarion as Molly Grue; “where were you twenty years ago? ten years ago? when I was one of those innocent young maidens you always come to? How dare you come to me now, when I am this?”

I however (SLIGHTLY) also posit the Dark Urge as Amalthea. Creature set apart from humanity forcibly becomes aware of it:

“I have been mortal, and some part of me is mortal yet. I am full of tears and hunger and the fear of death, although I cannot weep, and I want nothing, and I cannot die. I am not like the others now, for no unicorn was ever born who could regret, but I do. I regret.”

Or whatever I’m very sleepy. Also can’t stop thinking about this quote from the book when Amalthea is made human.

For a moment she turned in a circle, staring at her hands, which she held high and useless, close to her breast. She bobbed and shambled like an ape doing a trick, and her face was the silly, bewildered face of a joker's victim. And yet she could make no move that was not beautiful. Her trapped terror was more lovely than any joy that Molly had ever seen, and that was the most terrible thing about it.

[kallamars-spouse]

In defense of my wife…

Disclaimer: I use she/her pronouns for Kallamar. Why? That’s a transfemme lesbian squid and she told me that while I killed her with a warhammer. 

I am also viewing this following essay through the lenses of the Bishops and their family and how they treat each other. This isn’t a defense of how they treat mortals, and isn’t about anything beyond Gods at all.

I understand why Kallamar would tell the Lamb to kill Shamura instead of her. I also think there’s more nuance to it than “omg she would sell out Shammy!” when Shamura is absolutely not blameless. None of the Bishops are. I’m the Bishops’ BIGGEST fan, but I’m not going to act like their family isn’t dysfunctional as all Hell. Now, let’s start from the top. 

The age order from eldest to youngest is Shamura, Kallamar, Narinder, Heket, and Leshy. We can tell in the game that Shamura’s favorite was Narinder simply due to the fact they still love him, refused to kill him when we know it’s possible, and kickstarted an entire extinction of a species to ensure he would never be free- but that he would be alive. 

x

From Narinder’s dialogue, we can deduce that he hates Kallamar the most. 

“Kallamar was always a coward. This land is a better place now her pathetic, sniveling carcass is nothing more than a mound of rotting flesh.“

This isn’t elaborated upon, but his words after her death are downright the most vicious. Narinder says that his older sister was ALWAYS a coward.

Shamura also says this about Kallamar, and as the eldest they would’ve known her longer than Narinder has.

“Kallamar was always frightened of the Red Crown. Yes, fear made a coward of her.”

This implies that not only was Kallamar not always what we see her as, but that Shamura believes her to be afraid of the Red Crown itself. Yet, this is what Kallamar says.

“It seems you cannot be stopped by disease or hunger. And he sends you back from death stronger each time. Please know, it was not my idea to cast out the Red Crown! The other Bishops, my siblings, the blame lies with them. Please, I beg you, spare me. Kill Shamura, but do not send me to my death. Do not send me to him!”

Kallamar acknowledges that neither she nor Heket could stop the Lamb, and that she doesn’t believe she could win against them. That’s why she begs for mercy. 

She states that locking Narinder up wasn’t her idea.

At this point in the story if you kill them in the canon order, Leshy and Heket are already dead. Kallamar throwing them under the bus does not matter, as she knows they are dead. 

Lastly, Kallamar expresses fear over Narinder. The Red Crown isn’t what scares her. Death isn’t what scares her. It is Narinder himself.

x

Shamura is the one who made the call to lock Narinder up, as they directly state themself.

“Though no longer wise, I am no fool. I know the end draws near. I can take some comfort in confession. The blame hangs heavy 'round my neck. I introduced him to ideas of change; for my domain is knowledge, and it is ever evolving. An organic state of being for myself, but for him… most unnatural. Death cannot flow backward. It was I who had him chained. Forced into subjugation by the four of us.”

It was not a group decision. It was Shamura’s word, and their siblings obeyed them without question. They blame themself, as they’re the one who was letting him “explore” his domain. Since it’s implied that reversing death (for example, resurrection) is heresy, only then did they step in. I assume after this, perhaps Shamura plotted to chain him, Narinder discovered, and that’s why he struck first. Or he directly attacked due to Shamura and the others “turning against him”, and that’s why he was imprisoned. We aren’t told exactly. 

All we know is the Bishops have injuries, but Narinder does not. There’s no way in Hell that he could take them on all at the same time, nor that he could beat Shamura or Kallamar. Both of them are more powerful than he is. You could argue that Kallamar wouldn’t fight back, but that would ignore her violence towards the Lamb (who she was terrified of). Shamura is the Bishop of War, and they wouldn’t have willingly let Narinder attack them. Heket sure as Hell wouldn’t have let Narinder get away unscathed if he attacked her head on. Leshy is the only one who wouldn’t have stood a chance.

This makes it seem like he stalked and attacked them while they weren’t aware. 

x

So, we know why Narinder did what he did. He said he was betrayed. But we also know that it was Shamura’s idea to imprison him, so why did he target his entire family? 

This I believe was out of spite for Shamura themself, as they were obviously devoted to their siblings. 

They’re willing to fight the Lamb, knowing they’d be slaughtered, simply in the honor of the other three Bishops. 

They kept Narinder alive because they couldn’t bear to kill him. They even brought two innocent children to him so that he wouldn’t be “lonely”.

They already know what’s to come, but they still show up to Anchordeep to send enemies the Lamb’s way just to buy Kallamar more time to live.

They always appear by their siblings’ sides when they confront the Lamb, save for Kallamar. They still are there though, just in the background.

x

Back to Kallamar. This squid could’ve hopped into the ocean and left. She chose not to, even though she was terrified. She doesn’t attempt to fortify the door to her temple. She flat out tells the Lamb where she’ll be. She has her weapons already on her by the time they arrive.

I just feel like if you don’t give a fuck, you wouldn’t do all that. Why is it just assumed that she is selfish and didn’t love her siblings? Because she was terrified and saying anything to avoid being sent to Narinder? 

Would you want to be sent to your abusive relative who despises you? 

Would you not feel a bit angry that your eldest sibling would choose to keep this absolute lunatic alive, even against common sense and the safety of yourself and your younger siblings.

Would you feel a sense of blind loyalty to someone who values your ABUSER over you? 

Kallamar was afraid of Narinder before he ripped her ears off. Why is that? You aren’t just terrified of somebody for no reason. 

The Lamb kills her younger siblings. 

Kallamar knows she will be sent straight to him, condemned to eternal suffering.

Like what are we expecting from her? “Ah yeah, this is fine. I’m fine. I’m not upset at all that my enabler of a sibling chose an abuser over me, refused to put him down after he revealed himself to be unhinged, and forced me and the others into a wild goose chase concerning sheep. I’m not at all bothered that my baby siblings have been slaughtered and that I’m next. Me personally? I’m chilling!”

🙄 Y’all always on this “Narinder redemption”, WHAT ABOUT KALLAMAR? Why isn’t she allowed grace? The Bishops aren’t good creatures, but neither is their brother. We should acknowledge that and acknowledge the nuance. 

This post was brought to you by my homoerotic devotion for Kallamar and my long history of living in an abusive, dysfunctional household. 

[thegreenthepeacetheorange]

Everlark (The Hunger Games, Ch. 23)

katniss hoping the camera doesn't pick up her blush at peeta saying "best thing that ever happened to you." peeta is such a flirt. like he couldn't talk to her for 11 years and you'd think he'd fumble at this stage but nope, the man is on fire

while she's in the sleeping bag she's sharing with peeta, with her head on his shoulders and his arms around her, katniss thinks: oh haymitch probably wants me to keep up the act, i better do something lol

"i noticed just about every girl but none of them made a lasting impression but you" i cannot

when they find out thresh has died, and katniss goes to sleep with her hood over her face to hide her emotions, she says that during this time, she silently says goodbye to thresh and thanks him for her life, she promises to remember him and do something for his and rue's families if she can and i think it's so beautiful that during the victory tour in catching fire, peeta essentially does this with no prompting. he remembers them and pledges to help them on his own accord. and no wonder katniss loves him for it. he is just a wonderful person and he is so in tune with her.

katniss is comforted by peeta's steady warmth

right before katniss says that she's never going to marry or have children because of the games, she thinks of haymitch, living alone, without a wife or children, drunk most of the time, and says she doesn't want to end up like that. so deep down, she wants a family, she wants companionship (for all those people who think she should've been alone at the end of mockingjay)

and then again we have her watching peeta as he sleeps and wondering what he/they will be like when they return home. she admits that she feels like he is actually in love with her and not just pretending.

"he will always be the boy with the bread". - he won't just be a friend because he's the boy with the bread and that is a lot more to katniss. when she thinks of anything beyond friendship with peeta, she feels like gale is watching over her which is very interesting. (would love to hear your thoughts on why because i'm still trying to understand how katniss's mind works). in my head, i feel like she saw gale as her obvious future partner just because of the nature of their relationship but now she's imagining things "beyond" friendship with this other boy peeta and it's conflicting for her. this want of hers for peeta (which turns into a need) that now disrupts what she thinks was a normal necessity in her life.

them and their constant long kisses and absentminded kisses. which katniss doesn't try to stop. like she just accepts them (and i believe participates in them) with no particular thoughts. she just casually mentions they're kissing every few sentences. like girl. i can't believe they gave us extra non-existent gale kisses in the movies but didn't give us the 24/7 smoochathon these two were having in that cave.

the ease with which they touch each other. the way katniss covers his mouth with her hands without thought. the way peeta makes her genuinely laugh while they're stuck in this nightmare

when they're out hunting and she thinks she's lost peeta/he's dead, she's actually completely irrational. her desperation and fear comes out as anger and snappiness but her thought process is irrational. she's so worried about peeta dying that she doesn't stop to think that she would've heard a cannon/seen his body be collected if he was dead by now.

she's so worried by the thought of peeta dying that she is trembling. i really think that after all their days and nights in the cave over the last few chapters, she has developed real love for him. the kind where the thought of him not being with her/in her life would cause her to seriously grieve. not in a oh that was the boy from my district way or oh that was the boy who helped me way or like the other tribute deaths - no, this is peeta and she wouldn't come back from his death.

it's funny that a lot of the time when she's confused about her feelings, it means poor peeta is dealing with her anger. like her throwing a strop and acting like she doesn't want the food he's found or picking at him for eating without her even though she doesn't care. she's so petty.

[yaptown]

"x reader" Headcannons(various fandoms)

I would like to iterate that while these are all my thoughts and opinions, I understand that I'm not necessarily breaking new ground here and that not everyone will agree with me. NOW, without further adieu....

The Mazerunner

First of all I would like to address what nicknames they would use(baby, honey, etc.)

I feel like Minho would be a repeat offender, meaning he would call an s/o any nickname/pet name under the moon. You would never be able to tell whether he did it to be sweet or just to annoy you.(probably both ngl) I feel like he would lean towards babe/baby tho.

Frypan is husband material(at least in the movies, haven't finished reading the books T-T), and you cannot convince me otherwise. He would call an s/o honey, I will not elaborate further.

This one's for the boys, Newt would call you love, darling, etc.(I'm sorry he's just so British)

Thomas would ironically call an s/o Mommy or Daddy, for the lols(hes just a silly guy lmao). Like Minho he'd probably call you certain pet names like "sweetpea" just to annoy you, but honestly he would most often call you a variation of your name.

Gally would call a shorter s/o shortstack or something of the sort, and he would call you princess if you're a girl. (ik most people find it corny or cringe, but personally, I appreciate it)<3<3<3

Harriet would call you babe, and I have this idea that if you were a girl she would call you mama. With all due respect I refuse to take any criticism of this 😊

Theresa is a softie and we all know it so she would call an s/o honey or sweetie. I'm leaning more towards the latter.

Next I would like to share two headcannons that I physically cannot stop thinking about

This comes from the depths of my soul lol

Minho would pull you in by you belt loops to kiss you. (You're welcome) And the way this thought has me going absolutely feral is illegal🙏

Frypan is the type to hug you from behind, spin you around, and kiss all over your face(again, this man is husband material)

The Hunger Games

Live, Laugh, Love and fear Cato Hadley

The grip this man has on my heart should be illegal

Your honor he's so babygirl(He's my Miguel O'Hara, you cannot judge me <3)

"Look at her, I would die for her, I would kill for her" vibes. I mean it going both ways cause if you like this man, you are also willing to do so. At least I am ;)

I feel like he's very confident in himself and would take any chance to show off how strong/capable he is. Would walk around shirtless and tell you "take a picture, it'll last longer" if you so much as glance in his general direction

In all seriousness though, this man would be an absolute sweetheart to his s/o💕

AFK Journey

Last and certainly not least 💕Merchant Philip💕

If you have played AFK Journey and done the Philip's worries side-quest, you are blessed with knowing of the existence of my one true love

He would be so doting to an s/o, I'm sure of it

He would be completely clueless on how relationships work and he would try so hard 😭

#husband material

He would come home with cool rocks and swear they're ancient treasures

The moment he actually finds his first valuable relic, he would give it to you. If it's a precious stone, he would have it made into a ring and propose

He's the sweetest soul and I love him

[desertfangs]

One of the peak Armandaniel dynamics for me is how every time Armand cries (usually as a result of fighting with Daniel or panicking about his impending death), Daniel’s first instinct is to bully him and make him cry harder but he quickly realizes he absolutely cannot stand to see him suffer and immediately steps in to kiss it better 🥺 My man folds so fast he goes from “are those TEARS? for ME? lmaooo what a baby” to “lord he’s really going for it… oh. oh. oh baby shhh come here it’s okay” 🫂

So I don’t think Daniel’s first instinct when Armand cries is to bully him. I think it’s the opposite, actually. I think he's combative up until that point, and then the tears stop everything. But I think we're mostly on the same page.

Armand and Daniel have a really interesting dynamic when they fight. Like they really are just any other couple, you know? And I’m sure they fight about the usual couple things: Daniel wants to leave a party earlier than Armand, Armand wants to steal a car and drive to see some landmark he heard about and Daniel is too tired. Daniel left his dirty socks on the floor (again), Armand accidentally left the stove on when he left for the day, “You wanted to watch this, let’s sit down and watch it!” That kind of thing. The normal crap couples fight about. I think the most interesting thing about them is, at their core, they are just normal guys in a relationship trying to figure each other out and how they fit together, and one just happens to be a 500 year old immortal. 

But things change in the mid-80s when Daniel starts to really panic about his mortality, his aging, his fear of death. And look, I love Daniel, I do think he’s gentle and kind and affable, but I also think he’s strong-willed, sarcastic, and he fights dirty. The thing about couples like Armand and Daniel is that they know each other really well and that means they know exactly where to stick the knife and how to twist it, and I have zero doubt Daniel was an expert at this. It’s not what I would call bullying (I think Armand gives it back just as artfully and hurtfully) but it is intense and terrible. 

I mean this is how these fights are described: “Ugly fights, terrible fights, finally, Armand broken down, glassy-eyed with silent rage, then crying softly but uncontrollably as if some lost emotion had been rediscovered which threatened to tear him apart… No resolution in words was ever reached. It would end with the embrace, the kiss, the blood stinging him, the shroud of dreams closing over him like a great net, hunger! I love you! Give me more! Yes, more. But never enough.”

Clearly Daniel is pushing him beyond all his limits and hurting him. Daniel is desperate and flailing. And we only ever get Daniel’s perspective on this and the fact that his telling focused on Armand’s pain in these fights—not his own—says a lot about his guilt and remorse for how they went down. He is aggressive and trying to get through to him and as long as Armand remains stoic and angry, Daniel can fight back. 

But—and this is where I disagree with you—I get the impression that the tears are where it ends. It’s horrible to watch someone you love suffer and watching Armand cry literal blood tears has to hit Daniel in the gut. He can’t stand to see him suffer. They’re both suffering, is the thing. They’re both wounded and hurt and desperate for the other to understand their position but they’re at an impasse. And the pain comes from the fact that they both love each other and neither is willing to cede any ground. 

So once the tears come, then yes, it’s “Come here, damn it, I didn’t mean it, let’s snuggle* this out.” 

*Or a more R-rated thing. Or both. Why not both?

Thank you so much for the ask, anon!! I do think this is one reason why writing them fighting is so angsty and delicious! They’re both good (awful) at it and that makes it really interesting. And there’s so much potential for hot, hot makeup sex. 

And of course, this is just my read, and my read is no more valid than anyone else’s. 

[iamthecomet]

So just saw your post abt aeon and his whole murder ghoul shenanigans, now im thinking about aether teaching the new ghoul how to hunt.

He shows him the way he likes to do these things, shares his meal, let's aeon experience how sweet prey can be drunk off of their magic. Aether grins when Aeon gets the first taste, sees the immediate hunger start to burn in him.

Aeon can't stand how slow aether takes it though, he's still new to the surface and this vessel never seems to be satiated but that first morsel of human seals the deal. I think that he bats his eyelashes at Mountain and Cumulus to share their kills with him, still unsure of how to really go about it on his own. Unsure of where the lines are, and what will earn both Copia and Sister's ire. They always do, by the way, he's got convincing puppy dog eyes. It's not fair.

But also...

The ghouls supervising aeon hunting for the first time, quietly watching from the dark as he chases and tugs at the strings in his preys mind. It makes Aether a little proud when he catches and takes his first kill. The sight of the new ghoul crouched over a frail body still twitching and writhing, blood smeared on his chin, it makes Aether so so so proud. He'll praise the kid for hours later when he's not in a feeding frenzy.

And also maybe Aether grooming him while he does, cleans the blood and gore from Aeon in between each slow drag of his tongue. Aeon is full and lethargic and purring while Aether works on the mess he's made of himself.

....I take the murder ghouls and make em a little soft. You cannot stop me.

- @divine-misfortune ;)

(Idk how coherent I am I am so sleepy but needed toget this out of my head)

VOID. Voidddddd. Please NEVER STOP making murder ghouls soft. Of COURSE, Aether grooms him. Licks the blood from his face and and neck, his fingers, palms, wrists. Tastes how Aeon's prey felt as they died. The tang of their fear, the sweet rush of their adrenaline. The rest of the pack leaves them to it once Aeon successfully kills and eats. Drifting off into the shadows, back to the Abbey, the Lake, deeper into the forest, to satiate their own bloodlust brought on by watching Aeon kill. But Aether stays with his protege. Brushes bloody hair from his eyes, curls him into his arms as Aeon purrs and grins up at him, with blood still between his teeth. And can't help but tell him just how proud he is. Just how good he did. The words slipping out as he drags his tongue over the bones of Aeon's wrists. Lips moving against his skin as Aeon purrs. Aether pretends not to see the way Aeon dips his fingers back into the bloody mess beside them. The way he drags his hand through it, makes a mess of himself all over again. And when he offers his re-dirtied fingers to Aether's blood-stained mouth, Aether laps at them greedily. He wouldn't dream of saying no.

[sonobeunitsarecool]

Backdraft translyrics

Pressure, pressure! Breaking through, breaking you. Pressure, pressure! Can’t put out my FIRE!

If I apologise, then it’s all fine, right? Not good enough, there’s no doubt, It cracks me up, it cracks me up, Pied Piper’s words, go decipher.

The masses lynching, in a corner flinching, Death is inching, that’s me reporting from the ground, Shrapnel bursts my counters, endure that hounding, Wanting likes and views, so draw in and catch the audience!

Pressure, pressure! Lighting that fuse, the start line, Pressure, pressure! Vanguard’ll face it on, Pressure, pressure! Rhyming scoundrel, refined. Dreading that fate, well what’s there to say, Fight’s right here in this ring, c’mon, bring it on! Burn, burn! Never could put out the fire, fan the flames and we’ll just burn it all to ash, Burn, burn! Raise the smoky flavour’s appeal, ‘till we’ll all hunger for a bite, Impeding flames-a-flarin’, can’t put out our FIRE!

Why’d you let those guys off as forgiven, huh? Didn’t forgive, just can’t forgive Prison walls’re made of ears, all eyes on me, just stop it One and all, toss in your lots, make the rules, Posting ‘bout justice, I know it feels good. Cry if I died, but ain’t that what you wanted, haaah? Fuckin’ cocky, ain’tcha!? 

Pressure, pressure! Brazen tumble, head on, Pressure, pressure! With futile toil, still dead last, Pressure, pressure! An ebbing, fading, bravo. Play the moving blame game, final score said- wait, that’s me. A joke but it’s no fun, Strike one and the game’s all done, “Just one more chance” that grace won’t come, Oi, oi, from the start the bad guy wasn’t me. Bite down on the mouthpiece, too, Smile for the camera, yes you do, Breath that flame-fueling O2, blast ourselves into hell.

Burn, burn!  Open the door, hey, I know I’m right, so go ahead and see. Any final words, I’ll deign to hear- -wait, who put out the FIRE? Burn, burn? Silencing lies on the pyre, witch up in flames, was my wish but ain’t no more, Burn, burn? Scorched by the phoenix, reborn, still caged, can’t leave, you hear me cry, Feverish, cannot breath, signs of viral life oh-so-clear, Mind and soul have no reprieve, refuge lost amidst the fear.

Impeding flames-a-flarin’, were all sides the losers? Impeding flames-a-flarin’, can’t put out the FIRE!

The masses lynching, in a corner flinching, Death is inching, that’s me reporting from the ground, Shrapnel bursts my counters, endure that hounding, Judged for likes and views, but karma’s got all eyes on me!

Behest a sieging net woven from prying eyes, Can’t dodge the blaze, watch the temp continue to rise, Shrapnel-busted counters, Can’t save me from drowning in inferno- snuffed out by the FIRE

...Fuuta uses a lot of slang and rough language, but also peppers in some regular, everyday formality stuff? I think there's at least one reference to: - reporting - fighting (sports) - fighting (military) - social media - placement (in competition) And of course. So many fire-related words. I'm not entirely sure what the part about the "mouthpiece" means, but it could be referring to: - a mouthguard, as in, used in soccer - the part you blow into on an instrument (unlikely) - a part of a scuba diving set (also unlikely) - potentially a part of a gas mask, as in, one you'd use against smoke inhalation or spray painting - a puppet, in media, like, "the reporter is just a mouthpiece for the company" I think it's a combination of the last two? Maybe. ...there were so many words in here that I didn't know. Much of this was simply tossed into deepl and jisho.

Maybe I should do other translyrics...? Some of the cover songs don't have many English versions. Anyway. Backdraft was tough, I'm not surprised there aren't many English versions of it.

[irradon]

a birthday in the middle of a genocide

starting from midnight, in the strange fifth floor haze of my dorm room, the messages have started to flood in. a whole group chat populated with birthday wishes, me flooding them back with heart reactions and endless thank yous. an instagram story there, replies to said story. "liked your story" and mentions. i can't forget that it's her birthday too. i have school and an appointment with my chiropractor today. no mom, i can't have dinner with you and dad tonight. i have meetings until 9pm.

i have not stopped talking about palestine since october 7th. when i believe that i cannot be even more horrified, the occupying entity shows how hopelessly wrong i was. i have cried, screamed for a ceasefire, cursed joe biden and every american politician who has played a cruel hand and profited off of the loss of lives not too different from mine. today marks 22 years since i was born in a california suburb. i cannot see it as anything other than the luck of the draw.

of course, somehow, life survives on in the midst of mass death. it is like any other grief. i find not just pockets but whole days worth of joy and love. my chest goes hollow at the daily let's talk palestine broadcast, as i learn of another bombing, another hospital attacked, the boycott on unrwa. i find my emptiness washed over with such a profound sense of connection to people who feel the same pain, whose voices hold me when mine goes out at a protest. gentle hands behind me, securing my keffiyeh without me even needing to ask. hands interlinked in so many more ways than just physical, dancing the dabke with not just their ancestors, but their brothers and sisters in their homeland. the innocence and beauty of the tale of the three jewels, a love story in gaza during the first intifada.

i've been rereading the hunger games trilogy as a means to reconcile the dystopic nature of my life as a privileged college student who bears witness to the ongoing genocide in gaza. i remember how surreal the story of mockingjay felt when i was ten years old. my mind could not fathom the bombing hospitals, or a crowd of children and medics without a second thought. i read those passages now with crystal clear images of mutilated bodies, parents carrying their dead children, hospitals crumbling as thousands desperately cling to any hope of survival. i think about the moment that gave katniss hope - finnick and annie's wedding. a celebration of real love in a time of war, a way to uphold tradition, to fill life with beauty, song, dance. it is a reminder to everyone of what they are fighting for. it's why katniss chooses peeta in the end. "what i need is the dandelion in the spring. the bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. the promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. that it can be good again."

i suppose this is what a birthday in the middle of a genocide is supposed to mean. every message, the company, the kindness of friends, old and new. it is a testament to the moments we fight for, that our parents and ancestors worked so hard to give us in diaspora. it is a chance for love to flourish. for us to know that unadulterated joy and an unwavering spirit are the highest forms of resistance we can take. so all i can say is that i am grateful for this life, for the beautiful moments and people i have the honor of experiencing and loving. and i remain committed to the cause of ensuring that every person can experience this too. in this spirit i will keep fighting for a free palestine for as long as it takes. until liberation and return for all oppressed peoples. may we awaken to a consciousness that understands that a world of fear and exploitation was never the end goal.

[satindregs]

Cannibal Kratos???

I have another draft!!!!

ofc it’s GoW and it’s abt Kratos struggling with, uh, uhm, cannibalism. Anyway!! it’s only like 2k and again a DRAFT so when I eventually post it it may look different(⺣◡⺣)♡

Anyway I'm proud of myself for writing this much cuz I went from 2-3 oneshots a month to 2-3 sentences...

Still thinking of a name! Either The Spartan General's homecooked meals OR The Bite Of '83 bc haha funny FNAF reference

Tell me how to improve if u read! (๑˘ ₃˘๑)

It has been a rough winter. The farmers were even beginning to struggle to feed their own households last Kratos checked. That does not make him feel better.

He attempts foraging, but the ever-falling snow does a good job of hiding what the god desperately tries to find, and for once, the rage heating his body does nothing to melt everything around him.

Faye pretends their bare cupboards do not fill her with worry or bitterness. (Kratos would not blame her for those feelings, as he feels them himself.) She feigns contentment, not showing her hunger.

“We’ll be okay, Kratos,” she mocks, voice too cheery for the somber occasion. “I’ve improved the snares,” The snares that Kratos himself had made. Had his been inadequate? “any rabbit or fox near won’t be able to resist!”

“They’re likely gone, Faye. It’s been weeks without any roaming game,”

“That’s why they’ll be out looking, you big grump,” she attempts to tease. Kratos does not answer her. It takes energy to keep himself calm, and he cannot afford to waste so much when he has so little. The god glues his gaze to his hands as if they hold the answers to his problems. It takes effort to not bury his head in them.

To think something as straightforward as hunger would be one of Kratos’s problems makes his palms itch. He does not take pleasure in what he is capable of, but he has long stopped trying to deny its benefits. One of the old, then new, benefits had been the ability to provide for his family. Whether he fought thieves in his mother’s home during the night, or fought to keep his wife out of lepers’ dirtied hands. When he slaughtered a mortal woman for attempting to run with Faye’s ill son (He has not yet told Faye of that incident, too ashamed of his frantic fear for the panting boy). Or even something as simple as being able to feed them.

He is proud of his ability to keep them safe from beings other than himself, but he cannot claim to be proud now, not when he can hear the boy’s hushed voice asking about the contents of their larders.

His mother responds in an equally quiet voice, offering exactly what her impotent husband begged her to. “Of course there’s enough, silly boy,” she ruffles his strip of hair as he giggles, vainly attempting to keep his voice down still. Maybe, in fear of what an angry Kratos might do.

“Though,” she continues, and this surprises Kratos. He lifts his head and finds himself staring into his wife’s eyes. He does not know what she will say and Kratos worries. “It’s just a snack. The rest will be saved for tomorrow, got it?” she whispers. Her son whines, as all kids do. But not all kids have suffered through the hunger pains he has, and is currently suffering through. Ultimately, the boy agrees.

Faye gives him their last strips of cooked venison and promises a more fulfilling meal later, “Perhaps tomorrow?” she smiles, conspiratorially. Kratos tries not to wilt into himself like a wildflower subjected to the strong winds of the north. His wife not only knew how incompetent he was, not being able to provide for his home, but so did her son. She even went so far as to set a deadline for the god. Has he been inadequate for so long?

Unable to appear completely unaffected, he winces, knowing he’s more behind than he’s ever been concerning food. If the gods here were anything like the ones in Greece, then they were laughing their asses off, surrounded by rich meats and cakes and drink. They’d laugh, while wiping the crumbs off their faces and onto the floor. He’d witnessed it many times during his stay with the pantheon.

Kratos loosens his fists and focuses on the fire’s embers. He should not bother them with his anger, not now. Not when he’s the cause for their own intense anger. Kratos drowns them out with thoughts and plans of how to keep his home alive. Plan after plan, all seem lacking when he considers what is at risk.

What will happen when his time is up? Will Faye leave? Oh, he hopes not; not into the biting winds. Atreus would not make the trip. So he thinks more, and more. He shakes, and shakes his head.

Wasn’t he clever, so long ago? Where is that general and his strategic plans? Then, Kratos remembers.

That man is long dead, perishing along with Sparta.

In his place is Kratos of Midgard. The god mourning the wife that will surely disappear into the night once she catches a stronger whiff of his limitations, and the boy so hungry he’d consider eating his own flesh if Faye would let him.

Kratos hears the snores of the boy. He relaxes, not feeling as watched.

Now that his body is slack, exhaustion slips through the cracks of the shield he had maintained throughout the day. Kratos looks away from the fire, only to see sunlight peeking through the hastily repaired roof. Kratos frowns at the beam and looks up further, meeting his wife’s eyes.

He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he’d kept his eyes where they were, but now it’s too late and his wife no longer has that smile on her face. Instead, it’s replaced with a nasty frown so deep it must hurt. “My love, do you feel alright? You have not eaten,”

“How could I?” he retorts, ignoring the snoring boy in her arms. He had to sleep on an empty stomach again.

“Kratos,” she continues, voice soft. “Do not push yourself,” she requests with a smile. Kratos has a feeling that if her arms were empty, she would’ve gathered him in them. It confuses him, but he does not dwell.

“I will check the snares”

Faye frowns once again. She seems to be doing it more often than not. “What? I only just set them out! You’ll mess with the scents I attached,”

“Then, I will hunt,” Kratos compromises. He cannot stay here, in this house. Not when he has a child to feed and a wife to please. Not when his wife cuts him deep with nasty looks veiled behind sweet buoying words.

She wishes to argue, he can tell. Kratos grabs a hatchet and one of the warmer furs they had (but still leaving the warmest) and leaves before Faye remembers how light her boy is.

As he leaves, he can hear his wife’s low and warm “Be safe, Kratos.”

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. In fact, he’s tried his hardest to lose track of where and when and why.

Kratos knows he is hungry. And he knows that in front of him is a rat feeding on a long-dead corpse. The rat is so plump Kratos can almost see it pop when it takes another bite of bruised flesh and chews slow. It seems to savor the taste; the flavor that, no doubt, is better than any scraps it’s had the fortune of ingesting.

It isn’t the first, and far from the last, time Kratos has seen flesh being gorged on. It also wouldn't be the first time he’d had the urge himself. Just seeing the rat have the privilege of such big bites has the god squeezing his fists and breathing heavier.

The noise is hard to miss, though the rat does not scurry back to its home. No, it cannot even risk it. It continues to eat, albeit faster; almost frantically so, as Kratos gets closer, like it knows this is the last time it’ll be granted such a delicacy. Soon, it is under his boot. It doesn’t squeak as it finally pops. Kratos briefly wonders if it had wanted to stop, but couldn’t find the strength. Had Kratos shown the rodent mercy by ending its life?

When he lifts his foot, it’s to a stain so large, made of only rat innards and bits of browned flesh. Kratos moves on but the image imprints itself in his mind.

As Kratos roams the ruins that make up the Wild Woods, he does not find any animals worth eating. Not even those unworthy of being consumed.

He does not find anything except rotting corpses turned dark from the chill. And draugr, who’ve long blackened and been reduced to almost completely soulless beings.

Kratos does not know much of Midgard’s gods, but to feed his son something so impure it oozes black blood should be a sin worthy of a fate worse than death.

----------------

When overworked soldiers were finally given reprieve, they would gather round a small campfire. Not that the warmth was needed, the sandy shores were not known for being cold, they would gather to tell sweet tales or eat or sleep. Though, it was quite unusual to do anything but sit there.

If they told stories, they were distracted; if they slept, they could wake up as a lost soul. If they ate, the others would get nervous. They would start to count the heads present. But that was a dangerous game, especially during a war.

Some of the soldiers were innocent, the only thing filling their stomachs being stale bread. Unfortunately, not all were merciful.

It was common knowledge to not sleep next to a starving man.

When overworked soldiers were given reprieve, they would gather round a small campfire. They would gather to tell sweet tales or eat or sleep. They would sit tightly together to stop hungry claws from stripping their throats of meat, stopping them from screaming out as blunt nails stabbed and clawed into their still warm flesh.

------------------------------

Kratos is covered in it. From his hands to under his fingernails, from the edges of his lips to between his teeth. It was everywhere. It stained him. If his poor boy ever found him like this, he wished he could say it was a mistake. He was out of his mind with hunger, he had no choice!

But he did, he realizes as he melts a hole through the thin layer of ice frozen over a winding stream. He slams his fists against the ice. Lightly at first, the thin morsels not enough to reawaken his strength. Then, angry, he cracks the ice to make a hole big enough for his head.

And he submerges his mouth and nose and ears into the hypothermic water. He forces himself to stay, even when, no, especially when his lungs start to burn.

In the end, he pulls his body up and out of the water. He cannot afford to lose his life, not yet.

The god can’t help but shiver at the gusts of chilling wind, the soaked fur doing nothing but aid the gods in punishing him. He staggers to his feet and continues his trek, not accomplishing what he wanted with the stream.

The yearning will continue because of his mistake. Kratos’s stomach rolls as he looks back to the desimates corpse stinking of burnt flesh. How much would it take? To make it stop.

His stomach is still full. His mind is clear, yet his conscience cannot say the same. But, it is too late to worry about that. Kratos must put his guilt behind him if he wants to focus, if he wants to sate his wife. If he wants to catch his prey.

Kratos waits, patient, on the balls of his feet, crouched behind vegetation to hide his figure. The animal senses his gaze, nostrils flared and braying, its ears pinned back.

The god tenses his thighs, ready to give chase. The animal rears high and makes enough noise to garner his prey’s attention. His prey lays a heavy hand on the donkey’s neck, trying its best to soothe the animal. It whispers words of encouragement, distracting itself from the rustling undergrowth.

The animal steps back, bringing his prey to full attention. “Who is there?” it shouts. Kratos readies his hatchet.

“I have nothing! Spare me!” it yelps into the trees. Kratos does not, in the moment, recognize the difference between the desperate Spartan soldier he once was and Kratos of Midgard.

The donkey’s incessant noise rises in volume as fresh gore splatters near its front legs. Kratos rises to his feet and steps over the shrubbery. The animal pulls and pulls at the rope attaching it to Kratos’s prey. Thankfully, the limp fingers do not give. He does not yet have the energy to chase after such an animal.

Its meat shall be a gift. It will provide Faye and her son the strength they need to make an escape from their disappointment and hunger.

The animal quiets down, but will not let Kratos approach it. The god pays it no mind, his attention instead focused on the steadily growing pond of red soaking into the dirt he stands on. He tries to hold himself back. He tries to stay on his feet, not letting his knees burrow into the dirt as his weight becomes too much. Instead of rushing forward, digging his claws into the dampness, he takes slow and steady steps toward the man. He doesn’t mean to lower himself as fast and desperate as he does, but it happens anyway. Kratos will realize this later and shame will overcome his body and mind, but now, nothing has ever mattered less.

He drags his heavy body toward the still warm man. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The tang in the air makes his stomach churn and his palms sweat. Kratos digs his fingers into the dirt to stop them from doing the inevitable.

It is inescapable, this hunger. Kratos thinks, somberly. He is reverting.

His stomach is full and his mind fog is gone. The trek back takes less time than it has in many moons. The god was no longer forced to take breaks from the extra weight of game, or his own insolence, mounted on his back. Now, the only weight comes from the meaty animal draped over his shoulder.

Faye will be pleased and the boy will be fed. He could not ask for more.

Ever since the flood, Faye has been acting strange– twitchy. Though, when it is mentioned, his sweet wife will do all she can to avoid it. ‘I’m tired, Kratos,’ she will say. ‘You’re still thinking of that?’ She’ll question with a curl of her lip. Kratos does not like to bother his wife, but this seems important.

She lays down the fabrics she was attempting, and failing, to mend. “You’re like a kit, Kratos. Hell, If a vixen heard your yapping, I'm sure she’d swoop in and rescue you from my depraved clutches!” Kratos ignores the jabs.

“Kratos,” Faye lays a light hand on his shoulder, “Are you alright? You’re- you look exhausted.” Kratos wants to lay a hand atop hers; he wants to savor the affection and burn the touch into his skin, but he cannot. He cannot touch her with his sullied hands.

He twists his body out of her hold. “I have brought meat. Enough to keep us fed,”

Faye pulls her hand away but keeps it suspended in the air. The shock is evident on her face. Kratos does not look into her eyes. He can practically hear Faye holding her words back. So she does not worry the boy, Kratos reasons to himself.

[nastrond-skelly]

Just finished reading the silence and the storm (at least up to the last released chapter) by @ghostinthegallery and I'm here to gush over how much I'm in love with this amazing piece of fanfic.

Massive spoilers ahead

You can either buy tdk and tiatd or do as i did and pirate them if you're as poor as i am.

Link to the piece here if you're interested in it, and i do recommend it if you're a necron enjoyer and are dissatisfied with how GW is handling the story threads they left to rot to pursue their craving for adding more books to the Imerium's catalogue.

So, how do i start? Well, before reading this i had no interest in many of the characters that appear in it: i thought of imotekh as just another character with not much outside of his martial prowess, having never read severed i did like what i knew about zandrekh and obryon but i didn't care much for either of them, anrakyr was just a unit in the necron codexes i loved for it's rules in game but not much else, and Szarekh was barely more than an afterthought in my love for the faction. But now i cannot make any of these people stop living in my head rent free.

I was already in love with the two bickering gay nerds, trazyn and orikan were already some of my favorite characters in fiction, their rightful place as kings of my fixation only shared by the likeness of Ged, Ghost Bird, Lake and Ulrich Von Bech. But, dead gods be damned, this piece of fiction made my love for them only grow. The author did not only write them perfectly in character with how they had been written beforhand, but they enhanced their interactions, their relationship and it's evolution after serenade, writing the evolution of their rivalry in such an organic and logical way. The loving hatred they feel for each other having only growing after their escapades with the arcavios mysterios, then even more as Szeras tries to take trazyn's favorite enemy from him. The pain of seeing Orikan trying to save Trazyn from the unavoidable fury of his Phareon, Trazyn trying to convince orikan to be by his side as he preoares to convince the Nobility of his damned race to think for once. The way ghost in the gallery writes how these characters crave each other, masking their desire to see their "rival" in layers of denial that would make Zandrekh look accepting of the horror of biotransference. My heart stopped when the two departed, knowing now what the real reason for trazyn's desire to "lock" orikan in his gallery is. Orikan, stubborn bitch, desperate for trazyn's presence, even offering him the security and protection of the stormlord.

Speaking of the stormlord, i adore the way he was written. He is no mindless warmonger, he owns his titles, the fear he strikes is well deserved . Imotekh has owned more and more respect from me as the story continued, his mind is sharp and his pride is earned. I thought of him as a mere soldier, much like the nobles of his race would, but he transcends his rank, he is the storm, and every title he has collected is his. This story has made me love this man beyond what i could have ever imagined. The way he speaks commands respect, the way he acts commands fear. I loved every chapter he appeared in, the more i read of him the more i agree with phillas (i Don't remember how to write her name 💀), he might actually be a better silent king than szarekh, but at the same time, he doesn't yet understand the fear his opponent feels towards the great devourer, and i hope he does start to understand as he visit the barren planet. His visions are also quite interesting, and they explain much of his character. He was always intelligent, and biotransference only made his mind able to plan with even better calculations.

Obryon and zandrekh. I don't think i have to say much, mostly because I think they aren't describable in few words. Obryon's denial, and then his acceptance of his "hunger" made me almost tear up. I don't really understand romance in the real world, i don't really understand attraction outside of the respect i can have for someone, i understand hotness and beauty, but strictly in an aesthetic sense, I don't actually feel attracted to them much. But god, I love seeing robot romance. I don't know why, but i feel more akin to it than I feel towards any work of fiction describing human love. So i got way more invested in the mad nemesor and his loyal guard than i would have ever thought, Zandrekh's desperation as he throws himself in the frontlines, in an almost suicidal act of desperation, hoping for his "old friend" to come, Obryon's desperate need to return to his lord, and then, their reunion. Beforehand i thought of Zandrekh as just "funny mad guy", but dead gods is he so much more, the way he plans the destruction of the weapon defending the mephrit city... Scarabs, gods, scarabs. I don't think i have to add much, the old bastard won my heart, his mind is such a mystery, yet one that can be understood without needing to resolve it, and i love how he is described, his madness being less of a weakness than anyone would have thought. I need to read severed and I can't wait to see how he resolves the occupation of his planet.

So, shall i talk about Szarekh? Yes i should. Am i talking like an ogdobekh because of reasons to myself mysterious? Yes i am. Should i stop? Probably. Anyway, Szarekh is a weird one of me, because i understand him, but i don't think i would support him was i a lord casting her vote at the mot. For two reasons:

1) he is letting his dog loose, giving Szeras this much freedom to act crosses so many lines, and in his desperation Szarekh is trusting the monster with too much power. As much as his reasons for it are just and his heart is in the right place when it comes to what he wants for the necron race, he is risking hurting them once again. And Imotekh makes a good point about him, he does tend to trust in things he does not understand. The c'tans, the tyranids, Szeras.

2) he needs a fucking break, god, he has balls of ceramite for how he resisted the norn queens for so long, and what he saw would have destroyed the mind of any other necron, but god he needs a fucking break. I want to hug him and give him a warm blanked and some hot chocolate, man, heavens know he needs it.

I just now realize i am giving my opinion on these characters as if i was involved myself with the events, and i think this is a testament to how engaging this fic is.

Talking about loose dogs, Szeras, you fucking bastard, i will kill you if you dare to touch my precious babies again and i hope he gets his head shoved in a pile of ork shit. He is so well written, terrifying in every scene he appears in. I said this before and i will say it again, i fucking love this character archetype. I love to hate him and i want to see him again, possibly being dunked on by literally anyone, and I'm so happy trazyn was able to make his necrodermis shiver in rage at the trial.

Speaking of trials. My beloved, the executioner herself, is the literal manifestation of badassery and nobody can make me put those words back in my mouth. I want a 4 meters tall statue of her in my room and i love how the work makes her feel like both a threat and the best ally anyone can have. Every interaction with her and any other character is pure gold and I really want to see more of her.

Anrakyr, the traveler, my dear backstabbing powerhouse of a man, he's such an interesting character, and a melancholic one at that. He is both honourable and betraying, and i fully agree with the three oraerorians, he is interesting as hell. I honestly don't have much to say about him, i love his character and I can't wait to see him and oltyx interact. I will eagerly wait for his story to continue, until then, I'll be gushing over him saving obryon for the rest of time.

And now, a lightning round because my thumbs are getting sore:

- the tyranids are written so fucking well, they are terrifying and intriguing at the same time, i don't really understand how they're able to communicate with the crons but the way they speak is in it's own way kind of terrrifying.

- necrons have sex the exact way i wish humans did, and i am envious of them. Thank you ghost for writing one of the first scenes of this kind able to make me invested in it instead of just skipping entire paragraphs.

- the whole scene with trazyn and orikan fighting szeras in the craftworld kept me on edge the whole time and i will take inspiration from it for my own projects.

I didn't talk much about the plot because i want to see how it concludes before Saying anything, but good gods i am so invested in this whole mot situation, I can't wait to see what all our beloved bois, girls and Peeps will do.

Also, i kind of want to see borrakka appear, the red marshal would be a fun addition to the roster of characters in this story, but maybe it would be a bit excessive, i dunno, i am eager to see what happens next.

Also, the melted face dude (i suck at remembering names) is a bitch and i want him dead, wait, no, i want him in szeras' lab, yeha, that's the right punishment for that bastard. God, this story made me hate him so much and i love this feeling.

Anyway, I'm loving this thing and i can't wait for the next chapter.

This is canon for me and i will fight anyone who says it is not.

I just hope it doesn't end with the status quo restored, because so many 40k stories don't change the setting much and this story is shaking the foundation of the infinite empire so much i crave to know where it will lead to.

In any case, sorry for the rambling, and i probably forgot about something, but I'm so happy i read this and I'm making an AO3 account just so i can be notified when the next chapter is released.

An amazing read for any 40k fan

I want to draw so many scenes from this fic but I can't pick one

Ok I'll stop writing

C ya

[mercy-grigoryan]

( angela sarafyan, 38, cis woman, she/her ) — Look who it is! If you take a look at our database, you’ll find that MERCY GRIGORYAN is a NURSERY ASSISTANT that works in SECTOR 4. According to the file, they’re a mutant with the power of PURITY EMBODIMENT. That must be why they’re CURIOUS and NEEDY. If you ask me, they remind me of old incense crushed between stones, moonlight sighted through a narrow window, and a powder haze blurring the air. They are affiliated with NOBODY.

basic information:

character name: Mercy Grigoryan

nickname (s): Back in the cult they would sometimes call her Merciful Mother : )

face claim: Angela Sarafyan

mutation status: Gen II mutant

birthday: february 26th

sexuality: bisexual

moral alignment: true neutral

occupation: nursery assistant

work sector: 4

affiliation: neutral

3 positive traits: Curious, forgiving, patient

3 negative traits: needy, naïve, martyr

biography (optional):

tw: general religious insanity and cult behaviour, death

Mercy's mother decided, from her birth, that Mercy was special. Within weeks of her birth, her mother had formed a cult around the child; Mercy never knew anything else but worship at her feet. Forgiveness was hers to give.

The Merciful Church of Luke's Divine Love soon moved to a ruined church in the Expanse, where they could worship privately (and Mercy's mother could more easily isolate the followers). An obedient child, Mercy gave sermons and sacramental wine; she forgave the flock for their sins, purified their corruption, loved their imperfections.

But still they were not saved. Mercy's mother knew, eventually, what to do. As a teen, they held a funeral for Mercy's earthly life and then bricked her into a cell within the church building. There was a small window through which food and water could be passed to her, and through which, in turn, she could pass the eucharist into the eager mouths of her lambs. Mercy would save them from this hell on earth, they were sure. After being trapped in this purgatory, they would surely ascend to God's side.

The rest of Mercy's life was, really, uneventful. Imprisoned, happily, in her small cell, she spent her days in quiet contemplation, poring over Luke's Gospel and whispering forgiveness through her tiny window. That only changed recently.

When the church was attacked by mutated animals, there was no fear. The congregation welcomed death with open arms, ready to finally meet their Lord. And then it was only Mercy left, untouched in her impenetrable cell. The beasts did not make any great effort to break in anyway, perhaps influenced by her mutation.

Later, before her meagre supplies ran out but not before she could suffer in hunger and solitude, a party from Sol City came upon the ruins of her church (this party included our own Adrian Walker Jr.). They saved her, they say, and Mercy is grateful. But she is mournful, too: because her earthly body was saved, but her immortal soul remains here in pain while her blessed flock has ascended.

questionnaire:

how do they feel about living in sol city? have they always lived there or did they travel from another settlement?

Mercy is quite a new arrival. She has very mixed feelings. A part of her loves to Feel The Rain On Her Skin (no one else can feel it for her, only she can let it in) after a life lived in a tiny cell. And she is fascinated by the breadth and variation of people here. But she is also in pain, because those she considered her family are gone. She cannot stop wondering why she was left behind, when she sacrificed her freedom and her life for their salvation. Was she not good enough to be saved herself?

do they trust the council’s leadership? why or why not?

Nope! There's only one entity that can tell Mercy what to do: GOD! She doesn't misbehave for the sake of it, and is generally a very Good Person, but she marches to the beat of her own drum. She does what she thinks is right, and pays little regard to the council.

if they chose their sector and profession, why did they make that choice? if they didn’t, why not? were they happy with their assignment or not?

She did choose it. Mercy loves children, and children love her. She feels truly happy at work and loves telling stories and playing games. She feels she has much to learn from the children, as they live lives she never had the chance to. Nobody in the nursery is more engaged with their games and their art and their progress than Mercy.

what’s one object that they always keep on their person?

Her rosary. It was carved by a devoted follower, out of rough waste wood. Nobody had ever given Mercy a gift before. It is not necessarily a thing of beauty, but it is the most wonderful thing she owns. The beads are rubbed to a soft, warm sheen from years of her loving fingers working prayers over them.

(mutant only section)

what is your character’s ability (or abilities)?

Purity embodiment.

are they gen i or gen ii?

Gen II.

what can your character do? what are their strengths?

The most distinctive feature of Mercy's mutation is just Vibes. She radiates an aura of purity and trustworthiness, and her pure heart is totally immune to malice.

She gains strength from cleanliness (ablutions are vital to her wellbeing, and she is very much a 'will wash her devotee's feet' sort of gal). She is stronger, faster, and more durable when she and her surroundings are clean.

She has divine water manipulation: she can consecrate water, ensure it is free of impurities. It can be imbued with healing powers, and damage anything (or anyone) corrupt. She can purify and heal, just in general.

She can detect lies.

what can’t they do? what are their weaknesses?

Purity and corruption are such intangible concepts that her powers don't always work as expected. A truly horrible person might be totally palatable to Mercy, so long as their moral compass is unwavering and they truly believe in their cause.

Dirt makes her weak. If she is exposed to dirty conditions, she totally wilts.

Her healing abilities are not always a forever cure, and degenerative illnesses will return in time.

is there anything else you’d like to specify about them?

Just that she is God's favourite sacrifical lamb <3