#Tide and Tale Storytelling

[tideandtale]

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[vivalabunbun]

An Encore of Betrayal

Summary: The devil with no sin nor memory and he who has held them all for centuries.

Word Count: 21.8k (get cozy)

Tags: Neuvillette x Fem!Reader, Slow burn, Slow fic, SMUT, NSFW, Historical AU, Fantasy AU?, Reincarnation AU, cursed!neuvillette, dragon!neuvillette, reincarnated!Reader, human!reader, Fluff, a lot of fluff, Melusines doing their best to play cupid, ex-lovers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers? ANGST, he's trying his best, dragon x human dynamics, Monsterfucking (two... I have no defense), cunnilingus(long tongue), marking, size kink? breeding kink, heat, overstimulation, hate sex? kinda?, slightly unhealthy dynamics (past life), dubcon, trust issues, immortal x mortal, slightly possessive!neuvillette, slightly yandere!neuvillette, TW: mild mention of blood, TW: descriptions of drowning, sin, and sacrifice. TW: Trauma from betrayal, themes of resentment, Infertility.

Author's Note: Wanted to try out a historical fantasy from Neuvillette's pov. I struggle with fantastical settings, so overlook any world-building confusion. Mihoyo won't give me his real name, and it's eating away at my sanity. Enjoy!

Somewhere deep beneath the waves, away from the omnipotent watch of false divinity, lies a village. A bustling home carved into an outcast cove nestled under the cover of suppressive tides.

One littered with tiny houses surrounding an impressive estate modeled much like the ones seen in those novels abandoned from capsized ships. 

Would you believe that such a place exists? 

Decorated with curious trinkets which sunk beneath the surface which had forsaken them, kept in this cove for so long that it was challenging to remember the azure hues. 

Ornaments decorating the expanse of this once lonesome cave, almost enough to conceal its true origin: A prison.

A fool sentenced to this penitentiary masquerading as a home, now affectionately named ‘Merusea Village’. 

Within that attentively built estate, a looming figure stood in front of a wall lined with neatly organized novels, lilac eyes running along the titles printed along each spine. 

A collection saved from watery abandonment after falling overboard by the curious hands of Melusines. Amassed throughout the years until the shelves of this humble library were without vacancy. 

Stopping a finger on a spine, he decided on the novel to pass the ever-plenty time bestowed upon him. He’s aware that each book amongst these shelves has been thumbed through by him.

But with enough years, the recollection of the contents contained within each one tends to become foggy. 

It's fate that the novel selected in his hands just so happens to be a collection of tales.

Humans have many strange behaviors, one might even call them traditions. One particular tradition mortals seem to indulge in often is that of storytelling. 

Lilac eyes browse through the pages, refreshing himself on the tale held within its faded covers. 

----------

There once was a lovely kingdom amidst lush pastures and fertile lands where the townspeople sang and danced under the bright sunlight.

But one day the sun disappeared, concealed behind ashen clouds that cried a lonesome hymn, plaguing the unfortunate kingdom with rain.

The origin of the rain stemmed from the lonesomeness of a great dragon of water.

Thus, to stop the rain, the king sent out a princess to the dragon, declaring that the kingdom gates wouldn’t welcome her back if rain fell from the sky. She was sent off in a white gown. 

Down below a flooded loch, the princess was offered to the weeping dragon. Looking up the princess saw the sorrowful pools in the beast’s eyes. 

‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, why do you cry?’ She asked.

Intrigued by the bravery of the young princess, the dragon answered: ‘Because I am lonely, I have no brethren left.’

Feeling pity the princess responded: ‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, don’t cry. I will be lonely with you.’ 

So the princess befriended a lonesome dragon under the hymn of softening rain, with his loneliness soothed, the sun peeked back out from ashen clouds. But one day, pitiful tears fell from her eyes and the princess wept so bitterly. 

The dragon could not bear seeing those tears stain her cheeks. He offered her pearls, jewels, and gold. Yet those bitter tears still fell, tainting the pristine water. 

‘Beloved princess, why do you cry so bitterly?’ He implored. 

‘I long to go home, I miss my kingdom,’ she revealed. 

But she could not go home, for if she stepped foot away from the riverside the lonesome rain would start again. The colossal dragon could not leave the loch, but he could not bear seeing those bitter tears.

So he relented, telling the princess a secret. A secret all dragons buried deep within: His true name. 

‘If you speak my name, my true name, then I can grant you one wish. But be careful, for there can only be one wish.’ The dragon whispered. 

‘Do you wish to return to your kingdom, beloved princess?’ He asked. 

The princess was silent for a long while, weighing the choices in her hand. She longed to return home, but she also longed to be by the side of her kind dragon. 

Confident in her decision, she beckons the great dragon closer, until her lips could reach the side of his large head where his ear lay. After whispering his name, she tells the beast her wish. 

‘I wish for you to become my prince, so we can return to the kingdom together, that way you won’t ever be lonely again.’

A clever wish he grants with a nod. Scales and claws shedding away until a handsome prince stood in front of her. Thus, hand in hand they returned from the loch to the warm welcome of the kingdom. 

And they lived happily ever after. 

----------

Ah, so it was that tale. 

Judging from the age of the novel, he guesses it must be a rendition of a rendition.

Words and events twisted, embellished, and simplified. Until it became nothing more than a mere fable told to entertain the wandering minds of children. 

A beloved tale of a maiden who got a dragon to give up his grand authority, stopping the flood of vengeance from drowning Fontaine.

This is what the origin of his damnation has turned into. The tales of the heroine’s feats sung and written throughout the narrative of time, passing from one generation’s lips to another’s ears. 

However, he supposes this is expected of humans. It’s their tradition of storytelling, after all, mending a fallacy into a tale palatable to their conscious.

Or perhaps, these embellishments were added to compensate for the hollows caused by the frailty of mortal memory. 

Patching over the holes with flowery words to distract readers from inaccuracies that were only compounded upon from the last. 

Fontainians who came to believe in it, must not have known the dragon all that well, considering that they thought the proud dragon would bow to the whims of a meek human.

Placing a secret so simply in her hands at the mere sight of tears.

Did Fontainians not realize that the land they reside on once belonged solely to dragons? How preposterous it is that a sovereign couldn’t set foot upon his own land. Or did they forget why he couldn’t? 

What a naive ending, did mortals truly believe that blood and water could dwell together without consequences? That simply wishing the dragon to become a human could resolve all troubles?

To overwrite everything with a ‘happily ever after’ which never happened?

Regardless of his reservations toward such fables, the Melusines always seem eager to gather around for such stories. The towering figure lacked the conviction to deny such requests. 

From down the hall approaching closer came the pitter-patter of steps, he turned his tall frame toward the direction of the sound just as a few familiar faces revealed themselves from the library entrance. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette! Come quickly! A human! A human appeared!” A group of Melusines tugs on the fabric of his slacks while pointing toward the phenomenon. 

A mortal in this domain? A cavern hidden deep under the land and waters where the warmth of the sun couldn’t grace. How did such a being find their way into this sanctum?  It’d be best that he alleviates their worries. 

“Please lead the way.” Neuvillette closes the novel, returning it to the confines of its shelf. 

His swift movements in time with the melusines’ frantic patter as they made their way out from his estate.

Soon the tops of the Melusines’ cozy homes of Merusea Village came into view, as did the murmuring of a distraught crowd. 

“Excuse me.” His steps made their presence known, their heads perked up to look at him before parting a path for Neuvillette. 

Upon the maroon pasture of Merusea Village was a blanket of silk and woven lace, snowy fabric surrounding the still figure of a human.

Treading closer Neuvillette kneels down while reaching out a hand, weaving his fingers under the fabric which obscures the mortal’s face. 

“We found her while gathering offerings from the waters … Is she…” The anxious murmuring quiets to await his verdict. 

“She has a pulse,” he reveals, fingertips detecting wisps of warmth along cold skin. 

It was faint, but his attentive eyes caught onto the slow movement of her chest. The snowy fabric had greedily drunk up the essence of the sea. Cursing her to sink deeper below the tides. 

To leave a mortal in such a state would be too cruel of a fate. 

Neuvillette moves his hand to support her covered head as his other arm gathers the damp fabric under her legs.

Carefully, he stands back to his full height, cradling her limp body in his hold. An audience of fretful gazes follow his motions.

“Do not fret, she only requires some rest and a change of clothing, I’ll take her to my abode. Could you gather some cloth to dry down her body?” Neuvillette’s melodic voice just barely above a whisper, so as not to stir the figure in his arms.

His expression softens to offer the compassionate creatures some reassurance. With firm nods the Melusines scatter, determination alight in their bright irises as they sought the necessary items to care for their newfound guest. 

The dampness of the heavy fabric seeps into his own attire as Neuvillette turns the knob to grant him entry into his abode. 

Quietly ambling through the spacious halls, the master bedroom came into view. Neuvillette lays the limp form upon his sheets, ensuring that her head rests slowly upon the soft pillows. 

Just as her figure sinks into the mattress, a chorus of metallic clinks catches his attention. Glancing down her body his lilac eyes discover the origin.

A pair of silver shackles encased around her ankles, the unforgiving metal digging into defenseless flesh. 

Gingerly, he takes one ankle into his grasp to better observe the shackles.

This time he couldn’t fight against the deep frown as it debuted upon his lips. His eyes hone on how tightly those heavy chains were bound along the flesh. 

Soon the unforgiving metal crashes down to the floor, he soothes the freed skin with his thumb while checking for any other possible wounds. 

Lilac eyes travel up to her face for any sign of discomfort, only to be reminded that her face was concealed behind a shroud of lace. 

How uncomfortable it must be to have a cold piece of fabric to cover one’s face. Neuvillette places her ankle back onto the bed.

His large hands took hold of the damp veil to lift it from her resting frame, revealing to his draconic eyes for the first time their face. 

The veil stays suspended in the air as his hands cease all motion. Hardened gaze tracing over her features, the curve of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, and the structure of her face.

Repeated details he had long seared into his consciousness. 

Within those mortal tales, there’s a wide variety of beasts and fearsome creatures. Dragons were depicted as such omnipotent beasts. But there’s a monster all other beast falls secondary to, the devil. 

They didn’t possess the sharpest talons nor the largest fangs. No, what made them so horrifying is that they dawned the most enchanting faces. 

He’s staring at it right now. The face of the devil who deceived him. 

Those gods must be laughing at him right now. Those false idols, with their capricious fate and whims, who once must’ve shook hands with you to carry out their schemes all those years ago. 

The scheme which imprisons him here in this humiliating form of the mortal creatures those false idols loved so much. 

Yes, a devil, that must be what you are. For how did a meek mortal trick a dragon who once held the full authority of the tides?

His chest expands with a deep breath before a long exhale leaves him. Ah, yes that must be why this white gown has appeared before him again. He removes the senseless scrap of lace, checking once more for signs of discomfort before he turns his body away. 

Finding himself outside the threshold of his bedroom as he closes the door behind him. He should wait here for the Melusines to arrive with a change of clothes and towels. 

It’d buy him enough time to steadily return the tempestuous loch to a subdued ripple in a pond. His chest expands once more with a deep inhale. 

A second cruel rendition unfolding once more in the narrative of time.  

The crisp turn of a page resounds through the room. Lilac eyes glanced up from the text every so often to watch the steady rises and falls of your chest from his vantage point of a wooden chair pulled up to the bedside. 

Heavy lashes still shut just as they were the day your drenched figure was pulled from the tides by merciful hands. 

The journey to wisdom is lined with mistakes, mistakes providing teachings one must ingrain into their very being if they don’t wish to repeat such blunders again.

Just as how a burn seared into skin is a forever reminder that fire indeed burns indiscriminately. 

A scar ingrained deep within him cries out for Neuvillette to withdraw from the fire which scorned him so long ago. 

Alas, it’s duty which has sat him down beside your sleeping form. You’re the first guest this cove has seen in a long time, thus bringing you under the responsibility of the host, Neuvillette himself. 

A stir brings his stoic gaze back away from his thoughts. Your chest rises with a long inhale as leaden lashes flutter open.

The cadence of your breaths begins to rise as more of your senses return to you. Fatigue evident in each slow drag of breath. 

“Ah, I see you’ve awoken.” Neuvillette observes. 

Your muscles momentarily forget their fatigue as your head snaps toward the owner of the deep voice. Eyes now wide and alert. 

“My apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.” He casts a glance toward the steaming bowl on the nightstand. 

He could feel the weight of your stare travels up his figure. Do you perhaps remember him? Can you recall his lush snowy locks streaked with azure? Irises that held an all too familiar hue, a multitude of lilac shades much like a field of lavenders.

Does this ‘you’ remember the dragon you fooled? 

“W-who are you?...” Your gaze was too cowardly to meet his.

Ah, have the cycle of death and rebirth washed those sins and memories?

The tonality of your trembling voice filled with puzzlement instead of recognition. He should’ve expected this much.

This you is nothing more than a stranger who shares the face of a devil. 

“Where am I?” Another question leaves those lips in the absence of a response. 

Just give him a moment, allow him to pacify the surging torrent within so their bitterness doesn’t seep into his words. 

“You’re in our village!” A cheery voice joins the conversation. 

Two pairs of eyes land upon a short figure with a pair of pastel horns. You blink once, then twice, then slowly thrice. Inquisitive eyes stared right back at you. 

“W-what… are you?” Instinct commanding your body to retract deeper into the sheets. 

A sharp cough halts your actions, drawing your attention back to the man as he lowers his hand down from his lips. 

“She’s a Melusine, they prefer to be addressed using she/her pronouns,” he elucidates, an ever so subtle chastise in his tone. 

“Oh…” You advert your gaze again, shame creeping onto your cheeks from your unintentional discourtesy. 

A few breaths of silence follow, he observes you studying everything but the two figures just beside the bed.

Your fingers soothing over the soft cotton nightgown against your skin, a change from that restrictive and ornate dress. 

“We, Melusines, helped you change out of that wet dress. Big sister Sedene said you’d get sick if we left you in that.” 

It looks like your diverted gaze wasn’t as subtle as you originally thought. Sheepishly you extend your gratitude. 

“Thank you…” Your words draw out, a brow quirked as your stare remained on her short form. 

“Kiara!” She points to herself with a mitten hand. 

“Thank you, Kiara.” You finish. 

Her mittened hand then gestures to the towering man beside her. 

“This is Monsieur Neuvillette! He’s the one who carried you here,” she announces. 

“T-thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette.” You could only gather the courage to glance at the wall behind him. 

“Just Neuvillette is fine,” his tone melodic and calm. “Are you able to sit up?”

Nodding your head, you attempt to fight through the fatigue of your muscles. Neuvillette and Kirara offer their assistance, his firm hands guiding your body up as Kirara adjusts the pillows to support your back. 

Once you were situated, he reached for the bowl placed down earlier. A light clink sounds out from a spoon clattering about the porcelain dish. You glance at the contents, noting the clear amber broth. 

“This should be kind on your stomach while providing you with some much-needed hydration and nutrients.” He holds out the soup. 

A quivering hand attempts to reach up for the bowl, only for muscles to lose to fatigue as your arm limply falls back down to your side. Your strength has yet to return. 

Another clink from the spoon resounds in the room as it gets taken into the grasp of an attentive hand. He holds out a spoonful of the warm soup, but your lips remain shut as a skeptical gaze meets his. 

“Please forgive this inconvenience, but it’s best that you eat something to regain your strength.” The spoon remains unmoving in his hand. 

There’s a rumbling stir within him. A voice snarls into his ear, interrogating him as to why his hand is feeding the very devil who once bit it. 

“If you don’t eat you won’t get better.” Kiara’s eyes are riddled with concern as she observes your sealed lips. 

That was his rebuttal to that snarl.

The Melusines simply don’t wish to see a human in such a pitiful state. Blissful in their ignorance of events that conspired long before their birth. 

 Dignity overpowered by the guilt of seeing such pure eyes marred with worry. 

Soon your lips part, accepting the spoonful of broth delicately offered by him. After he observes you swallowing the first sip, Neuvillette holds out another spoonful. You part your lips again.

Neuvillette overrides the clamorous warnings of his instincts with the duty of being a ‘good host’, bringing another sip to your delicate lips.

 

With a regular diet of warm broth with servings of Bulle Fruit on the side, you were soon able to pick up the spoon yourself. The fatigue that plagued your bones finally leaves, allowing you to support your body off the mattress which had your shape imprinted into it. 

The Melusines, seemingly born infatuated with humanity, would often gather about your bed.

They were curious about you just as you were about them. To them, you’re the creature from those fairytales he’s read them. 

In exchange for your recollections of warm Summer days and descriptions of lush lilac fields swaying in a gentle breeze, they reveal more about this village.

About how the estate you were currently residing in was refurbished by their own-mittened hands, taking inspiration from the various books depicting what human abodes looked like. 

The beds, drapes, and even rugs are all arranged by them to create a lovely abode. A drastic change to the worn and rampaged shell it once was before their meddling.

Perhaps if he never filled their naive minds with those tales, they wouldn’t be enamored with you and humanity. 

Or maybe it’s the vibrance of your smile that drew their naive souls closer. A warmth like a flickering candlelight beckoning a moth closer.

What are the odds that the hands of fate stayed so faithful to the details of a heroine from so long ago? 

From your image to your bewitching mannerisms, and alluring voice, they’re all identical replicas. You and the ‘devil’ from that tale. 

Wisdom from a lesson learned long ago, he must not repeat the same mistake. He must not be enchanted by the same flame which scorned him. He must ensure a breadth between you and him, just as those tiresome voices call for. 

However, Neuvillette understands he has a responsibility as a host. Thus, he regularly checked on your condition, then when you were well enough to stretch your legs he accompanied you on strolls. Maintaining a respectable distance away. 

He guided you through the marble halls of the estate, showing the library and bath which were yours to access whenever you wanted.

Rooms illuminated with the muted glow of luminescence gems and pearls. Water sourced from a hidden freshwater spring. 

Impassive eyes observe yours as you look in awe at the facilities and commendations hidden deep under the tides. Were they comparable to the ones you’ve encountered back on the surface? 

This estate, these wide stone halls, those pearls and jewels once scattered about, were all made just to please the bitter tears of a mortal. Perhaps his first attempt was too subpar to quell the longing to return to the sunlight. 

But gauging from the glimmer reflecting off your eyes, it seems the Melusines attempt was satisfactory at least. 

Today’s stroll took you outside of the estate, Neuvillette accompanying you about a routine walk, watching from behind as your eyes scan the dim realm.

The lanterns lining the path of Melusine's home grace the maroon pastures and rocky walls in place of the faint wisps of sunlight offered by the depths of the sea. 

Very much expected for a village beneath the waves and earth. Were you reminiscing about the warm grace of the sun you felt up there?

It’s not fair to compare the vast sky of the surface to their cavern hidden away from the eyes of the mortals, perhaps even the divine themselves. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” You began today’s attempt at a conversation. 

“Yes?” He hums in acknowledgment. 

He keeps sentences brief, but informative. Counters to your attempts at conversation. 

“I’m aware this might sound strange, but is there a dragon down here?” Turning back to face him.

His strides stop as a lull of silence falls over the both of you. The weight of his unshaken gaze upon your shoulders caused them to tense up.

Your hands find each other for comfort under his oppressive stare as he awaits the reason behind this odd inquiry. 

“W-well you see, Fontaine has been having awful weather for years now. Saltwater ruining crops and persistent heavy rain, it’s because the Hydro Dragon is crying from his loneliness. I was selected and offered as his bride, to stop the rain, that’s what The Oratrice instructed,” you babble out. 

“So…do you know where he is?” Sheepishly you glance up. 

The lilac hues of his eyes connect with yours as his lips remain unmoving. Staring into your eyes as he contemplates what you have just revealed to him. Your hands fumble together as you await his response.

“So humans are still telling that local legend…” He sighs. 

He has to rein it back. The torrent which threatens to brew within him. Deep breaths to remind himself about the nature of mortals. 

Humans are fickle and meek creatures who constantly yearn for something divine to worship, a figurehead to guide them in the turbulence of life.

When faced with hardship and destitution, they believe such concepts to be punishment from above. 

Thus, they invent traditions to appease those false idols. Going to great lengths in attempts to pacify those unseen forces, even if it meant sacrificing one of their own. 

Perhaps this was the trait of mortals that made them so favored by the usurpers, their naive devotion feeding into the greed of selfish gods.

Maybe that’s why those false idols uprooted the land that belonged to dragons. 

“I wonder just how far that fable has spread by now,” he sighs again.

His lashes flutter shut in exasperation as a huff leaves him. It was a moment before they flutter back open to hone in on you. There’s no use in keeping his identity from you any longer. 

“Do I seem lonely in your eyes?” Baritone voice steady and low. 

No sounds fall from your agape lips as your eyes reexamine his features, this time shamelessly ogling the peculiar details you’ve brushed off previously.

Do you notice it now? How his ears were a bit too pointed, or those two particular cerulean strands of ‘hair’ poking out from his snowy locks. 

As you study the specifics of his eyes, do you now comprehend the sharp dark pupils that cut through the multitude of lilac shades? Much like a shadow cutting through a field of lavenders. 

“You’re the Hydro Dragon,” you deduce. 

He nods in confirmation. Only causing your eyes to scan over him again as your mind reels back from this revelation. 

In those stories you’ve read back on the surface, how did they depict him? As a towering scaled beast with fangs and claws? Are you wondering why he’s not matching that description? 

“I’m aware that my current shape might not convey such a presence, ” he answers your unspoken question. 

He fights for his lips to remain stoic, not allowing the weight of a frown to pull them down. You don’t know, you don’t need to know, he reminds himself. 

A detail excluded from the pages of that tale, the ‘princess’ would only ever look at him, would only ever smile at him when a dragon took on this shape. A form which mirrors humans. 

In fact, she was so fond of this human shell of his that she cursed him to dwell within it for the rest of eternity. 

Neuvillette takes another deep breath, quelling the stir once more. You look like you had more questions. 

“So… does that mean the need for a bride is fictitious?” You clutch your hands tighter. 

Some years ago, the Melusines were born from spilled blood. A new generation of successors of the brethren he once forsaken. Making this prison much less lonesome, voiding the accuracy of the sentence in that tale. 

If that was the case, then why did the waters still rage? Why did the pittering of rain drown out all bird songs and tumults of perplexed citizens? Is there a way he could simplify the details missed by storytellers for generations? 

After that ‘happily ever after’, a dragon cursed his devil just as she cursed him. 

No, such expositions would be an unfair burden upon your shoulders. 

“It’s not fictitious.” Turning to gaze out at the depths of the underground realm, he takes a breath before continuing. 

“The land which your nation, Fontaine, resides on is stolen land,” he reveals. “More accurately all of what you know as ‘Teyvat’ was stolen from the dragons, my fellow brethren.” 

The furrow in your brows deepens as you listen on. 

“My brethren were banished to the depths for the sake of humanity. A dragon’s rage isn’t something that can be easily quelled.” He glances back at you. 

“A union between a dragon and a human, a show of peace between the two species. Even if the origins of this ritual have been embellished heavily, it serves the same purpose to pacify the ancient dragon’s rage,” he concludes. 

Neuvillette wonders if this tale was enough to satisfy your inquiry, if his attempt at the human practice was enough to simplify the events muddled and twisted by time.

Impassive eyes scan over your expression, not missing the glimmer ever so bright within. 

“So… has the rain stopped?” Your hands almost clasped together in prayer. 

He nods, the shine growing ever so luminous in those blameless irises, one he couldn’t resist the enchantment of. That all too familiar look in your eyes. 

“That’s good.” A slow smile made its appearance upon plush lips.

Ah. He remembers what that look was called, voices of recollection pulling him away from the edge. Just before he fell into bewitchment once more.

That look wasn’t relief, nor was it salvation. It's duty. He takes a slow and deep inhale. 

Just as it was all those years ago, the narrative of this tale did not stray away from the plot. He must be more careful. 

There’s been a still lull engulfing the atmosphere down in a hidden cavern. So still in fact that walks amongst maroon patches of grass have stopped. Your body was well enough to explore the corners of the state without assistance. 

No reason for him to remain by your side throughout the day, and no reason for you to shadow him. 

Neuvillette and you keeping mostly to one’s self. It was just the natural progression of things. After all, the ritual had been completed and the tides had receded. You’ve served your duty once more. 

A foreign aroma was wafting through the estate, strange enough for Neuvillette to leave the library to investigate the origins of this aroma.

Steps slowing as the clacker of pots and pans becomes more distinct. The entrance of the estate kitchen comes into view, and he peers in to see a few familiar faces. 

“Oh? Monsieur!” Rhemia notices his presence. 

An assortment of vegetables, spices, and even some meats from fresh catches were spread about the table as a pan sizzling over a crackling fire.

Ingredients gathered from offering dropped down below the tides. The recent influx could be attributed to how the hymn of the rain has ceased. 

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Your smile greets him. 

Ah, he’s found the explanation behind the foreign aroma and why the variety spread of ingredients was being utilized in a kitchen that was once mainly created just to match those diagrams drawn in novels. 

“I hope you don’t mind my use of the kitchen, I wanted something other than…Consomme Purete.” Wiping your hands with a rag. 

Yes, Consomme Purete.

It was the dish served when you had first woken up, a light but nutritious soup that was kind on your stomach. It had the right amount of hydration balanced with nutrients to sustain oneself, a perfect dish.

The only dish cooked in this kitchen, that was until today. 

Removing a pan from the heat, you carefully transfer the contents onto a plate then place the pan back on the wood stove.

The rich aroma caused an audience of bright-eyed stares from the Melusines to center upon the steaming plate. Their tails make their excitement clear as they gaze upon a dish they’ve never seen before. 

Was this a new passion of this life?... Or was it just one he never got the chance to witness?

Was this the devil before the role of a bride was forced upon her? A devil he’s never known, for all he saw was her performance to stop the deafening rain all those years ago.

His attention was brought back as the chime of cutlery against porcelain was heard, cooked veggies stabbed between the teeth of a fork.

Cupping a hand under the fork, your body leans down to the Melusine’s height, feeding them a bite of the fragrant dish. The wags of their tails increase in cadence as they chew. 

“This is Tasses Ragout, tasty isn’t it?” The corners of your lips curl as you watch their little heads nod eagerly. 

The suspicion melts from his gaze as he observes to the delight in their expressions, a few mitten hands tugging at the skirt of your gown for a bite. A giggle bubbles from your throat.

A scene mirroring that of a mother trying to appease the appetites of her ravenous young. 

Soon your eyes connect and he straightens his posture. Brushing away the nonsensical musing, lilac hue advert away momentarily to recompose themselves before returning. 

“Would you like a taste?” A fork offered in his direction, beckoning closer to take a bite. 

There’s a myth he’s read about, of a forbidden apple held out by the tempter of all tempters, an apple so red and lustrous it made any mouth salivate. 

“Thank you for the offer, however, I’ve already had my lunch.” He refrains. 

A bite from that forbidden fruit was the genesis of disgrace and banishment. A betrayal of commandments once promised. Neuvillette won’t be deceived again. 

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

“Monsieur! Monsieur! Come look!” 

Mittened hands grasping upon his coat and gloved hands as a circle of Melusines guides him through the winding halls, anticipation amping their voices. 

There’s a chorus of giggles resounding through the halls, a joyous clamor of pattering steps against the marble floors.

The estate has been lively ever since your arrival in that white dress, a liveness which reaches his pointed ears even from behind closed doors. 

Regardless, he allows himself to be towed by their skipping steps. Leading him to a room he recognizes as a space where many fabrics and gowns were collected and stored.

Garments made with the intent to be sold to Fontainians, but their crates were capsized over by the ravenous tides. Saved from watery abandonment by curious hands. 

While this form of his could wear a few of those garments, the Melusines had statures much too short for pools of fabric to not drag along the ground. Thus, that collection of fabrics found themselves collecting dust. 

Their steps abruptly stop just at the threshold of the door, mittened hands pressed up against their lips signaling for him to remain silent.

Soon their sights glance into the room as he follows, lilac eyes opening ever so slightly wider as they process the scene in front of him. 

Evening gowns crafted by skilled tailors to be sold to Fontanian ladies, you had the right frame for those garments as well.

A trail of lustrous sapphire silk gathered behind your figure. The artistic stitching and pleating draping the silk around each curve of your body as if you were the only person meant to wear it. 

A few Melusines fussing about the silk train, ever so curious of humanity, they must’ve requested for you to dawn the gown.

Just as they often had requested for him to dawn those fickle suits and coats for their enjoyment.

It seems you bent to their childish whims just as he does. 

“How do you like it?” You ask your audience, twirling about in front of a mirror. 

It’s different from those hardier dresses for when you wandered about the village and estate, in comparison this dress was much less practical. 

“It’s beautiful, Madame!” Their round eyes were enamored.

“I’m glad, who knew you had such an aesthetic eye.” Your expression softens. 

Bending down to Carole’s height, you scooped her up. Cradling her as your forehead touches her horns gently.

“Thank you for such a lovely dress.” Placing tender pats along her head, careful to not disturb her horns and hair. 

Carole leans into your touch as your smile widens. Twirling once more with her in your arms, giggles ringing throughout the room.

Until your head peeked up, finally aware of the silent spectator just behind the door frame. 

“Oh, hello Neuvillette,” you greet him with a smile he doesn’t return.

A tense lull creeps in, and a chill begins to mix with the quiet atmosphere. Lilac eyes pass over your form as Carole remains sat in your arms.

“Monsieur! Isn’t Madame pretty? Look!” Cheery and oblivious voices chime returning the warmth to the air. 

Mitten hands release your skirt as they skitter toward his towering figure. Pride shines in their beaming smiles, awaiting validation of their handy work.

Steadfast eyes lowering themselves to the level of their short statures until the sharp edges gradually dissipate. 

“A fine effort indeed.” A gloved hand extends to rest atop their heads. 

Patting their heads tenderly as they closed their eyes in contentment 

A warmth in those lilac hues, endearment no word could ever encapsulate fully. 

“Are they your daughters?” Your head slants to the side.

His body stills, strictness reinstated in those violet irises just as they met yours. Studying that look within your polite smile, one which didn’t seem to reach your eyes. 

Gloved hand ceasing all movement, his concentration now elsewhere. That expression ghosting your face, what does it mean? 

“My apologies, was it too impudent of a question?” Your gaze adverts away, searching for reprieve in this heavy hush.

A deep breath as he formulates his response. 

“I don’t share blood with them if that’s what you’re inquiring. However, they are the successors of my brethren.” 

“Oh, I see,” you hum. 

 Neuvillette returns to patting their heads, while you readjust your hold on Carole. Subtly bouncing her, while turning back to face the standing mirror.

Casting a glance, he could discern the softness returning to that polite smile. Yet, the dragon has yet to unravel that luster in your irises. 

An audience of bright eyes switches between the Monsieur and Madame. 

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

“Bring these to her, you should greet the Madame!” Tiny hands push against Neuvillette’s back. 

The traitorous clicks of his shoes against marble expose his approach.

Your head peers up from the book resting upon your lap, in the midst of reading a tale aloud to an audience. 

Just in time to catch the tall figure of Neuvillette emerging into the library at the behest of the Melusines. 

Lilac eyes meet yours ever so briefly before his gaze averts elsewhere. Gloved hand adjusting a bundle hidden a broad back, brings the other hand up to clear his throat. 

“The Melusines found these when retrieving some offerings from the water, I believe you’ll enjoy them.” He presents their trinket. 

A simple collection of dainty petals clustered together, pastel hues contrast against vivid virescent leaves. A quaint ribbon tied around the stems holding the bunch together held out in front of your face.

The recipient stares in round-eyed astonishment at the fragrant blooms before a smile melts into your lips. 

“Thank you.” You accept the bouquet from his hand. 

Admiring the rustic arrangement and the saccharine aroma as the Melusines sat around you leaned in closer to catch a whiff too. 

“These are called Pluie Lotus up on the surface, they smell nice right?” Giggling lightly as you held the bouquet closer to their noses. 

Grin ever present upon your lips as your soft eyes watch their marvel of such simple weeds. A bloom foreign to this realm abandoned by the sunlight. 

There’s subtle slack in his posture, a budding smile just about to unfold just as your head peers back up. Every fiber in Neuvillette’s being tenses, goosebumps slithering up his nape. 

Frozen there only able to witness your eyes study back and forth the hues of his irises and the periwinkle color tinting the fragile petals.

He watches an epiphany light up in your widened eyes as the bouquet was lifted higher, turning back to face him. 

Don’t. Don’t say the words he knows are hanging off the tip of that honeyed tongue. 

“They are the same lovely color as your eyes, Neuvillette.” You beam at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling from the stretch of your lips. 

His posture returns to its rigid and upright state, a hand hidden from view balls up into a fist.

A sharpness threatening to break through leather confines and into his palm, as if they were attempting to grapple the surging torrent stirred up within himself. 

Why? Why was this line from a script being recited word for every damn word? All said with that saccharine smile plastered over those wicked lips? 

Indecipherable eyes narrow ever so slightly before he catches himself. Reining in the torrent just before it seethed out.

He clears his throat again to swallow back the bitterness. 

“Do excuse me, please return to your reading session,” he utters his parting. 

Promptly turning to return to his secludedness, stepping past the Melusines gathered by his side.

Swift strides through the empty halls leaving you to your peace and him to his peace, just as it should’ve been. Much to the pouts of a disappointed audience. 

However, he didn’t have the mind to contemplate their discontent. Not when these rabid bellows drown out every other thought in their rancor.

Like a sea starved for vengeance, ravenous to settle a debt against those vile gods and their beloved creations. 

A brass knob was abruptly twisted, hinges squealing in surprise as at the force as Neuvillette shuts it behind himself.

Ragged breathes resounding through the reprieve of his bedroom. Away from innocent bystanders and the devil who showed her face again after all these centuries for an encore.  

Has he not been humiliated enough? He tugs at his cravat, freeing himself from the fickle decoration constricted about his neck in this already imprisoning body.

A form which binded him no matter how violently talons and fangs clawed and chewed, unable to leave a singular dent upon this damn curse. 

This was humiliating enough, bound to this cove that separated him from the sea which cries for their sovereign.

He once believed this penitentiary was obscured away from the peeking eyes of capricious gods. Perhaps, he’s wrong. 

Why is this fantasy being played out right in front of his eyes now after all these years?

To have you by his side, to have you reside in the home he craved out and inlaid pearls into, to see you smile and cradle young against your bodice. It’s insulting. 

Because this was all he ever wanted. This was all he had ever wanted. 

The lonesome dragon only ever yearned for a maiden’s endearment. He once believed she adored him back just the same. 

Because while she lay within his arms under silken covers, her bare skin pressed against his mortal shape, her enchanting eyes always regarded him with such tenderness as her delicate hand stroked his cheek. 

A glimmer he once believed was love.  

The tale written along the parchment implied that the ‘princess’ loved the dragon. However, that was inaccurate. She never did. 

For if she loved him, then she wouldn’t have deceived him.

She wouldn’t have ever whispered his secret to the town’s folk. Those foul creatures who then used his secret, which was once reserved solely for ‘you’.

Why? That simple question taunted him for decades as he rotted in this mocking solitude.

Why did ‘you’ yearn for the sun more than him? Was his love not enough to replace the warmth of a star? Was the home he made not enough when compared to the extravagance of humanity? 

Or was it because blood and water, no matter how much they intertwine and mix, could never produce wine? 

If… if the Melusines had been born just a few centuries earlier, then would you have been satisfied by his side? An answer he could already discern.

 Because after his decades of solitude within these deridingly hushed walls, he finally accepted the truth. 

 She loved her people, they took up all the space of her heart, leaving no room for a prideful leviathan.

What a clever plan it all was, to distract a sovereign from his duty, cleansing stolen land with a flood of vengeance, by sending a maiden.

A woman so bewitching, so enchanting, and so lovely, that a proud dragon couldn’t resist bending to her whims. Spilling the secret hidden deep within him into her ear. 

Abandoning his true form to be confined in the shape she favored the most. Then lured up to the surface, suspicions obstructed by the dazzlement of a false welcome from the nation of Fontaine. 

Unaware until the scorching knife was already lodged in his back. Using the secret he had only ever told you, those meek creatures of the usurpers wished:

‘For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides’. 

What a clever ploy, a masterly crafted master plan. Did that Oratrice bestow it upon mortals? Or was it your own little scheme? A devil in human skin who must’ve been enlisted by the god themselves. 

 That day when he was chained by that loch, you didn’t even bother to grace him with your presence.

You cruel, cruel devil whose heart only had room for her fellow citizens of Fontaine, whose eyes only ever glimmered with duty. 

Neuvillette had finally comprehended the truth, he had made peace with the disgrace he brought upon himself. 

So why did those vile false gods dangle you back in his face? They had already taken fragments of his authority.

Was his torment entertaining to them? 

Lungs shaking with unsteady breaths, he could feel the pricks of scales dotted along his skin only for this body to swiftly reject it. A turmoil of draconic influence constrained by a mortal curse. 

Like a beast kept in a cage much too small for it. If Neuvillette wishes for this agitation to cease, he must cease the stirred emotions. 

 Emotions don’t settle quickly once agitated like sand attempting to settle at the bottom of violent tides. He paces his shuddery inhales, biding in the solitude of his room until the storm dissipates. 

To avoid the placid lake within him from thrashing violently to the woes from the throb of a wound which has yet to scar over, Neuvillette found it best to avoid your presence. 

The lanterns outside the Melusine’s homes had long gone out as they followed their routine bedtime.

The expanse of the cavern dimmed to near blackness, the small creatures all tucked away soundly in their beds. A hushed ambiance provides a suitable environment for reflection. 

His steps flatten the grass underneath as they accompany his strides with their rustling.

The absence of light had never bothered him, it’s within his nature to detest it. Any beast would withdraw away from the mere image of fire. 

The rustle of the grass halts, a wispy aroma of smoke wafts towards him. It doesn’t take long to identify the origin. Only a small flicker broke through the shadows, candlewick fostering only a weak flame.

But it was enough to fend the shadows away from your frame. 

The flame’s light caught on each subtle ripple of the pond you were kneeling over.

The seemingly unremarkable pool served as the sole entrance and exit to Merusea Village. Where the Melusines traveled through to gather food, fresh water, and trinkets swallowed up by the waves. 

Cold waters catch the bitter droplets of your pained eyes in the reflection of the ripples upon the surface, the distorted silhouette of a weeping devil. 

An unspoken gospel revealed to draconic pupils. 

Under the rich aromas wafting from the kitchen, behind the diligently tailored gowns, and hidden in the cadence of your voice as you read tales aloud, laid the yearning for the rays of a bright star. 

You’re human, a creature fleeting and meek by nature. Blood yearns to be with blood just as every drop of rain yearns to return to a cloud. 

A sharp rustle of grass under a heavy step jolts your hunched-over posture straight, head whipping around to face the uninvited audience.

Once those weeping eyes recognize the brooding figure in front of them, your face adverts away from his direction. Shame evident upon your expression. 

A concerned hand reaches out only to retract away, contrition marring his shut lips as Neuvillette diverts his eyes too.

Fire burns indiscriminately, even the dancing flame of a candle can sear its mark upon skin. Neuvillette knows this all too well, for the lesion he received from embracing that flame once still festers even after all these years.  

However, lilac eyes pan back towards the orange glow illuminating your melancholic face. Warm hues contrast against the wet trails down your cheeks. There’s an ache more agonizing than a festering wound. 

His steps advanced closer until he was knelt down by your slump frame. A benevolent touch lands upon your shoulder. Guiding you away from the taunting waters and into his arms, hiding your face in his broad shoulder. 

 Offering you a semblance of warmth in a coven shunned from the grace of gentle sunlight.

With your face away from his gaze, the cacophony of your sobs returns, digging your fingers into the folds of his dress shirt.

Echoed back mockingly by the cold cavern walls.

Perhaps a foolish dragon has yet to learn his lesson, still lured in that the brilliant light of a flame. 

A gentle hand traces up along your back, softly brushing your hair away to reveal the skin of your nape to his sharp pupils.

Honed in upon untainted skin, the courts of rebirth may have removed the proof of your damnation, but not the hex itself. 

Or maybe, a foolish dragon feels some responsibility for being the one to curse you to this fate. 

A mark once imprinted upon your nape by a lonesome dragon, a heavy oath sworn to you engrained into the very fabric of your soul amidst the first rendition.

One which then became the cursed chains that sunk you under the unforgiving waters.

It’s said that love is heavy, a weight greater than the density of water. A heaviness which could sink anything and everyone under salty tides. 

A heaviness originating from this accursed prison where a disgraced being resided.

Even as the earth above welcomed new generations as they said goodbye to bygone times. 

The solitude of a fool turning into ravenous waves which seeped into soil until its appetite was satiated by the return of its beloved treasure.

It’s his fault that the tides stole you from the sunlight. 

The courts of rebirth had already forgiven you of this burden, not a single memory remaining of that tale.

What right does he have to place it back upon you? There’s no point in punishing one for a sin that had been cleansed by the tides of time.

You didn’t deserve to be held away from the warmth of a benevolent sun.

To have been dragged down below to these depths. To have been stolen away from the warmth of the sun by the command of fickles gods and ancient grudges.

It’s much too severe of a sentence for you, someone who didn’t deserve to repent for a sin that wasn’t truly yours. 

Is it okay for his hands to wipe away your tears when this cursed dragon was the cause of your agony?

Even if it’s wrong, Neuvillette holds you closer. Even if he didn’t have the right, he pressed your face in his shoulder. Allowing the vehemence of your tears to scorch his skin as you buried your cries into him. 

Glancing at the pool you had been leaning over, he watches as the ripples of the surface taunt you and him the same.

Two beings whose bodies couldn’t embrace the tides. Two cursed beings who’ve been trapped in repeated play. 

“It seems you’re bound to this prison as well.” He scorns those gods and ancient grudges, but he scorns himself the most.

Confined behind a human face and a human body, a traitor who’s lost his birthright over the waters who couldn’t welcome him.

How can a cursed dragon quell those choking sobs of yours? How can he atone for his selfish sin?

Neuvillette takes a deep breath just your tears continue to soak his skin. Steeling his resolve, he meditates on the one resolution he can offer you. 

“Fontainians still tell a tale about a princess who wished a dragon to become a prince, yes?” He begins. 

After a pause filled with hiccups and shaky breaths, you nod your head as an answer. 

“It was when she spoke the dragon’s true name that he granted her one wish,” he recounts the tale, feeling the trembles of your shoulders. 

“That part of the story isn’t fictitious,” he reveals.

Voices from the depths of his rationality whisper for him to stop, to expand no more upon this secret of his brethren. Clamorous warnings to a traitor to not repeat his past transgressions. 

However, he obeys no edict from the heavens or origins. Not when an unjust punishment caused such heart-wrenching sobs. 

“Names hold great significance to dragons. So much so, to whoever learns their true name, a wish can be granted.” 

Slowly, your tear-stained face pulls away from his crinkled dress shirt. Finally meeting his lilac gaze. He notes the bewilderment which surrounds his reflection in your eyes. 

“Is… your name not ‘Neuvillette’?” You inquire. 

“It’s a surname bestowed upon me by the mortals of the land.” 

“Then… What is your name?” A glimmer of optimism ever so subtly debuts in your eyes. 

He could not tell you. No matter how beautifully that light shines, this was one ordinance he couldn’t ignore. All he could do was glance away as he shakes his head. Unable to bear the sight of that light extinguishing. 

“That is what you must find for yourself.” 

Perhaps this is his defiance of the plot which has been unraveling for so long. His attempt to step off that circular path, searching for a different end. 

The silent audience of fate watching on with bemusement to where this rendition will lead. 

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

What a peculiar occurrence, Neuvillette was just about to exit his study when he found himself just a breath’s width away from you. Instinctively, he takes a step back behind the threshold of the doorway.

Passive eyes studying your form, you must’ve been standing there for a while. A hand held up intending to knock on the oak door returns to your side as you stare at the floor. 

“Is there something you need assistance with?” He continues to study you. 

Lilac eyes observe as your fingers clasp together, a common habit of mortals when nervous, if he recalls the contents of a book correctly. Another minute passes before you take a deep breath. 

“Is your name Guillaume?” You peer up. 

Ah, so this is what you wished to inquire about.

The secret revealed to you that day beside an exit neither he nor you could cross. Guillaume, a name befitting of nobility. But unfortunately, not for a dragon. 

He responds with a shake of his head, expression stiffening as he watches the corners of your lips drop ever so slightly. 

“Oh…”

It seems his existence brings nothing but a frown upon those soft lips, Neuvillette felt it’s best to retreat from your sight. 

This attempt was evidence of your determination to return to the embrace of a warm star.

It wouldn’t be right for him to interfere, despite those vile voice whispers murmuring from the depth of his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to you. 

It’s best to maintain this distance between his hand and yours, for your sake and his. 

Which begs the question, why were you still standing here in front of him? 

“Is that all you wished to inquire?” Neuvillette hopes the Melusines will lift your spirits after he withdraws. 

“Actually…” You began. “I made some soup and if you haven’t had lunch yet, would you like to try some?” 

Although his stoic face might not reflect it, he’s positively baffled. Were ‘you’ always this enthusiastic about food?

The devil he knew before would view the freshest catches and clearest waters offered by a dragon with blasé reactions. 

You used to recoil away from the fishes and meats he held out to you, they were only ever touched once he charred them over a fire. 

Then again the kitchen back then was much more barren than the present, cabinets now decorated with bottles of fragrant spices and herbs. 

Was it just a difference in palate? To reject such an invitation would be to squander a precious opportunity for investigation. 

“The pleasure would be all mine.” He matches your strides as the two of you traverse toward the kitchen. 

Settling down in a chair at a wooden table, Neuvillette watches as you ladle some soup into a bowl. Following your form as you set the bowl down in front of him. A pleasant aroma accompanies the steam emitting from the bowl. 

“It’s Fontainian Onion Soup.” You hand a spoon over. 

“Thank you.” He takes the utensil and scoops a hearty serving of the rich soup.

A distinct flavor of caramelized onions and the creaminess of cheese. The broth had been thickened with a bit of flour and the cheese added to the heavy mouth feel. 

This dish certainly expresses the flavor preferences of humans… but could such a thick broth really be considered soup? 

“Do you like it?” Your head tilts to the side as he feels your inquisitiveness. 

Dabbing a napkin over his lips, he clears his throat. 

“A fine dish indeed. Although increasing the liquid content and reducing the amount of fat could improve it,” he advises. 

A hush falls over the kitchen, nothing but the occasional crackle of a fire filling the space. 

“Oh… I’ll keep that in mind.” Your voice was restraining something. 

As you turn away, Neuvillette catches the subtle shakes of your shoulders. 

Ah, has he caused offense? He recalls how cooking and food preferences amongst humans tend to be a sore spot for most, some books going as far as to claim critics as attacks on one’s pride. 

You had taken time out of your day to prepare a bowl for him, and he gave senseless comments in return. 

“Ah, but it’s delicious regardless, thank you.” He has to remedy this situation. 

The shakes of your shoulders increase, as a hand covers your lips. 

“Thank you, Monsieur.” Your lips seem to be trying to stifle something. 

After finishing your sentence, your lips pressed tighter together. He could see the corners twitching as they tried their best to remain neutral.

Before he could get another word in, you excused yourself. Leaving him in front of the warm soup. 

In that moment, Neuvillette vows to himself that even if you were to hand him a piece of charcoal he’ll swallow it without a single complaint. 

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

“Is your name Édouard?” 

Your voice causes him to turn his attention away from the pages of a book this quiet evening.

You stood just off to the side of the bookshelf where he was browsing, a candle illuminating the curiosity held in your eyes. Presenting a name likely discovered from those very same shelves.

Dirges ring from the corners of his mind, warning him not to allow the light to approach so close.

However, where is a shadow supposed to withdraw to when the light seeks him?

Just as how the tide couldn’t run away from the shore for long. Steadfast and constant attempts to unravel the secrets held by the ebbs and flows. 

Alas, he shakes his head again today, steeling his nerves as he catches the slight drop in your shoulders. Louis, Étienne, Théodore, and all those previous guesses, are names of heroes in Fontainian tales and epics. 

Popularized to the point many boys were named after them, but no parent would ever want to name their child after a dragon, a beast.

He doubts the pages of history have ever recorded his name. 

Your disheartened gaze couldn’t meet his, choosing to stare into the space beside him. He couldn’t fault you for that.

All your efforts of combing through old novels to search for obscured monikers just to be undone by a shake of a head.

He’s not sure how much longer he can endure being the origin of your melancholy.

“There’s a tear in your coat…” 

Your voice brings him out of his thoughts, he glances at the spot your eyes were honed on and spots the aforementioned tear. 

“Ah, I see. My apologies for being in such an unsightly state, ” he sighs. Lilac eyes ran along the jagged seams. 

He should go find a replacement from his wardrobe, but you still looked like you had something to say. 

“I can fix it if you’d like,” you offer. 

It’s just a garment, a piece of cloth that fell off some merchant’s ship and found itself in the walls of a cove. There were plenty of other garments that suffered the same fate, picked up by pairs of curious mittened hands. 

To replace this robe would be simple, but he notes the concealed eagerness in the fidget of your fingers. It must be rather dull for you down here for the past year, to the point you resorted to repairing old fabrics for enrichment. 

Regrettably, Neuvillette admits he’s not the best host. He’s got no talent for small talk nor does he know how to entertain you, thus he left it up to the Melusines. However, he could at least do this much as a host. 

“Thank you, I’d be grateful if you do.” 

His steps in time with yours through the halls as an old storage room comes into view. Still filled with collections of folded gowns and coats.

As he observes the room, you guide him to a pair of wooden chairs, a box filled with needles and threads beside one. You place the candle down on a nearby table.

“I’ll take your coat.” Holding out your hands. 

Following your request, he slips the robe off his shoulders, leaving him in a dress shirt and slacks.

Attentively you take the garment, settling down in a seat as your hand searches through the box. After your rummaging stopped, you glance back at him. 

“It won’t take long, please have a seat.” Gesturing toward the other chair. 

Lilac eyes scanned the aged seat, the door was just beyond it, it wouldn’t take much of an excuse for him to walk past the wooden threshold.

However, he pans back to your anticipatory gaze still awaiting. It wouldn’t be polite to deny such a simple gesture. 

Thus, he heeds your request, ambling toward the empty seat, he begins to settle down just as a rip resonates through the air.

His body halts all movement just as yours did, toward pairs of eyes trained on the sleeve that had been caught on the edge of a wooden table. 

The fibers of his shirt entangled with the jagged edges causing his sleeve to rip. Neuvillette truly has yet to acclimate to such fickle inconveniences. 

“Pfft!-” Quickly your hand covers your mouth. 

Lips pressed together as they tried their best to stifle the sounds threatening to leak out. Your shoulders shaking from the effort, just as they did that day in the kitchen.

Although his expression remains the same, he’s quite dumbfounded.

Unable to contain the sounds any longer, you erupt into a fit of giggles as he continues to stare. The bright chimes of your laughter fill the room, a melodic tune he had longed to hear for so long. 

“S-sorry, I just didn’t expect you to… be so clumsy.” Giggles fragment your sentence along with a brief pause to collect yourself. 

Clumsy. Yes, he remembers that word, an adjective you used to describe a dragon whenever he took on the shape you favored so much.

Of course, even a great beast like a dragon would totter and stumble when in such a foreign body. 

Although he has been in this body for many, many years now, yet, Neuvillette hasn’t acclimated to these fickle mortal attires.

If these garments weren’t pushed into his hands by the Melusines and their bright-eyed stares, he’d prefer to not dawn them. 

Neuvillette shuts his eyes. His lungs intake a deep breath, stifling the sway of these trivial inconveniences before they cause any ripples.

Once he’s certain there was no jagged edge to his stare, lilac hues peek back upon your figure. 

By now those fits of giggles had faded into a tranquil lull, your content face focused on the stitches. Body relaxed against the back of the chair, weaving the needle through the sides of the tear.

Subconsciously, his frame begins to mimic yours, rigid muscles melting against the wooden support. 

Lavender hues follow the disappearance of a sliver point, then catch its emergence from the fabric.

The torn and frayed edges draw closer and closer together by the coaxes of the thread, each stitch attentively placed by your graceful hands. 

“Neuvillette?” Your serene voice interlaces with the placid interlude. 

He hums an answer. 

“That night by the entrance… you said ‘You're bound to this cove as well’.” The pace of the needle slows. 

“Why did you say that?” You finish your question. 

Observant, a characteristic of yours he’s always deemed quite commendable. Ever so keen on the nuances of his sentences. 

The piercing stare of draconic eyes weighs on your shoulders, despite that the cadence of the needle didn’t falter. A ripple makes its appearance within a placid pool. 

“Do you really wish to know?” He warns. 

You hum resolutely. A bitter taste creeps its way up his tongue, the recollection of the string of words which damned him here. 

Instinct advises him to swallow them back, to conceal his shame from your awaiting ears. However, answering the call of your curiosity should be enough of a repayment for repairing a coat. 

“For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides. That is the curse set upon this body,” he reveals. 

The needle stops.

“A curse?…” you stammer out. 

Under your breath, Neuvillette hears you recount the disclosed secret. Repeating it to yourself as if to decipher the syntax, to find some answers to his condemnation.

The answer was sitting just in front of him. 

“…For the rest of one’s life… well, how long do dragons live?” 

To mortals, it’s time who is the reaper of their existence. From the moment a newborn sounds their first cry to the final draw of air on their deathbeds, it was the hands of a clock who ruled over them.

But such hands could not touch a being such as him. 

“The life of a dragon begins and ends in the Fontemer Sea, born from it, made from it, and shall return to it to be born again.” He wonders if mortals could grasp such a concept. 

“Oh…” Your tone grew more somber. 

Judging from your tonality, you must’ve pieced the allusions together.

To be contained within these stone walls with only a pool of seawater he could not touch as the opening, is to bestow upon him immortality he never asked for.

For the Hydro Dragon could not return to the Fontemer Sea. 

Even if dragons had long lives, it didn’t mean the humiliation of immortality. The true cruelty of this seemingly kind curse. 

“Why?” Your voice just barely above a whisper. 

Why was he cursed? Why is he in this sham of a mortal body? Why did he reveal the secrets of his brethren? All of this at the trifling sight of bitter tears. 

“Because the people of Fontaine found my name and they wished for it.” 

Why did he give you his name? And why did you then give it away? There are many questions left unanswered by that tale. 

Why did a proud dragon bow to the whims of a mere mortal in that fairytale?

A creature as potent as a dragon should never bow, not to the ordinances of false gods, not to the turbulence of fate, and not to a mere mortal. 

 Why did a maiden wish for a dragon to become a human like them? Water is an adaptable element, able to take on any shape it pleases. However, it yearns to always return to its natural shape. 

Perhaps, his ‘natural’ form appalled the devil too much. So much so, she used that one wish to confine him in the form she favored most.

More confoundingly, why did Neuvillette allow such a request? A creature favored by the usurpers dared to wish a dragon to abandon his heritage, to cross over the threshold of humanity just for their sake.

Why would a dragon ever bow to a mortal’s request?

The commandments of a false god and the howling thrashes of wind can’t make a proud dragon bow, but the weight of love might be enough for a prideful beast to lower his head towards a mortal. 

A traitor to his own fallen brethren is much too dignified of a title for Neuvillette. No, it’d be better to call him for what he is: A Fool. 

What a spectacle it was that day, even those fickle gods peered down just to watch. A fool who lost his form and authority was imprisoned beneath the tides.

A stir shakes that pool, whirling and writhing, the billows of bitterness mounting. 

“… could it be wished away?” Your voice beckons his thoughts to return to the present. 

Unlike how it was written in those tales, a curse can’t be ‘broken’. Not by a kiss, and not by clasping one’s hands together in prayer. 

“Not even a miracle could make a curse vanish, a curse only ever goes away once its clauses have been fulfilled.” 

Until the stars burn out, until the sky caves in on itself, or until the oceans of this uprooted world dry up, he shall remain here. The retribution a traitor deserves. 

He shall remain in this sham of a body, unable to become the form he desired the most in the next life he’ll never reach.

Not a human, not a dragon, just an atrocity somewhere in-between. This must be what humans call ‘purgatory’.  

“I see…” Your attention never leaves the half-stitched garment sprawled upon your lap. 

A heavy silence fills the space between you and him once more. To conclude a conversation on such a doleful note would be a disgrace. 

However, what is he to say? What words can salvage this situation? Neuvillette has no talent for small talk, he doesn’t have the same mortal heart as yours to provide you with any solstice. 

Amidst his contemplation, a soft hum resounds through the quietude, and the melodic rhythm of a lullaby begins. It seems that you took matters into your own hands, ending the doleful silence at your own discretion.

Once more his back reclines into the wooden chair, pointed ears indulge themselves in a nostalgic tune.

It’s strange, that rippling pool is swaying back to equilibrium. The surface returns to its placid rest as tension melts from his muscles. 

Unaware of the hushed pitter-patter of a curious audience, drawn in by the gentle song as their bright eyes peer ever from the cover of the door frame. 

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

“Madame! Look I got more Pluie Lotuses!” Kiara’s little steps rush across the marble floor. 

Getting up on the tips of her feet to show the bundle of fresh blooms, salty water still dripping from their petals, as her bangs stick flush to her face still damp from the sea. Her pink tail swaying behind her.

Your body turns in her direction just in time with Neuvillette. 

“Kiara…” A subtle layer of disapproval emerges from lilac hues.

“Remember to dry off before entering the estate, the floors can become quite dangerous when wet.” 

“But…” the flowers lower. “I wanted to show Madame the lotuses…” 

There’s a drop in her tail and horns and a sharp sting to his chest. Her sisters were gathered around in a circle, a story having just concluded, he could feel their stares upon him. Adding to the sharpness of guilt. 

“My apologies, Kiara, I only meant to warn you.” 

She nods her head silently, tail still dragging on the floor. Ah, just what should he do? A frown begins to weigh down his face. 

“Thank you, they’re wonderful, Kiara.” Your gentle chime breaks through the stalemate. 

You take the bouquet from her mittened hands, placing them atop a counter, in exchange you offer her a towel. 

“But Neuvillette is right, it’s not good to run through the halls right after you returned from the waters. It’s dangerous, okay?” Your voice as gentle as the towel rubbed over her hair and horns. 

A content smile returns to her round cheeks as she diligently nods, promising that she’ll be more careful next time. Tail lifting up from the floor as the fluffy towel wipes away the ocean droplets. 

Once fully dried, she joins her sisters. The Melusines cast shifting glances toward one another until one finally steps out from the crowd. 

“Madame…” Carole calls out softly, tugging a few times the hem of your long dress. 

“Hm?” Giving her your full attention, a towel set aside. 

“I overheard you inquiring about names with Monsieur in the library once, could you be…” Her eyes downcasted. 

Oh. This time it was Neuvillette and you who exchanged glances, eyes both reflecting the same dread.

They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to hear those slapdash guesses. 

He never meant for them to find out. Always careful to never discuss such matters in their earshot.

For how could he bear to tell them that their cozy village was actually a prison? 

His mind was unable to conjure up an excuse, tongue unwilling to speak it. They weren’t supposed to find out. Oh, what shall he do now? 

“Could you be expecting?” 

Huh?

Two pairs of eyes widened with bewilderment, mind stunned into silence and lips just as confused.

Somehow they’ve huddled even closer than before, encircling you and him with their bright eyes and tails swaying with anticipation. 

“Will there be a new addition to the village?” 

“How long do we have to wait?” 

“Are we getting a brother or sister?” 

Their chatter and probes homogenized into a jumbled symphony his flustered conscious just couldn’t distinguish. Trying to reel his senses back from this unexpected turn of events. Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“No,” he coughs out. 

A collective ‘aw’ resounds through the air, their tails and horns drooping down at the announcement. Guilt pierced its nail through his chest once more. However, he couldn’t lie to their bright eyes. 

“N-not, yet.” You add to his statement. 

A wave of inquisitive‘oh’ ripples through the crowd. Tails picked up from the ground as the glimmer in their eyes returned.

A sweet lie sprinkled over the truth neither of you dare tell, that blood and water can’t make wine. 

“Then, do you want a little prince or little princess?” Carole chirps. 

You remain silent, only gazing down at their faces as they stare back.

A lilac stare was also focused upon you, his curiosity awakening at this question as well. He watches you take a slow breath before leaning down. 

“I’d like to have a daughter, sweet and kind like all of you.” Your hand strokes her soft trestles. 

Her head nuzzles into your palm as giggles fill the air. Only draconic eyes study the small smile upon your lips, dipped in bittersweetness. 

Did you have a lover back on the surface in this life? Perhaps someone who was promised to you. A real prince this time. 

Did you have dreams of basking in the grace of the sun, cradling a bundle as a pair of tiny fingers encase around your own?

Was this the hard-earned happy ending you yearned for?

“Monsieur…” Mamaere tugs on his slacks. 

Neuvillette reigns his thoughts back from their escapade, he angles his head down. 

“Where does a baby come from?” 

The smile on your lips stiffen just as Neuvillette’s body does.

If there’s a god who’s peering into this cavern deep below the land and sea, must they send such dilemmas his way?

How does one navigate through this treacherous domain?

“Oh dear! I just remembered.” Your hands clap together.

“There’s a few ribbons and clips in the fabric room, do you girls mind getting them? So we can braid Monsieur’s hair?” 

At once the Melusines stand at attention, focus diverted over their excitement at the prospect of decorating snowy locks.

The patters of their little steps trample down the hall, allowing you and Neuvillette a well-deserved moment of reprieve. 

“Thank you.” His posture drops slightly as a hefty sigh leaves him, lids shut for a moment of rest.  

“Of course, Sébastien.” 

His eyes crack open, casting you a glance with a raised brow. The ghost of a grin barely contained by delicate lips. By this time, Neuvillette couldn’t recall all the past attempts. 

“Regrettably, that is not my name.” 

“Was it at least a decent attempt?” 

He could hear the pout in your voice, one that didn’t last long before a light-hearted laugh follows it.

Closing his eyes once more as he indulges in those chimes, he nods ever so slightly. It was a good attempt, for it brought out those sounds he enjoyed. 

His lashes flutter open at the sensation of his hair getting gathered in your tender hold. Passing the carved wooden teeth of a comb through his snowy locks.

Careful to not pull or tug on them as you coaxed the tangles out of their knots. The heaviness upon his shoulders leaves with a deep exhale which left his body, indulging in your attentive touches.

Subconsciously, his gaze trails up at the bundle of flowers resting along the wooden table. It wasn’t the periwinkle blush of the delicate petals that commanded his attention.

No, it was that salty, oceanic wisp mingled with the flora aroma. A fleeting essence of the sea.

“Do you miss the sea?” 

Ah, it seems that his stare wasn’t as subtle as he had hoped. Neuvillette turns away from the flowers as if he had been caught amidst a scheme.

Facing in front of him, your paused hands signal your wait for his response. 

“I suppose it’s only natural for me to long for it.” 

After all these years, Neuvillette believes he has finally grasped it, an answer to that void filled with ‘whys’. As if he had seized the reflection of a star from the bottom of a deep lake.

Neuvillette thinks he understands why you and the devil yearned for the sunlight. 

Perhaps the one similarity between proud dragons and arrogant humans. They both ache to return to where they came from.

One yearns for the sea. One yearns for land.

For there and only there, could their sins and grudges be purged. To gain the most restful sleep before the hands of fate shape them anew from the element.

“Hmm,” you hum in acknowledgment. 

Fingers gentle and slow as they brushed through his hair. You hum a lullaby to accompany each pass of the comb. Melodies that made his ears yearn for more, craving for more sounds to leave your plush lips. 

His hair had always been an inconvenience, capricious strands that were seemly curious of everything in his environment.

Snowy tresses find themselves gravitating towards door hinges, door knobs, and even the minuscule gaps in ornate furniture.

However, your patience hands untangled those unruly stands. 

When a knot proves to be particularly stubborn, you tend to lend closer to hone in on the troublesome tangle. 

It just so happens that a stubborn knot appeared, causing you to decrease the proximity between your bodies.

The heat radiating from your frame sends delightful pickles along his skin, a delicate warmth making his flesh grow feverish. 

A hunger deep within begins to grumble and wallow, a greed that wishes to dig past those frivolous fragrances to get to the true taste he craves.

An ugly gluttony pleading to delve into your soft flesh. Ah, he recognizes the cause of this turbulence now…

Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“I believe I’m beginning to feel unwell, so please refrain from venturing into the cellar for the next few weeks. I should quarantine myself.” Too ashamed to turn back and face you. 

“Oh?...” The comb stops.

At this distance, he was well aware of your scent. A fine fragrance no water or bloom could hope to imitate. Concealed under a layer of lavish soaps and oils dropped from the surface was an aroma that was wholly yours and yours alone. 

A gloved hand reaches up to cover his nostrils, seeking some barrier between that tantalizing whiff. 

“Please, excuse me…” He pulls away swiftly. 

The sudden action must’ve jostled his hair too much, for the sultry sensation of your fingertips was felt along azure ‘strands’. 

Just a minor touch against his horns, yet shudders rack up his nape. His teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip, sharper than they’re supposed to be, anchoring those ravenous voices at bay momentarily. 

He needs to leave now. For your sake. 

Rushed strides stow a distance between his body and that delectable warmth of yours. His back turned to you as he couldn’t bear to see the expression upon that saccharine face. 

Just what expression were you making as a dragon retreated?  

The cellar of this estate was always cold, its stones never having once touched the sunlight before, thus they only brood in their frigidity. A somberness fitting to quell a heat which yearned to burn. 

The fever has consumed his body wholly, each pant leaving trails of foggy wisps. Neuvillette burrows deeper into the hoard of sheets, pillows, and blankets. The brush of the soft fabrics prickles his skin. 

How strange it is that despite the fever of heat igniting each corner of his flesh, despite the numerous thick covers twisting and burying his bare form, he’s still shivering. 

A chill ingrained so deep it’s in his very bones, skin alight but bones frozen over, just what is this purgatory? 

Annually it happens, a period where primal instincts exude past the rigid confines of a mortal form. Making its influence in the resurgence of draconic features over the mortal flesh that traps him.

No matter how raw his true form claws to be released, the mortal prison doesn’t relent. A curse he’s brought upon himself.

Laceratations of gluttony and cardinal sin sink deeper with each provocation. The creeks of the floorboards above and the sweet voice which leaked through the woods, the morsels of you that stirred the waters of instinct. 

From the depths of the torrent, he’s so desperately suppressing came the unquenchable thirst to lure you in. Beckon you down to this shadowy cellar so that the ugly and primal waters could swallow you wholly. 

But he mustn’t. Those soft touches and smiles had just been bestowed upon him, the twine of trust still delicate. How could he ever squander such privileges? For those lovely eyes of yours to look at him filled with nothing but fear and disgust, he’d rather be chained down here for the rest of eternity. 

He must endure it for a bit longer, he knows it’ll be over soon. The gale which sweeps through him is slowly lessening its blows. 

Even if the waters of primitive instincts howled and stormed, Neuvillette refused to leave this tangle of blankets and pillows. An unwavering grip refusing to submit to those demands. Thus nature had to find its own way to subsist off a drought. 

The heat hazed over his mind, conjuring up fantasies to appease the ever-unsettled water from its vapid reality.

“Neuvillette?” A soft voice calls out.

Just like now. Desire fogs up his senses to create a delusion, mimicking the way your warm voice beckons him. It’s nothing but a figment of his depraved lust. 

“Neuvillette?” 

He buries his ears further into the down covers to block the alluring mirages. Tickling him to submit to the temptation. But he mustn’t. Nothing more than a manifestation of lust. 

 The phantom donning your sweet voice calls out for him, and gentle touches send shivers through his nerves. Ah, he must vanquish this mirage before the fraying line of his self-restraint splinters apart. 

Nothing but smoke and mirrors conjured by desire, a rigid arm expels out from the covers to dissipate the siren’s lure. 

However, it wraps around something warm, a heat which his fever wails for. Intrinsically his shivering body covets that warmth, to be buried flush against the source so that this chill may finally stop its torment. 

So like any greedy dragon, his claws enclose around temptation and drag it into his decrepit cave of blankets and sheets. 

A satisfied purr judders through his stalwart body, a warmth which could finally reach his very bones. Thus, he burrows his face deeper into the shoulder of this phantom, a lovely aroma beckoning him to pull their soft body closer. 

“Neuvillette?…” 

His eyes snap open, realization flooding through him just as the chill that had been ingrained into his bones. This wasn’t an illusion. You weren’t an illusion. 

He tears himself away, just as a moth does once they realize a hypnotic flame had set their wings alight. Trembly arms firmly planted on either side of your body, snowy locks falling onto your face. 

“Are you alright?...” The sapphire luminance of his elongated horns shines across those sinless eyes. 

The strap of a nightgown halfway down your shoulder from when he snatched you beneath his savage form. 

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” he breathes, voice unsteady and taut. 

“You’ve been away for an awfully long time… I-” Your eyes were blown wide and lips pressed together, aghast gaze not daring to glance down at the raging rigidness pressed against the silk of your nightgown. 

Frenzied shivers of pleasure jostles through his veins, tremors racking his body all the way to the tips of his horns. In desperation his rigidnesses pleaded to feel you, throbbing so painfully a hiss leaves his lips.

“You need to leave, quickly please.” Leave before he traps you again.

 Before this pathetic excuse of a sovereign loses against himself, before he makes a fool of himself. Neuvillette tries to pull away, against the weeping wishes of his erections. Face too ashamed to even look at you, but a pair of tender hands guides his cheeks back.

“...But I missed you…” You whisper. 

Why are your hands embracing his face in this unsightly state? Are they not appalled by the patches of scales littered across them? Like a flame reaching out towards a moth. 

“Leave, please.” Don’t tempt him like this. 

“... Don’t you miss me?...” Your hold doesn’t budge.

Why do you look at him like that? Irises filled with warmth as his image is reflected in the flickering candlelight. Gazing wholly up at him. A cerulean glow tinting your hair and supple body. 

“Don’t…” He reasons, the last of his sensibility crying a warning of a sinful fruit. 

“Please, Neuvillette… won’t you hold me for just a bit? I missed you so much….” The shift of your shoulder causes the nightgown to slip further off your shoulder. 

Don’t call out to him like that. No, not as your bewitching body was so close to his. The glow of a candle illuminating the curve of your cheeks, disheveled hair framing your wide eyes. 

Don’t show him such a sight, for he’ll salivate to devour you until his teeth rot.

“Please?...” Coaxing his head down so that his forehead rests against yours. 

Your warmth, your soft touches, and your delectable aroma, they parch his throat so much it pained him. Just as painful as attempting to swallow down sand from a hellish desert, it aches and lacerates his throat. 

And here you were offering a lustrous fruit, so juicy and filled of sin, in front of his famished eyes. A cruel, cruel mercy. 

“... May…May I?” It’s unbearable, this parchedness in his throat, would you be so kind to quench it? 

Your sweet hum grants him permission. Eyes closed just as you turn a blind eye to his ravenousness, still stroking his tender cheeks. Neuvillette couldn’t deny himself any more of the warmth he’s coveted for oh so long. 

Thus, he delves head-first into the glimmer of that enchanting flame. Burying his nose into the crook of your neck, so vulnerable and complacent, to hoard your bewitching fragrance all for himself. His skin flushed against yours as his bones delight in your heat. 

The reigns of self-respect slip out from his hands as they let go in favor of running along your curves and edges. Each feature, your shoulders, and hips, aligns with details he’s long ingrained into his memory.

His fervor touches pushing down the silk fabric which dare disturb his worship. Nevuillette cants his head up momentarily, puffs of smothering breaths clouding the frosty air. 

Lilac eyes drink up how the chilly air made your delectable breast perky, trailing down the goosebumps lining your torso, and landing on your exposed thighs.

A dryness itches in his throat as callused hands bite into the tender skin and he parts those placid legs away. 

Oh, how could one ever take their eyes off that shiny, succulent fruit held out so openly in the hands of the tempter of all tempters?

They reveal to him the oasis he’d been hallucinating these grueling weeks. The tip of a serpentine tongue slips across his parched lips.

Since you so brazenly offered your body up to him, you wouldn’t have any objects against him finally getting a taste, right? 

His foreboding figure traverses downwards until his delirious face is right between the cusp of his salvation and demise.

Dilated pupils peering up at you for approval, an invocation for clemency from this drought. A merciful hand graces his cheeks once more, granting him his salvation and demise. 

His tongue escapes past his parched lips, as lengthy as it was insatiable, it licks a slow and passionate strip up your slit. A taste he once would only recount in the depths of his recollections. 

Does this new body of yours still have the same weaknesses? Will you still writhe in madness if he sucks on that delectable little nub? Or how about those hidden points concealed deep within?

Could this tongue of his bring you past the brink of insanity in this life as well?

There was only one way for Neuvillette to grasp the answers he sought. A long tongue slips past the entrance of your satin walls, welcomed with a lewd squelch. 

Grip parting your legs from his path further. Those quivering calls of ‘Neuvillette’and the pawing of your small hands against his head beckon him deeper. 

Ah, redemption, it’s far too late for him now. For Nevillette has taken a bite out from that forbidden fruit, the evidence of it was dripping down his chin. 

Ah, these slick velvety walls, he missed them. They clamp down with such ferocity along this beastly tongue, extensive enough to reach the deepest cavern of you.

A divine nectar begins to pool, Neuvillette retracts his tongue just enough for the heavenly taste to slide down his throat. Your sweet musk sends his olfactory system into chaos, rampant tongue returning to ravish you.

Not one drop of restraint left within him. It’s beastly how he’s devouring you. His tongue craves more of the delicacy he’s denied himself these past years, a thirst no water could quench. Wet muscles sliding up the whole length of your slit in a meticulous long lap, his nose bumping into your clit. 

Your mewls and sobs echo off the walls when he flicks his tongue over that sensitive nub. Your body jolts violently as the length of his tongue ventures into the honeypot, toes curling in the air, but his iron-clad grip doesn’t allow any room for escape.

Delicate fingers now entangled into his tussled locks, grasping onto illuminated horns. You were likely trying to find something to ground your dissipating sanity, how unfortunate that your actions only flamed the fires. 

A guttural growl echoed. Tongue now plunging further, slithering back and forth along your walls. For being such a sweet sacrifice for him, he’ll give a reward. Slithering tongue making sure to drag against that spot he’s memorized.

Judging from how your feet were arching off the sheets, it seems this sinful detail of yours was repeated as well. 

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls, your body twitching and flailing in reaction.

Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

He could feel your muscles begin to seize up, slick walls clamping harder on his writhing tongue. Was this foreign sensation too much for you already?

His long tongue explores every last crevice, tastebuds lapping against those weak spots deep within as his nose bumps and grinds against that lewd clit. This unsightly side of you. 

There’s more fervor in the lashes of his tongue, slurping up the nectar trickling out your greed, mixing with his spit dripping down his chin.

Your legs trashing but unable to go anywhere in his unrelenting hold, only able to pull on his silky locks for dear life as sobs tumble out. A flood of arousal adds to the mess on his chin. One he gladly laps up. 

Oh’s and ah’s were the only choked sounds your lips could make as your eyes rolled to the back of your scrambled mind.

Neuvillette still relishing in the elixir he’s denied himself for too long, not even the purest water could compare. Reveling in the taste until every last drip ran down his parched throat. 

Pulling away, a trail connects his lips with your quivering folds.  Callous hands dig further into your legs, making room for his body. Watching as the movements of your chest slowed, his brute figure engulfed your frame.

The ache was unbearable now, each impatient throb reprimanding him for delaying their greed. Neuvillette couldn’t deny their request any longer.

Back sitting up straight, his cocks thrumming against his abdomen, precum exuding out from their swollen heads.  

The cool air did little to calm the throbs of his fervors, the girthy shaft standing tall as its engorged tip weeped precum, its twin weeping just the same.

They hover over the softness of your belly, sharp pupils trail up the shadow they cast, heralding to where they crave to be buried. 

The heat of his body was suffocating, the burn in his throat greater than ever before. But why? He had drank from that forbidden oasis, it’s dripping down his chin, yet why has his thirst grown greater than before? 

Neuvillette was so… so close. If he had only endured it for another day or two, the gale within him would’ve relented and retreated away in defeat. But oh how viciously it’s gloating in its victory. Getting a dragon to bow his head to its cardinal blows. 

“Do you… feel better now, Neuvillette?” Slow pants leave your curled lips as your hands reach up to caress his taut face. 

This brazenness, this shamelessness, this insolence. Ah, these characteristics have followed you through the grave and into this life as well. You weren’t skilled enough this time around to hide your desire glazed across your pupils. 

Did you do this in hopes of making him indebted to you? Offer your sweet body in return for stealing his name from his locked lips? Was this why you traversed down to this dark cellar so late in such flimsy silks?

That gleam in those deceptive eyes, the audacity to believe you could tame the sea with just a flick of your finger. You devious temptress. 

“Better?… you’ve only fanned the flames, you devious woman.” A snarl from the depths of him. 

Before another word could leave your lips one torrid hand pins your wrist to the sheets. Nails much too sharp to be human dig into those fickle and troublesome fabrics hiding your skin from his touch.

An all too satisfying rip resounding through the air along with your yelp. Scraps join the tangle of sheets. 

Did his mortal prison deceive you too much? Did his mild mannerisms trick you into believing that he’s a merciful soul? Or did you always ignore the warnings?

A monster with a human face is still a monster. To believe that one’s patience is endless, only a human could be this impertinent.

His other vascular hand slides down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs hook behind his firm thighs. The ridges of his lower cock drag against your slick folds, wetting his girth from its leaking tip sliding down against your swollen clit. 

Precum mixes with the concoction as the glossiness spreads about his length. A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Neuvillette positions his engorged tip at your dripping entrance.

The sensation must’ve cleared the daze from your mind, your head cants downwards to stare at the two oddities. 

“A-are both of them going to…” Your grip tightens on the sheets, a subconscious search for comfort. 

Ah, now you remember danger. Now you realize your insolence to believe that a mere human could ever tame a proud dragon. 

“There won’t be any point in breaking you so quickly,” he snarls. Not missing the flutter of your hole as the weeping head dragged over it. It wouldn’t be good to break you so quickly. His sweet little sacrifice. 

Taking the erection which hung lower, he rubs its flushed tip along your slit. Each flinch and tremble sparked gratification through his veins.

The lashes of his tongue had aided in the preparation of these sinful walls, but the girth of his beastly tongue could not compare to the thickness pressed against these leaking folds.

The ghost of his breath flutters over your prickling skin. Neuvillette takes deeper breaths as the weight pressed against your core grew, the bulbous tip inching past the puckering entrance.

The stretch was maddening despite the restrained pace. Your walls fluctuate in a surging dance between clamping down and trying to remain relaxed.

As Neuvillette sinks his girth in bit by bit, its envious twin slithers against your aching clit. The sensitive bundle of nerves drags against each ridge and vein, sending jolts of searing pleasure through him and causing your satin walls to flutter. 

A velvety sack kisses against your slick folds, signaling that his length has reached its end. The fat tip of its twin resting just above your naval indicated just how deeply he was buried, trapped between your soft flesh and his sculpted body.

It’s crowded inside you, girth parting and stretching these satin walls while the length is pressed against the deepest most intimate part of you.

Forcing delectable little whimpers and gasps from your haughty lips. Quivering legs now locking ankles behind his back, like a pitiable attempt to hamper him. 

That arrogance disgraced to nothing but obscenity upon a wanton face. To see the devil so helpless and lewd under the manipulation of a dragon. What a wonderful sight. 

Surely your body remembers his. If not, then he’ll ensure it does now, he’ll engrain it into you for the next life. 

One cock slid against the satin ridges of your walls, the other indulging along your searing skin and grinding against your clit. He can’t deny how addictive your body always has been. 

Dragging as far back as your locked legs would allow him, the flushed head of one dick kisses your twitching clit, and he sinks back in.

Grunts and purrs reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open. 

His pace is methodical and controlled to his liking. Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge.

Each time making your core empty and yearning to clench around his girth. Just as a whine would leave your drooling lips, his hips would return to you what your core longed for. 

Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. Back and forth, back and forth the resounding slaps echoed. Mingling with his low groans and your pitched gasps, creating a sacrilegious yet divine hymn.

Your hand rakes deeper into his toned back possessed by desperation.

A few snowy strands are trapped between your writhing fingers. Pulling him closer to your smoldering skin, causing your clit to grind intensely against his swollen cock, as its twin twitches within your velvety folds.

Those babbles falling from your fed lips, were they pleas for him to bestow upon you leniency or begging him to speed up? 

“Do you wish to climax?” A polite façade purrs into your ear. 

Lilac eyes were not ignorant to how a devil keens under his body, her gaze drunk off a feverish potion of lust and desire. He could feel it, these velvet walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming ache within you. 

“That’s too bad.”

 His hips remain steady contrasting against the unevenness of your own pants, unaffected by your desperate mewls. You’ve been selfish enough, you’ve been greedy enough. If he were to grant you a taste of ecstasy, then it’ll be on his terms. 

He hasn’t gotten his fill yet, no, he wants to pound his shape forever into these lewd walls. The way they contract and squeeze around his girth with each drive of his hips, they’re practically begging him to.

Thus, he accelerates just a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more again. Nearly folding you with how flushed he was against you. 

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into a spark. One which set the both of you ablaze. Your nails digging into his skin and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent prattles resound through the room.

Your devious walls clamped around his length with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling to guide his throbbing head to your deepest greed. It was too much.

Neuvillette was powerless as his body pressed yours deeper into the damp sheets, trying to grasp onto any fleeting wisps of control as euphoria overtook him. 

Sinking his ravenous teeth into the tangle of the sheets beside your neck, he stifles the admission of his defeat. 

A heftiness is spilled within your walls and paints the expanse of your skin in an all-consuming wave. Thick release coating every corner of your core, to finally quell that ravaging heat.

Each subsequent twitch pours more into your crowded cavity and stains your skin. The filthiness of it all seemingly prolongs your sinful depravity. 

Chest expanding with pants, pressing your erected nipples against his taut chest. Neuvillette remains buried against you, brutish arms holding your body flush against his.

As if to anchor you, to not allow the turbulent waves of madness to sweep you far from him, or him from you. Keeping your quiver body safe against his. 

In the darkness behind his shut lashes, he felt it. Your soft caresses his silky tresses and heaving body. Even as your body heaves and quivers in exhaustion, why must you touch him so tenderly?

Why must you be so cruel? If your hands keep caressing his clammy skin, stroking his peeking scales, he’ll misunderstand.

He’ll believe the delusion that you love him.

Him and not the swaying flower fields of the sunkissed surface. 

Whispers cut through the haze of lust and passion, warnings crying for Neuvillette to escape. So he pulls his face from the tangle of sheets, lungs huffing as his eyes find yours.

Exhaustion muddles the hues of your gaze, but not enough to completely smother that glimmer still present. Ah, he knows that that glimmer was. 

Even in his heat-induced daze, he’s not naive enough to believe the sincerity presented in your eyes was anything other than duty.

He doesn’t want to be reminded that those hands, which cup his face with such tenderness, are bound by a sense of duty.

A reminder that he’s merely just a stepping stone on the path of your true desire.

He doesn’t want to see it. 

The head of his cock parting with a deafening squelch. A darkened gaze follows the pool forming between your splayed legs. Disgruntlement muddles lilac hues. 

But such discontent couldn’t last long when the twitch of a neglected length protests. Its bulbous tip longed for its turn within those sticky walls. A primal ordinance he couldn’t resist.

What to call this sensation, to scorn yet desire you just as much. 

It wasn’t long before your hips were maneuvered up, your plush ass now up in the air as your quivering arms and face pressed into the sullied sheets.

As one hand supports your unsteady hips. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your cunt, glistening with temptation and dripping with sin. 

Hooked fingers slides up the weeping slit, collecting the sacrilegious mixture. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Spreading them in front of his gaze, tracing over the stringy nectar stretched between them. 

How strange, those lying lips of yours whimper for ‘rest’ and a ‘moment to catch your breath’. Yet your body is still so eagerly exposing itself to his eyes, agape cunt so eagerly twitching and slick. 

You don’t even try to writhe yourself away from his hold, not even a single attempt to hide yourself from his hunger.

How skilled you are at fanning the flames, perhaps it's a talent inherent to devils like you. The tempter of all tempters. 

You’ve always been like this since the very first rendition. 

If only you weren’t so strong-willed. If only you weren’t so clever to trick him. If only you weren’t so enchanting. 

Then he wouldn’t have bent to your whims, the sea would’ve cleansed out the mortal filth from stolen land. Then he wouldn’t be trapped in this disgrace of a body. Then he wouldn’t be in love with you.

The betrayal, the disgrace, and this punishment would’ve never happened if only a fool didn’t surrender everything for a mere, fleeting creature.

Why must you make him repeat the same mistake again?

There it was again, that surging torrent within him making its voice known in the echoes of his mind. Whispering the hint on how a dragon would defeat the flame that had scorched him those years ago.

Smother the flame with the tides of depravity and vulgarity. Taint your arrogance with shame. 

There wasn’t an ounce of gentleness remaining within his eyes, a beastly hunger taking its place.

Yes, you must pay the debt of reducing him to such a humiliating state.

His neglected cock prods against that greedy cunt of yours. Unmerciful hands bruising the plushness of your hips. 

The sinful concoction from the previous sessions allowed his tormented length into your walls without resistance.

The neglected cock finally indulging in the spasms of your abused walls, it’s its turn to bully those weak spots with its thick head. 

Sobs sung in broken chokes leave your drooling lips. Trembling fingers enmeshed into the fabric as if to find some ground for your senses to land after their fall from euphoria.

He won’t allow you reprieve. No, not even for a moment. He’ll shatter your sanity and arrogance once and for all. 

Nothing interrupted the pistoning of his hips as he fucked you through overstimulation, heavy balls slamming against your swollen lips.

The previous twin cock was now experiencing the hard nub of your engorged clit running along its veins and ridges. 

There’s no room for an exchange of words. No, the two of you have long been pasted that point.

No sandy ground beneath as the two of you sank under the ravenous tides of primal instincts and pleasure.

Cacophonous growls, whimpers, and sobs filling the absence along with the thwacks of skin against skin echoed back from the cellar walls. 

You keen under the ram of his hips, jostled head writhing against the soiled sheets. The motion allows your hair to fall over your shoulders.

Exposing an untainted patch of skin. Sharp pupils watching how beads of sweat trailing down your nape reflect the azure glow of his body. 

An itch assailing his fangs even has his hips continue their barrage against your soft ass. Those lovely vulgar moans wane out from his hearing as his senses could only obsess over the untarnished expanse. 

Ah, what if there’s a way for him to pin you here until the stars themselves burn out? You were given to him as his bride.

An offering made to him.

So why can’t he forever confine you within his clutches? Just as you were the original sin which damned him to this cove.

Long tongue dragging along the fresh skin, feeling the jolts of your body. 

He’s done it once before, he’s cursed you before. Imprinting a curse upon your very soul, one which followed you through the hands of death and even when the hands of life reformed your body from the earth.

Why not renew it? 

Neuvillette pins your upper body further into the tangled bedding, one hand abandoning your hips in favor of raveling in the mess of fabric.

Your heated skin felt against his exhilarated fangs, hungry to sink into your nape. 

‘Till death do us part’, that’s not enough.

Such fleeting mortal oaths are much too meek for dragons.

No, those atrocious murmurs in his thoughts command him to curse you in the next life. And the next one, and the one after that as well. 

It’s not like your muddled head would understand, nothing but mindless prattles and mewls from the suffocating pleasure only he could ever give you.

But that’s fine, just drown nicely in lust and desire. He’ll always be waiting there at the bottom to drag you down deeper. 

Just as the tips of his pointed teeth broke through quivering skin, delicate fingers grasp upon a burly hand.

Intertwining their grasp together upon rumpled linen, a subconscious search for comfort.

An action that remits an iota of reason back to his foggy mind, hazy eyes moving toward the sight of your hand clutched around his. 

Even as he’s ravishing your weeping walls, flooding your body with his filthy essence which trickles down your thighs and ass, and chasing his own carnal needs… you still reach for him.

Shamelessly pulling his touch closer, even when the throes of rapture banished all thought from your jostled mind. 

A whisper resurfaces amidst the fog and clamor of instinct and rage.

However, it’s a whisper which made his incisors dare not budge another inch. The inkling of truth which he thought he had silenced within the depths of his heart. 

The accuracy that this wasn’t love. No, what his instincts craved was not love, it was obsession. 

For love was not this sadistic possession, not to curse you just to ease his own damnation.

No, love is supposed to be much like the warmth of your palm flushed against his knuckles. 

He remembers now, the lesson you taught him all those years ago. A demonstration witnessed with his own eyes.

Love was sacrifice, just as how you offered yourself to the tides, quelling the rage of a vengeful dragon. Because you loved your village too much to allow them to drown. 

Retreating away from the transgression almost committed, fangs repressed behind closed lips. Neuvillette presses a sweet kiss against the shallow wound.

 To love you isn’t to steal you away from the embrace of the star who’s forsaken him. It’s to hoist you up to that beloved sunlight. Just where you belonged. 

Oh, how could he not love you?

The bride offered to a dragon in a white dress who once dared to command the great beast to stand still as she braided flowers into his hair.

A brazenness contrasted with the gentleness of her smile. 

The voices of heart and cruelty rang out in vociferous battle in his mind, Neuvillette buries his face into your shoulder. Pursuing the savor of your skin, pinning you deeper into the tangle of bedding.

Providing more simulation for the pulsing cock wedged against your swollen clit and messy sheets. The neediness of his movements exposed just how close his undoing was. 

The hand on your abdomen pulled you impossibly close, adding pressure to the bulging outline of his cock.

Amplifying the ecstasy coursing through your veins, abused walls clamping down on each ridge and each vein of his heft girth. The shape engrained into your wanton core, marvelous sobs and mewls echoing off the empty walls. 

Soon those moans become shattered in your throat, eyes rolling back further with each heavy thrust and slap of his balls. Lungs cease all function as rapture unravels you wholly and exhilaration becomes your undoing. 

Sloppy contractions mix the repercussions of multitudinous ruination, dripping out your convulsing cunt. Just before a hot surge replenishes the brood that oozed out on the sullied sheets.

Grunts vibrate against your back reminding your body to breathe. 

Thick ropes paint your belly and sheets, making an absolute mess. Contracting walls trying but failing to contain the aftershocks from his cock buried deep within, already stretched to their limits, capacity long exceeded. Shudders rack your body and his the same. 

With hands still entangled, he coaxes your body around. Granting him a mesmerizing view of your debauched face.

The face he’s so enamored with that he bows his down closer, bodies still connected as he wishes to echt every last detail of you into his being. So that eternity may remember you. 

Softness resurfaces in his bones, a tender kiss pressed upon your fingers. Soothing those tremors as he guides your consciousness back to reality. 

He holds you, remaining inside as to contain his greed spilled deep inside. The heftiness of his cock prods against your shuddering walls. Every last fiber of your being overstimulated with pulsing pleasure. 

Yet, your hand refused to let go. Still holding him toward your exhausted figure in the dying light of the candle.

Whimpers and coos exchanging in a duet of devotion, a hymn so placate it quells the vapid torrents ever so slightly.

Placid fingers drawing circles into your sore back. A gentle lilac gaze keeping watch as your teary eyes retire behind heavy lashes. 

Blood and water no matter how much they’re mixed, won’t produce wine.

However, just for tonight in a realm heavy with lust, passion, and phantasm, they’ll craft a wine of delusion. One filled with nothing but wishful fantasy. 

This wine of delusion shall be enough to quench the thirst of lascivious compulsions and vengeance. 

The gentle caresses of steam ghost past your leaden lashes, lukewarm ripples lap against your skin. Your sore body propped up against the porcelain, as Neuvillette drags a dampened towel along your skin. 

A pang of guilt stung him each time the cloth passed over a discolored imprint. No amount of diligent rubs would purify your skin of those bruises in the shape of his fingers. 

A stir from muscle gradually awakening from slumber reflected in the wavelets of the bath. The sensation of a damp towel must’ve further jolted your senses back to alertness. 

A cerulean glow glistens off the polished surface as your vision finally centers on the figure rising warm water over your limp body.

Attentive eyes immediately connect with yours as he scans your expression for discomfort. 

“Are you hurting anywhere?” Neuvillette halts the towel. 

You respond with a slow shake, your throat must be too sore to answer. Despite how he tries to conceal them behind a robe, blotches of azure painted along his fair skin.

Proof that draconic influence was still in rebellion of his body. All the while he’s very much aware of your eye’s every move. What an appalling sight it must be for you. 

“If I make you uncomfortable I’ll leave promptly, this was just the only solution I could find to bathe-”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Voice hoarse as your frame melts closer to his, delicate fingers intertwining with between the spaces of his own scaly fingers.

Allowing your breaths to minge in tandem in the steam-damped tiles of the tranquil bathroom. 

“Does it hurt?” A warm thumb traces soft circles along the rough scales along his hand. 

Did you catch the subtle twitches and jolts of his muscles? A mortal body rejecting draconic influences, draconic influences revolting against a mortal cage. Still, he shakes his head. Lilac gaze watching your eyes trail between the scales and his eyes with skepticism. 

“I’m not quite sure as to why I’m still in this… state.” Neuvillette gives a preemptive answer to the question he assumes to be hanging off your tongue. 

“Do you… miss the sea?” However, it seems you had another inquiry hidden in your ever perplexing mind. 

A deep sigh resonates through the tranquil air. He stares at the tips of his fingers dipped into the warm water, a taunting substitute for the sea that called for him. 

“I suppose it’s natural that I yearn for it…”

A hum was your only response, eyes hidden behind closed lashes. Neuvillette just couldn’t decipher that smile of yours, curled lips reflected over the rippling surface of the steaming water. 

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

“Your body is still delicate, please let us return back to the estate-”

“I might actually grow roots into that bed if I’m to rest there any longer.” A pout was evident in your voice. 

Taking a few greater strides, your body pulls in front of Neuvillette’s pace. It was only momentary of course, for he swiftly rejoins your side.

Observant eyes not missing the subtle wobble in your steps along the pastures of the village.

“Please just don’t stray too far.” He relents, offering up his arm for support. 

With a gracious smile, your arm curls around his, interlocking your fingers with his as two pairs of steps ambled along the grass.

Soon a familiar pool of water came into view, enticing two pairs of eyes with its glimmering ripples.

What it strange sight those waters showed, a cursed dragon who yearned for his place and a cursed mortal who longed for the sun, two cursed beings holding hands in the reflection along the pristine surface. 

“I believe this is far enough. ” His arm pulls your frame closer, a subtle hesitance tainting his tone. 

However, your body didn’t budge. Resolute stance not moving even one bit watching your reflection warp and contort in the water. A deep breath echoes off the wall. 

“Neuvillette… do you miss the sea?” Your stare parts with the water, now peering straight into his lilac hues. 

‘Do you miss the sea?’ You’ve asked him this question many times. He's always given a composite response, but maybe his flowery words diluted the meaning too much to your ears. 

“Yes, I do miss the sea.” His candid yearning. 

There was a question his lips didn’t dare ask, ‘Do you miss the sun?’, Neuvillette wanted to riposte your questions with this question of his.

But he knew it would be pointless, for he already knew the answer. Wordlessly written all over your melancholic stare into the pond, the longing to return to the sun, to be with blood and not water. 

To love you, would be to hoist you up to where you longed to be, in the embrace of the warm sun. Neuvillette had thought he made up his resolve long ago.

However, would it be too selfish of him to wish to turn back?

To convince you to back into the tranquil estate where the Melusines await your return with those dishes you taught them how to cook.

Or maybe would at least try on those gowns still untouched? Could you wait until all those books in the library were read through by your sweet voice?

Would you be oh so kind enough to hold his hand just for a moment longer? At the very least, would you allow him to memorize your warmth? 

His grip on your hands tightens ever so briefly, a shaky breath trembles in his chest before he releases it along with the tension in his fingers.

No, it wouldn’t be fair to stall any longer, you deserve your happy ending. 

Calmly, the dragon bows his head closer to yours. Ignoring the aggrieved voices that cried for him to swallow back to secret just about to spill from his tongue.

The ending of this tale won’t ever change, for a dragon is just as foolish as he was before. 

“My true name is-!” His voice was stunned as a pair of soft lips silenced him. 

Your lips pressed against his own, forcing back the secret. His bewildered eyes hone in upon your face, but your lashes were shut as your hands pull his face closer. The resolve wanes from his bones as he sinks into your embrace. 

As your lips pull away, gasping for breath. He places his hands atop yours, searching your face for an answer. All he got was that indecipherable smile. 

Pulling his face down closer to yours again, your lips find themselves right next to his pointed ears. Under a faint breath which left your parted lips came the secret he kept locked away.

Since when? When did you find his name? Or… did you know this whole time? 

Neuvillette reels back in the embrace of your cruel hands. Lilac eyes stare deep into yours, peering through the cracks in that enchanting façade of yours. 

Ah, this whole time, did he not discover the false innocence in the irises of the deceptor of all deceptors? 

A foolish moth fell for the deception of a devil once again, flying to the flicker of a candle until his wings were charred off into ash.

Those sentences written upon parchment weren’t lies, all other monsters fall secondary to the devil. Even a dragon. 

“Why?” Was all he could muster, oh cruel devil why did you play him a fool once more?

“Because I wanted to see you again… but I knew you wouldn’t quite share the same sentiment since the moment I heard your voice… so I lied,” Those audacious eyes of yours never looked away. 

Ah, how could he forget how crafty and observant a devil is with her schemes? The charming enchantment as she performs her deceptions. Speaking shameless lies with those bewitching lips.

“If you wanted to see me… then that day at the loch… why weren’t you there?” The stir of the torrent within put a snarl into his throat.

Why must you keep lying to him? 

Ah, from the start, Neuvillette should’ve listened to the clamorous cries of his instincts. To withdraw away from the flame, to extinguish the hell fires before they left another lesson learned upon his skin.

Yet, he’s still within the embrace of your cruel hands. His body just wouldn’t pull away. 

Just what is this level of stupidity called? For a moth to still crave the warmth of the flame which charred its wings into ash. Just what is this lunacy called? 

“The nobles locked me away after those tyrants stole your name from my tongue, they locked me away.” Torment brewing in those irises which reflected him. 

A chill staggers the surge of the torrent, an icy sting which stupefied the rampaging currents.

For generations upon generations of scribes and poets never penned this detail down in any rendition of a classically beloved tale. 

“I begged them, I banged against the bars of the cell, even clawed at the stone walls until my fingers were raw, but they left me there to rot in the cold… I just wanted to see you one last time, just once more.” Those bitter pools formed in your penitent eyes spill over. 

This wasn’t how the tale was supposed to end. The maiden, who deceived a dragon for her people, was supposed to be hailed a hero. You were supposed to have a happy ending, so why didn't you get that? 

“All I ever wanted was for you and me to walk amongst humanity… look where that got us…” Tears descend from your cheeks and onto the grass below, a humorless chuckle. 

Was this another lie falling from those saccharine lips of yours? Sugar dusted on the shell of a vile trick? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“That foolish wish of mine… it must’ve been so painful. I’m so sorry.” Your thumb traces over the scales dotted over his cheek, evidence of a draconic rebellion against a mortal condemnation. 

Does your touch scorn or soothe him? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll say sorry one thousand times if you wish.” A tremor in your voice.

The surge within him couldn’t sustain itself, faltering and receding back to a placid, pathetic ripple. Perhaps… It's tired.

Tired of holding onto this futile grudge. Not when the bitter answers its tides were ravenous for had finally sunk in. 

He takes a deep breath, collecting his resolve. 

“...what… what do you wish for?” Just how will this rendition end? Neuvillette doesn’t know. 

But he knows his hands should hold onto yours, desperately etching the details of your tender touch into its memory. Rations to sustain him for the rest of a solitary eternity. 

He hears your slow inhale, preparing your throat to speak your selfish desires. 

“I wish for your curses to become mine alone to bear.” You reveal your selfish wish, pressing the voucher of freedom into his hands. 

He had that look on his face again. Disbelief stupefied each muscle of his dashing face, wide eyes peering into yours trying to find the hint of a jest. Your gaze doesn’t waiver as your finger tightens around his. 

“Grant me my wish… please.” Lips stretching with a reassuring smile.

His lips press into a thin line, face returning to its place between your warm hands, he takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’s just his sense of responsibility and fairness that compelled him to fulfill this wish. 

Or maybe, the dragon just couldn’t help but submit to the whims of his beloved, a statement that remained no matter what rendition of the tale it was.  

Releasing the breath he held, the shift in the air was palpable, a lightness in his chest. The pond off to the side billows momentarily, drawing focus toward its excited ripples.

Releasing his hold, feet leading him to the side of the saltwater before his mind could process his own actions. 

He could hear it again, the hymns of the water singing the end of his exile. Reaching out a hand, it sinks past the cool surface, the tides welcoming back their prince with mellow kisses. 

The ocean calls for him, so why is he still staring back at you? The one who’ll never embrace the sea again for the rest of her life, nor ever feel the sway of Summer days in a field full of Pluie Lotus. His eyes conveyed a question his lips couldn’t bear to ask. Thus, you give the answer he seeks. 

 “Think of it as my reparations to you, an overdue apology for my mistake, for making you to suffer so much.” That glimmer in your eyes, one he understands now. 

Moving the hex to a body whose true master was the mistress of time, a body blessed with mortality. If a miracle isn’t enough to make a curse break, then perhaps the tides of time could. 

Taking a piece of the curse with each tick of a clock, just like how the waves take with it grains of sand from warm beaches. 

Once a withered mortal body is called back to the earth, the clauses will be fulfilled after many centuries. Unsettled grudges eroded away like those sandy banks. 

Until the pull of the ground makes its visible influence on your skin. Until your locks come to resemble the snowy shade you’ve lovingly run your fingers through. Until the sweet earth hums for you to embrace it once more, you shall remain here. 

What a clever scheme it all is, a masterful plan which could only ever be conjured by you. You devil, oh so devious, devil. 

“You can hate me, I won't hold it against you,” you whisper. “May this tale end in your happiness, let me do this much for you.”

A bitter bile festers at those lies of yours. How could such lies fall from your lips so easily when they always left such a vile taste upon his tongue?

Gaze honed in upon your frame, watching the gentle smile hold back the slight quiver of your shoulders. He stands back up, slow strides returning him to your side. Taking your hands into his larger ones, placing your soft touch back along his cheeks. 

“Silence… I won’t hear such deceit.” Snowy locks brushing against your fingertips.

“But I wasn’t lying…” Confusion furrows your brow, but your hands remain cupping his face.

Moving away, he studies the rivulets of regret and anguish that leave bitter trails down your cheeks. He swallows back the objections clawing up his throat, such vile words don’t belong on your tongue. 

“How could I hate you?” he confesses. 

Neuvillette has finally come to a realization. All those renditions, all those differing retellings of a classic tale. He had read them all wrong, basis clouding his interpretation. 

For the princess did love her dragon. Just as he loved her, all this time. 

Together in the depths of a cave away from the prying eyes of the divine. Breaths in time with one another as they stand in the embrace of one another, until the dragon bows his head back down.

Touching his forehead to hers, so that maybe Neuvillette could get a glimpse into that ever mystical mind of yours. 

“How can I ever hate what I’ve coveted for so long?” He asks. 

That ever-stirring torrent, that spiteful surge, where did it go? Those clamorous voices with their vengeful snarls and cynical bellows, why weren’t they intrepid enough to direct those foul words toward you? 

Not you, never you. How could they ever hate you, the heroine of a Fontainian fairytale they’ve pitifully yearned for so long? 

“Am… am I loved then?” Your lashes were squeezed shut as if death was rapping upon them. Too cowardly to face the verdict. 

“Yes… yes, you devious devil…” Neuvillette couldn’t help but chuckle at such an endearing sight.

He feels your fingers tense around his skin, astonishment in the features of your face. It soon melts away into those welling pools as a smile pushes against the corners of your eyes. 

Pressing your forehead to his, a warm droplet rolls down your cheek and over the curve of your lips. He simply rests his head against yours.

Only now in the last sentence of this retelling of a tale which has been twisted, distorted, and embellished away from the initial narrative did an unwritten truth emerge. 

A clever maiden was just as foolish as a proud dragon. The weight of their foolishness was so great it dragged them beneath the waves and kept them in a cove deep away from the prying eyes of gods. 

However, if this idiotic dragon could intertwine his fingers with yours. If he could be by your side until the hands of time call you back to the earth in this final rendition. 

If he could be the happy ending you deserved, then he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[crispy-armpit]

✧ 𝖒𝖞 𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑 ✧

ʏᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴇᴀ ɢᴏᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𓇼˚₊‧꒰ა 🫧 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚𓇼

⭒ 𝘴𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: 10 dollars on a dare leads you to break one superstition that changes your life forever. you begin to learn secrets tied to your family and upbringing, at the cost of your freedom. who is this mysterious Anshumat, and why does he want you?

⭒ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵: 𝘨𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘳𝘺, violence, implied stalking, kidnapping, choking, reader gets called a bride once

⭒ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 1,418

⭒ a/n: yan sea god was inspired by an Indonesian myth called Nyi Roro Kidul! it's a really interesting legend if you want to learn more abt it ^^ also.... man tits...... meow..

will you venture down this path?

growing up, you would stay over at your grandmother's house every summer. her beautiful seaside cottage made the perfect accommodation for a family getaway. throughout your childhood, the superstitious old woman restricted you from doing specific things. rules like never whistling at night, don't open an umbrella indoors, etc.

you'd eventually found out that these were just scare tactics for children to make them listen. but there was one rule that your grandmother seemed to fear the most, a rule that never made sense... never wear white to the local beach. and when questioning her about the rule, she'd tell you the same story every time.

"long ago...

a cruel serpent god who once ruled these waters would rise from the ocean and into the islands, devouring innocent villagers and destroying temples along its path.

the gods and humans were furious at its actions. fed up with the destruction and death, they prepared a plan to thwart the serpent; a binding curse.

the serpent was cursed to spend its days rotting in a hidden island, where it was accompanied by its servants. it was also tasked with granting blessings to sailors passing through the rocky tides, where it weighed the sins of each individual to seal their fates.

but over the decades... the serpent grew bored and lonely. through a loophole, the serpent found a way to abduct humans. you see.. the serpent loves the colour white and pearls. so much so, it would use its voice, so alluring, to lure the poor victims who happened to wear such things. and once in the water, the serpent would drag the human to its temple where they would become its slave.. or worse...

its spouse."

here you are today, telling the same tale in front of your young niece and nephew. "well, that's one way to get bitches." your nephew, Keona laughs. a scoffing Kehlani adds on, "nah, who would want to marry an overgrown slimy snake?"

"hey now, take that shit to grandma. she just assigned me to be your storyteller," you shrugged. "and this story has a real reasoning behind it, ok?"

"what? sexy sea snake destroying villages?"

"no, it's so that little rascals like you..." you drill both your index fingers onto their foreheads, "are easier to find if you ever get lost at sea."

how did i end up here...

facepalming yourself, you sigh. you were disappointed in yourself. how'd you let those little punks reel you in a dare? where was the self-respect? the dignity? seriously, breaking your grandmother's number 1 rule for what? 10 dollars?

you walk along the shore while wearing a flowy white shirt and neck encased in one of your mother's pearl necklaces. the dare was simple: successfully walk down the shoreline without chickening out and boom— an extra 10 dollars into your wallet.

you'd prove to the twins that you weren't scared of a little bedtime story. buuut just in case you did happen to go missing (for reasons that are totally not hungry sea serpent related), you brought essentials in a bag, left a letter for your family, and are currently being watched by the twins.

laughing at yourself for the paranoia, you nearly reach the edge of the walk until you hear a feminine wail from between the hidden rocks. is someone hurt? the sound was coming from beyond your finishing point so it wouldn't hurt to check, right?

signalling the twins to come over, you bend down to their heights, "listen, it sounds like someone's in trouble past those rocks. so I want you both to go grab the first aid kit and call Officer Holden over, 'kay?" they nod and scamper off into town.

approaching the rocks, you peek in to find a naked... mermaid?! observing her, you notice the torn skin on her iridescent tail and warily walk over to her. "uh... hey? hola? salve? hallo? i'm ah— good human! no... nooooo bad.."

you notice the air seems to smell... sweeter?

the woman looks up at you from the sand with pleading eyes, "please— please help me! my name is Coralie, my master, he—"

"woah, it's ok! you're safe, help is coming. uh, your master? did he do this to you? are you an underwater criminal?!"

a distant melodious voice interrupts you. Coralie's previously pained face now warps into a sinister grin as her wound disappears. she crawls towards you as your vision fogs up and your knees buckle to the soft sand. the song lulls you into a deep sleep, your body now being pulled into the shallow waters.

you awake to the bright rays of sunshine and lungs filling in with fresh air. but the next in your line of sight knocked all the air out of your body again.

the luminous, barely-clothed body of an unknown man sat above you. his 9'7 self relaxed on the marble throne, with 2 pairs of eyes fixated on you. what the fuck is that?

you gawk at him, "holy mother of god..."

i'm not dreaming, am i?

his gaze shifts into amusement, "wrong. we gods do not have mothers. we were created."

"you're a... a god?"

"is it not obvious enough from my appearance? would you like to see another version of me?" the towering deity begins to warp into a feminine body as if it was melting and moulding itself. "is this preferable?" her new voice is flirtatious, genuinely curious.

then, she tries to warp into a third body. the transformation looks more painful than the one prior, it barely shifts halfway into a gruesome beast before returning back to its first body. he huffs while grasping his golden collar, "this... is not my original form. I have been cursed, long ago, to never set foot on human lands. this island is both my kingdom and prison."

you shakily stand up the marble floor, now noticing Coralie standing beside the throne with a pair of legs. slowly processing his words, you piece together the clues from his story and your memories of the abduction. this couldn't be...

"you are.. you're the sea serpent god! I can't believe grandma was right— shit, shit shit—"

he smirks at your panic, "correct. I am Anshumat; shapeshifter deity of the raging tides, granter of safe travels—"

"murderer and enslaver." you complete.

Anshumat roars, "correct again! you're on a strike, dear y/n. though trust me, my servants are treated well."

"..how do you know my name?"

"oh you poor thing, granny never told you? I know everything about you— a name is barely anything."

"told me what?"

"she used to be my cupbearer. until she escaped with that bastard traitor. isn't that right, Coralie?"

she nods, "yes, master."

"please sir, let me leave. my family— they'll search for me! I have a cat at home! I haven't even finished my favourite show.. so please..." you try to list more life goals.

he chuckled, "oh you are so amusing. and why would I do that? we've barely just been engaged, dear."

"what do you mean engaged?"

"I've been watching you since you took your first breath on earth, y/n. so imagine my surprise— to see you wrapped up in my favourite colour, like a pretty bride. you're my sacrifice."

fear tingles your spine, "wait, that was just a dare! i didn't really mean it!"

"doesn't matter. you will be my pearl."

"no! I have a family, a partner—"

"i said... it doesn't fucking matter." he slams his fist against the throne arm, "and you'll be seeing the head of that twat soon enough."

you don't give him a glance before you're turning your back and run down the staircase of the grand temple. careful not to trip, you focus on the flight of stairs, painfully aware of the loud footsteps approaching behind you. it doesn't take a second for Anshumat to pull on the collar of your shirt and slam you onto the staircase.

he sits atop you, lower region heavily grinding against your stomach. "get off me! don't you have hundreds of other options?! why me?!" you scream.

his bedazzled skin blocks your view of the sun, furious eyes glowing under his shadow, and sharp teeth bared into a snarl. "you do not get to leave me again. you will stay, and worship me. this island will be our eternal paradise."

large hands pressing against your throat, you struggle before darkness begins to cloud your vision.

"this time, you will live."

[slowd1ving]

Hi! I love your lookism fics, I would love to see your take on Seongji Yuk x gn reader. Something sweet and simple would be great!

I see that you like using science metaphors and im curious to how many can you use in one fic. I’m a complete chemistry nerd 🤓 😂

THE MUNDANE . 　⁺ ✦ SEONGJI YUK

In which an amateur stargazer finds that no, they do not teach biology in Cheonliang, and yes, gravity does in fact affect everything with mass. woah... gravitational fields.... woah inverse square law... woah, G.... ik you probably wanted more chemistry but I couldn't resist the physics gnawing away/// arghhh pairing: seongji yuk + gn reader warnings: prejudice (quite literally lookism) wc: 1.3k

LOOKISM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

There’s a monster living in the Cheonliang mountains. 

A flutter of cloying kindness greets you when you first pull up to the rural village: tires burning on summer asphalt, senseless droning of cicadas, and warm rain seeping through your thin clothes. No rhyme or reason as to why you decided on this particular village to stop by; though, the rhyme might just be the hiccuping couplet of your pulse. Specifically, this pair of beats as your motorcycle drives past the tunnel; heavy, like two black holes encountering each other for the first time. Spinning, spinning. As the wheels on your bike do, naturally. 

Six fingers and toes, he’s cursed by the gods! Hark, my children—

Newton’s theory of gravitation dictates any particle with matter attracts any other with a force inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them. This is the inverse square law. It’s used for practical and theoretical applications, but it’s pretty useful when considering why people are drawn to something when they are close to it. Emotionally, physically, empathetically. Psychologically. See, once one begins to increase the proximity of two souls, there is a certain degree of attraction that occurs consequently. 

Pray should you ever encounter this one, for he is but a merciless, mad beast.

It’s a stagnated hum that twines through the fields. Little kids begin the verse, and their elders finish it while you leisurely drive past. Over and over. They play hopscotch to the rhythm in their secluded playgrounds, clap their small hands to the beat, and seem to have no eerie feelings behind their bright smiles. A distorted tale, wound through with the modest price of one person’s dignity. There’s a basis for every tale, after all—bitterly warped to suit the storyteller’s perspective. 

Do not pity the one abandoned by all. 

Thus, when you begin the winding slopes through the fields and up around the mountains, it reduces the distance between you and the epicentre. You trust your gut. You believe (mostly) that what compels you to park your motorcycle on this particular trail is no madness, but rather a tangible, logical reason. A scientific one, if you will. You’re a mass, the monster of Cheonliang certainly is a mass—thus gravity objectively binds you both. 

It’s not entirely implausible to suggest the rumours entice you as much as anything, but the heavy telescope bound to your vehicle is as good a reason as any to stop by this eve. And that: the buzz in your very cells, that seem to divide simply to tug you in the direction of the sprawled forest. Stargazing in Cheonliang it is, then. 

Despite your idle curiosity, you don’t go looking: quietly setting up your equipment in a clearing where the breeze flows cleanly, like fragile forgiveness in a peaceful room. It’s a saccharine solitude—as sweet as tanghulu when you close your eyes. 

“It’s dangerous.” Those are the first words you hear in this village that aren’t blighted by eerie insinuation. Here, where the mountain is solitary and sepulchral, that is the only time you find someone who isn’t the real monster in this mired town. Human, flesh and blood and warm. 

“Isn’t everything?” You peer through the eyepiece experimentally, focusing on the calm tide in his voice—

“No need t’be a smartass.” His cadence becomes slightly rougher as you hear a dull thump; by the movement of syllables, you’d judge he just leaned against a tree. “Was a piece of friendly advice.”

Hmm. You look away from the sky that’s somehow cleared up—miserable grey giving way to faint periwinkle, then atrament smattered with incandescent freckles—then at the stranger peering right back at you. 

“What should I be wary of, then?” There’s a relaxed sort of ease in your body, one you’re unfamiliar with. 

He stares at you askance, as though you’re an idiot. 

“Strangers,” he answers brusquely, pointing at himself. “Haven’t you heard the rumours about this place?”

“Oh.” You turn back to the equipment, leaning down to bring the height of the scope up comfortably. Stars, you think dreamily. “That stupid song? Here I thought you’d say boars or something.”

“Stupid song?” he echoes. “And you still went up?”

Six digits on his left hand as it sways downwards, six on the right hand nestled in his pocket. He’s tall, so much so that anyone would feel intimidated staring up at the guy. Close—he’s close by, which is perhaps why you gravitate towards him. Two masses, feeling greater force with greater proximity. This was the epicentre that drew you here. 

“Is biology class illegal here or something?” you counter incredulously. “Do I need to pay attention to fear mongering?”

“No,” he murmurs thoughtfully. “I guess you don’t.”

It’s strange. Your first encounter with Seongji Yuk can only be classified as abnormal. Gazing at the massive bodies scattered across the heavens, it’s perhaps common sense that the man next to you interests you as much as those heavenly giants. He’s closer, after all—kneeling down beside you so he can peek up at stars just as large as him. 

Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s simply science that ties the two of you together. He gives you his name, you offer yours in return. Seongji Yuk. Lying in the grass with damp seeping into your shirt, you ramble about astrophysics, while he carefully coats fruits in molten sugar. Shards as sharp as the words at the base of the mountain, though far sweeter. 

He’s cautious—you can feel his eyes on you as you sit on his wooden steps. In fact, his eyes trail after you when dawn breaks and it’s time to move on to your original destination. 

“I’ll come visit,” you vow, for the cycle of orbit has already begun. Two masses have drawn closer to each other, and naturally begin the spin round their counterpart. 

“No one told you about stranger danger?” You’re too damn trusting: haloed in ditzy stars, the type in cartoons when characters hit their heads. Except it’s permanent, and you don’t look stupid, but rather awash in their glow. 

“Everything’s dangerous,” you evade sheepishly, and that’s that. 

Summer comes and goes, but it’s fine not bringing your telescope in the chill of autumn. After all, you’ve found something equally as captivating to stare at. Inky eyes, dotted with such a shine that it looks like a star’s emerged rather than a pupil. 

It’s as if the year is put into distillation—monthly visits condensing into fortnightly ones, then weekly ones, before you’re driving the hour down to this place every few days. He’s made you a little space in his house: one where you can snooze on a spare futon with little worry for safety. For there’s no place more secure in a ‘monster’ lair than by the side of a so-called ‘monster’. 

“Quit staring,” he warns, matter-of-factly while the axe collides with the wood on the stump—cleaved neatly in two, almost too cleanly. 

“You’re pretty, I just can’t help it,” you sigh, leaning back on the creaky porch. There’s a book by your side: a thick text filled with particles and numbing quanta. 

You’re strange. He’s had this thought for a while, but especially today. In fact, you may be more supernatural than he, for each time you say such things, his heart skips one or two beats. Like clockwork, the mechanical nature of your spell is guaranteed: mouth going somewhat dry, ears seeping with a faint crimson, eyebrows creasing minutely. 

Why? 

“Have you seen yourself?” you counter incredulously, and that is when he realises he did not keep his thoughts silent. “You’ve literally got stars in your eyes, man. You….”

Ah. It’s moments like these where he feels so utterly ordinary; listening to you ramble on about things he doesn’t particularly understand, just like anyone else his age. 

It’s nice being bound to someone like this: close to another, experiencing the gravity that draws two people together for himself. 

Science is a perfectly plausible thing to believe in, after all. 

[felassan]

EA Press Release. [source link]

"Unite a Team of Heroes to Defeat Rampaging Elven Gods in Dragon Age™: The Veilguard Arriving in Fall 2024 June 09, 2024 Meet the Most Captivating Companions in the Franchise with New Cinematic Trailer; Official Gameplay Reveal with More Game Details Coming Tuesday, June 11 REDWOOD CITY, Calif.--(BUSINESS WIRE)-- Electronic Arts Inc. (NASDAQ: EA) and BioWare premiered a new cinematic trailer showcasing a brand new cast of companions who will join players in their journey through Dragon Age: The Veilguard, an all-new single-player fantasy RPG experience coming to PlayStation®5, Xbox Series X|S and PC in Fall 2024. Dragon Age: The Veilguardbuilds upon the pillars the iconic series is best known for, delivering a bold and heroic adventure guided by rich storytelling, fluid and strategic combat, companions and fellowship, and choices that matter. Tune into the official gameplay reveal of Dragon Age: The Veilguard featuring more than 15 minutes of gameplay from the opening moments of the experience on Tuesday, June 11 at 8:00 a.m. PT at the Dragon Age YouTube channel. In this next chapter of the critically-acclaimed saga, players will step into Dragon Age’snewest fully-customizable hero, Rook, battling on the front lines alongside an extraordinary cast of heroes known as the Veilguard. Fellowship is central to the experience of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, with each companion entering the fray with their own storylines, motivations and skill trees. In this tale that will decide the fate of Thedas forever, Rook must rise up, rally a team and forge relationships to become the unexpected leader others believe in. “Dragon Age: The Veilguardfeatures some of the deepest companion storylines in Dragon Agehistory, navigating romance, tragic loss and complex choices that will affect relationships with players and the fate of The Veilguard,” said John Epler, Creative Director of Dragon Age: The Veilguard. “BioWare’s storytelling roots shine through every chapter of this adventure, and we are incredibly excited for Dragon Age fans as well as those new to the series to experience this crafted, character-driven narrative that is so intertwined with our studio’s DNA.” Each companion in Dragon Age: The Veilguard brings their own expertise to the field of battle, summoning the grit to stand together and face impossible odds. Throughout their adventures, players can mix and match different team combinations of two of the game’s seven total companions at a time, to adapt to certain challenges and link powerful combinations that can turn the tide of any battle. The game’s cast of companions includes: Bellara, a creative and romantic Veil Jumper obsessed with uncovering ancient secrets. Davrin,a bold and charming Grey Warden who has made a name for himself as a monster hunter. Emmrich, a necromancer of Nevarra's Mourn Watch who comes complete with a skeletal assistant, Manfred. Harding, the dwarven scout, returns to the fray as a companion with her big heart, a positive outlook, and a ready bow – as well as unexpected magical powers. Lucanis, a poised & pragmatic assassin who descends from the bloodline of the House of Crows, a criminal organization renowned throughout Thedas. Neve, a cynic fighting for a better future, both as a private detective and a member of Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Taash, a dragon hunter allied with the Lords of Fortune who lives for adventure and doesn't mind taking risks. Fans can add Dragon Age: The Veilguardto their wishlists on PlayStation, Xbox and PC via Steam and Epic Games Store. For additional information and to stay up to date on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, visit the official website, like Dragon Ageon Facebook, follow the franchise on Discord, TikTok, Tumblr, Instagram and X (formerly Twitter), and subscribe to its YouTube channel."

[source link]

[beemovieerotica]

Considering that you're the most high-profile Pirates of the Caribbean fan on this site, I would love to hear your ranking of the movies.

stopppp you're making me blussshhh ok my ranking is literally just just the order the films were released lmao

curse of the black pearl. the og. script is watertight. pacing and flow of it are really just flawless. it's got a wonderful classic storytelling arc, they had plenty of time to cook.

dead man's chest. starting to get quirky with it, and it's fun. WEIRD villainsss. kraken attack. leaning fully into pirate mythology. the world is OPENING UP. film is still fairly tight with some diversions. yess god.

at world's end. a little messy with a lot of moving pieces, but fuck, it's a fitting conclusion. beautiful. crying. TRAGEDY!!! parallels. foils. went out with a bang, there are some things i would've changed, but overall a good feast. [SEVERE DROP IN OPINION]

on stranger tides. very different. they've lost the plot. jack sparrow was never meant to be a main character, he's a trickster who played off the main love story (will and elizabeth) and if you want him to step into the main role, he needs to be capable of change or slip into a different archetype (reformed trickster). they kept him silly and drunk and it's getting tiresome. he can't carry the film. blackbeard is...alright. nothing hits the same as the sheer cosmic villainy of the calypso/davy jones romance that tore the world apart, but like, i won't hold that against them. the jack and angelica content is fun. love barb. fountain of youth is genuinely a great concept for a pirate movie.

dead men tell no tales. the new younger characters suck, let's be real. flat as cardboard. they retconned the lore of the trilogy to try to make all this work - not saying that lore is unbreakable and you can't ever do that - but what they put in its place isn't even interesting. young jack sparrow is bad. the mystic lady is bad. salazar is a step up from blackbeard, i love a ghost man. henry turner would never fucking join the royal navy. what's even happening here. thank you for coming to my ted talk.

[kara-records]

๑ LADY MINERVA — sabo

⊱summary: A woman with a pen sharper than any sword allies herself with a revolutionary full of fire and hope. Secrets unravel and trust is tested as their worlds collide, but love grows in the quiet spaces between battles.

⊱warnings: ooc characters. profanities. punctuation and grammar errors. reader is referred to as (Name). FEMALE! reader.

⊱notes: reader is the same age as Sabo pre-timeskip (20). this felt kinda all over this place... but i did my best !

part 1 | part 2

Dearest Reader,

From the bustling ports to the mysterious sky islands, there is no tale too grand, no scandal too small for this author to tell. I trust my services shall become your most cherished source of news and gossip from every corner of our World.

In these harsh waters, where the tides of power shift with fate, it is the Navy and the pirates who often find themselves at the heart of all our stories. The Navy, paragons of justice (or so they would have us believe), seem to spend more time chasing shadows than capturing criminals. One might wonder if their neatly pressed uniforms and impressive titles are merely for show, as they often find themselves outwitted by the very pirates they seek to capture. After all, it takes more than a shiny badge to deal with true justice.

As for our dear pirates, those free-spirited rogues of the seas, a colorful bunch indeed. With their grand dreams and daring personalities, they roam the waters in search of treasure and adventure. Yet, one must question the wisdom of putting one’s trust in a crew whose loyalty often wavers with the promise of gold. It’s a wonder any of them can keep their ships afloat, let alone find the legendary One Piece.

But, dear reader, it is in this very chaos that true epics emerge. The tales of love, bravery, betrayal, and loyalty that define our world. As a humble observer, I shall bring these stories to light, unfolding the layers of secrets that cover the actions of both so-called protectors of justice and the marauders of the seas.

So, as we set sail on this voyage together, keep your eyes sharp and your wits about you. The waters are filled with danger and deception, but abundant with the promise of discovery. Rest assured, this author shall leave no stone unturned, no secret kept, in the pursuit of truth and enlightenment.

Until next time, my dear reader. For in a world where both navy and pirates play their parts, a well-informed mind is the best security against the contagion of folly and evil.

Yours Truly,

Lady Minerva.

———

Thus, was the first-ever issue published by the most popular writer in all of the Blue Sea: Lady Minerva. Despite the Navy’s best efforts; secret investigations, a bounty to this unknown author, and operations by Cipher Pol, no one has been able to uncover any personal information about her. Neither her name, her appearance, nor the location of her mysterious printing services has ever been discovered. The few who claim to have seen her are often dismissed as mere storytellers wanting attention.

Her writings have spared numerous emotions across the seas. In the halls of Navy headquarters, officers furrow their brows as they read over each issue, seething with anger at her bold critiques. There’s even a rumor circulating among the lower ranks that Lady Minerva might be a former Marine who knows the organization too well, a theory that adds to the growing paranoia.

In contrast, the pirates, adventurers who sail the seas in pursuit of their wildest dreams, regard Lady Minerva with a mix of amusement and indifference. On countless ships, her writings are read aloud during gatherings, her wit met with boisterous laughter. To these sea wanderers, Lady Minerva is a source of entertainment, especially her jabs to the Navy.

Yet, not all pirates are so dismissive. There are whispers that Lady Minerva might be more than just a writer; that she could be a pirate herself, using her vast knowledge of the seas to write her paper. Such rumors only add to her sparkle, turning her into a legend among ships.

Despite their varied reactions, there is one unifying thought: none of these pirates took her too seriously. To them, Lady Minerva is an observer, a voice to be enjoyed but not feared. After all, they are the masters of their own destinies, and no writer, however talented, could ever hope to capture the true essence of life on the seas.

As for the rest of the world, they are left in a turmoil, unsure whether to admire her audacity or condemn her impertinence. Nobles are particularly divided; some see her as someone dangerous who must be silenced, while others privately enjoy her biting humor. Common people, who rarely have a voice in this corrupt world, find a strange comfort in her writings, a sense that someone out there sees the world as it is and dares to speak the truth.

However, there is one group that holds a different view: the Revolutionary Army. Her sharp wit and fearless commentary align perfectly with their mission to expose the world’s injustices. In their hidden bases, they eagerly await each new issue, savoring her every word. Among them, the Chief of Staff, Sabo, is particularly obsessed with uncovering her true identity. For Sabo, Lady Minerva represents the voice of the people, a writer in the fight against the corrupt. Yet, deep down, there’s also a personal desire to meet the woman behind the words, to see if she is truly the passionate soul he imagines her to be.

–––

The Revolutionary Army's base was alive with chatter, a rare buzz of excitement coursing through the usually serious camp. Fresh copies of Lady Minerva's latest issue had just arrived, and groups of officers and recruits huddled together, engrossed in her writing of the Alabasta incident.

Koala leaned forward the table in front of her, her wide grin barely contained as she read aloud to (Name), who sat writing in her journal, parallel to Koala. “‘Crocodile, once hailed as a shining example of the Shichibukai’s supposed usefulness, revealed himself to be nothing more than a vulture feasting on the suffering of Alabasta’s people. But should we truly be surprised? The World Government, in its infinite wisdom, gave him the keys to the kingdom and turned a blind eye to his corruption, until it became inconvenient, of course.’” Koala laughed, shaking her head. “She’s not pulling any punches, is she?”

The lady glanced at her and gave a short laugh. “She does have a talent for stabbing with her words.”

Koala flipped to another page, eyes wide with excitement. “Oh, this part is even better! ‘The people of Alabasta were nearly plunged into civil war, not by pirates, but by a warlord the Government trusted to maintain order. Perhaps the true villain here isn’t Crocodile but the system that empowers men like him. How many more kingdoms must suffer before we acknowledge that the Shichibukai are nothing more than pirates dressed in borrowed authority?’

Sabo, who had been leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, looked up from his own copy of the paper. “She’s right,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “The Shichibukai system is just a way for the World Government to control the seas without getting their own hands dirty. Crocodile’s actions prove how easily it can backfire.”

(Name) tilted her head slightly, her fingers brushing against the edge of her seat. “It's powerful writing,” she said, her voice even. “But I wonder if Lady Minerva’s words will reach the people who need to hear them most.”

“They’ll reach someone,” Sabo replied, his expression serious. “Her words have a way of cutting through the lies. That’s what makes her so dangerous to the Government and so valuable to us.”

Koala grinned. “If she ever joined us, the World Government wouldn’t stand a chance. Don’t you think, Sabo?”

Sabo’s lips curved into a small smile, though his gaze remained distant. “If I ever got the chance to meet her, I’d tell her she’s doing something incredible. But I’d also tell her she can’t do it alone. The fight she’s picked… it’s bigger than just one person.”

(Name) kept her expression neutral, though her heart raced at his words. “Maybe that’s why she stays in the shadows,” she suggested lightly. “To ensure her voice isn’t silenced before it can make a difference.”

Koala laughed, breaking the tension. “You two are reading too much into it. Let her be the mystery she clearly wants to be. Not everything has to be solved, you know.”

As Koala moved on to another excerpt, (Name) let out a quiet breath, though her mind churned with unease. Writing about Crocodile and Alabasta had been a calculated risk, one she hoped would draw attention to the World Government’s failings.

But as she glanced at Sabo, who was now silently poring over the issue with a furrowed brow, she couldn’t ignore the growing weight of his curiosity. Each word she wrote seemed to pull him closer to the truth and closer to her carefully hidden secret.

–––

By the next morning, people went back to their usual rhythm, when Sabo found himself in his office, scanning over maps and reports. Koala sat on the small lounge in front of his desk, her arms crossed as she relayed Dragon’s latest orders. “We’ve received word of unrest in a kingdom near Alabasta. Apparently, Crocodile’s actions stirred up tensions even in neighboring territories. The people there are rising against the local noble who’s been exploiting them, and Dragon wants us to assess the situation and offer support.”

Sabo nodded, already calculating their approach. “Do we know if the Government is involved?”

“Not directly,” Koala replied. “But it’s only a matter of time before they send reinforcements to protect their interests.”

A knock was heard as (Name) stepped into the room just as Koala finished speaking, her calm demeanor contrasting with the urgency of the situation. “Koala called me, is it a new mission?” she asked, her voice steady.

Koala smiled knowingly. “You always volunteer for missions involving oppressed kingdoms. Dragon thought you’d be the perfect addition to the team. You and Sabo will go together.”

The girl nodded, concealing the flicker of tension she felt at the thought of spending time with Sabo. “Got it. When do we leave?”

Sabo glanced at her, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “As soon as we gather supplies. This might take a while.”

–––

As they packed their supplies, (Name)’s thoughts churned. Working closely with Sabo always felt like walking a tightrope. His keen mind made him dangerous to her secret, but his idealism and kindness had a way of softening her defenses. She focused on securing the basics; maps, a discreet notebook for notes, and enough supplies to last her the journey.

Sabo, meanwhile, approached with his usual confidence. “Ready?” he asked, hoisting a bag over his shoulder.

“Always,” she replied, managing a small smile as they set off.

The first leg of their journey was quiet but not uncomfortable.

“You seem deep in thought,” Sabo remarked at one point, glancing over at her.

“Just thinking about what we might find,” she replied carefully. “These situations are always complicated. It’s hard to know where the truth lies.”

“True,” Sabo agreed. “But people’s suffering is usually a good indicator of where to start. Lady Minerva’s last piece really hit the mark on that. Crocodile wasn’t the only problem, he was a part of a much larger issue.”

She nodded, her heart beating a little faster at the mention of her pseudonym. “She does have a way of putting things into perspective.”

“She does,” Sabo said, a note of admiration in his voice. “I can’t help but wonder if she’s seen this kind of injustice firsthand. The way she writes… it feels personal.”

The girl quickly changed the subject, steering the conversation back to their mission. “Speaking of personal, we should focus on understanding why the people went into unrest. If the Revolutionary Army is going to get involved, we need to be sure we’re not walking into a trap.”

Sabo gave her a curious look but didn’t press further.

–––

When they reached the village, the tension was palpable. The people eyed them warily, their faces lined with exhaustion and distrust. Sabo stepped forward, his presence calm but commanding. “We’re here to help,” he said simply, his tone reassuring.

An older man hesitated before speaking. “Help how? You don’t look like you’re with the Government, but we’ve had strangers make empty promises before.”

“We’re not with the Government,” the writer interjected, her voice firm but gentle. “We’ve seen what’s happening here, and we want your voices heard. But first, we need to understand the full picture.”

Slowly, the villagers began to open up, sharing stories of excessive taxes, land seizures, and brutal enforcers sent by their so-called king. Sabo listened intently, his jaw tightening with each account. Beside him, (Name) gripped her pen tightly as she wrote in her notebook.

Later that night, as they camped just outside the village, Sabo and (Name) sat by the fire, the weight of the villagers’ stories hanging between them.

“This is why we fight,” Sabo said, breaking the silence. “Not just against the Government, but against every system that allows this kind of suffering to continue.”

She nodded, staring into the flames. “It’s overwhelming sometimes. Knowing how much there is to fix, how many people are counting on us.”

Sabo glanced at her, his gaze soft. “That’s why it’s important to focus on what we can achieve. Even one village, one family; we’re making a difference.”

Her heart ached at his sincerity, the duality of her life suddenly feeling heavier. “You’re right,” she murmured, though her voice carried a hint of weariness.

As the fire crackled between them, Sabo leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “You remind me of her sometimes, you know.”

She tensed. “Her?”

“Lady Minerva,” he clarified, his voice contemplative. “You both have this quiet strength, this determination to uncover the truth. It’s… inspiring.”

She laughed softly, masking her panic with humor. “I think you’re reading too much into it. I’m just doing my part.”

“Maybe,” Sabo replied, his lips curving into a faint smile. “But I have a feeling there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

With a sweat, she changed the subject, but the conversation lingered in her mind long after Sabo had fallen asleep. His words were both a compliment and a warning; a reminder that the truth she was hiding was inching closer to discovery. And as much as she trusted Sabo, the stakes were far too high to let her secret slip now.

this is more of a wip but i'll work on part 2 which has more things going on (hopefully)!! hope you guys enjoyed 🫰

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Love, Lies And Loki~21

Summery: Loki and Y/n take the memory lane down to the time where they first met.

Characters: Loki x Wife!reader

Note: All Characters except Loki are mine!

||Master List||

22. The Coldest Heart

💫 Memory Lane💫

The rain drizzled steadily against the windows, a soft rhythmic tap that filled the quiet living room with a dreamy kind of peace. Outside, everything was misty and silver-washed, but inside, the world was warm—blankets, firelight, the faint smell of tea and something sweet baking in the oven.

You were tucked against Loki on the oversized couch, a soft knitted throw tangled around both of you. His arm was draped over your shoulders, fingers absentmindedly stroking slow patterns against your arm. You could hear the faint, familiar thrum of his heartbeat where your head rested against his chest.

Three years of marriage, and he still made you feel this way — safe, loved, completely at home.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you murmured, lifting your head to look at him.

Loki’s eyes, the color of a forest at dusk, flicked down to meet yours. He smiled—small, private, a smile he rarely showed anyone but you.

“Just thinking,” he said, voice low and rich.

“About what?”

A pause. His thumb brushed the curve of your shoulder before he answered.

“About us,” he said simply. “How it all began.”

You grinned, snuggling closer. “Feeling nostalgic, my prince?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Perhaps. Can you blame me? Seven years ago today… give or take.”

You blinked up at him. “Wait, today?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Today. Seven years ago. I met you. Or, more accurately, you nearly knocked me unconscious with a falling pile of books.”

You burst out laughing, the sound filling the room like sunlight. “Oh my god, I forgot about that!”

Loki looked mock-offended. “I have not. I still bear the emotional scars.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Well, I was the one trying to carry twenty books at once.”

“You were adorable,” he said warmly. “Utterly hopeless, but adorable.”

You reached out to tap his nose playfully. “Tell me about it again,” you said, grinning. “The way you remember it.”

Loki shifted, pulling you more securely against him, his voice slipping into that storytelling tone he used when he recounted tales of Asgard or Midgard alike.

“Very well,” he said. “Once upon a time—”

You groaned. “Oh, stop.”

He chuckled, low and wicked. “Once upon a rainy afternoon in a cramped little bookstore café, there was a prince without a throne, wandering among mortals, seeking nothing… and finding everything.”

You smiled against his chest, heart swelling.

“Go on,” you whispered.

⸻

Flashback — Seven Years Ago

The bookstore was tucked between a florist and a music shop, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.

Loki had been wandering aimlessly that day, rain soaking the city streets, disillusioned and restless. Midgard had begun to lose its novelty. He had nearly walked past the place — but something, some invisible tug, pulled him inside.

The smell hit him first: old paper, coffee, rain on stone. It was oddly comforting. He shook the rain from his hair, feeling vaguely out of place in his dark, tailored coat among the college students and retirees.

And then — chaos.

You.

Arms overloaded with books, struggling toward the counter like a ship against a tide, steps faltering.

He saw it happening before you even knew you were falling.

In three long strides, he was there, catching the toppling stack with one hand and steadying you with the other.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed and flustered, a few raindrops clinging to your lashes.

“Careful,” he said, voice sliding into a teasing drawl. “You mortals are far too fragile to survive an avalanche of hardcovers.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than strictly polite. Tall, impossibly handsome, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and the kind of effortless poise that made everyone else seem… dull.

“I—thank you,” you stammered, cheeks burning.

He smiled, slow and devastating. “Allow me.”

He gathered your scattered books with almost absurd elegance and set them down at the counter.

“What’s your name, darling?” he asked, leaning against the counter like he had all the time in the world.

“Y/N,” you said, finding your voice.

“Y/N,” he repeated, tasting the syllables like they were wine.

“And you are…?” you asked, half expecting some ridiculous pick-up line.

He inclined his head, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Loki.”

You blinked. “…Like the god?”

“The very same,” he said, winking.

You laughed, thinking he was joking. Of course you would find the one guy in the city with a mythology obsession.

“You wanna grab coffee sometime, chaos god?” you asked impulsively.

He looked momentarily startled—then smiled wider. “I’d be honored.”

⸻

Back in the Present

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, curled against Loki’s side.

“I cannot believe I asked you out first,” you gasped. “I don’t do that!”

Loki grinned, proud. “I like to think I inspired boldness.”

“You inspired something,” you teased. “I thought you were nuts. But… intriguing.”

He kissed your forehead. “And you were utterly enchanting. You still are.”

You tipped your chin up to kiss him, slow and lingering.

When you pulled back, he was still smiling.

“Do you regret it?” you asked softly. “That you stayed?”

Loki shook his head instantly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Not for a moment,” he said. “Midgard gave me you. There could be no greater treasure.”

You nuzzled into him, heart full.

“We’ve come a long way, huh?”

“From a pile of falling books to building a life together,” Loki said fondly. “I’d say so.”

You laughed, light and happy.

“Tell me about our first date next,” you said. “The one where you spilled tea everywhere.”

Loki groaned dramatically. “Must we relive my humiliation?”

You grinned. “Yes. Absolutely.”

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, shadows flickering against the walls. You shifted to lie across Loki’s lap, staring up at him with a mischievous sparkle in your eyes.

“Okay,” you prompted. “Our first date. Tell me everything.”

Loki pretended to groan, resting the back of his hand dramatically against his forehead. “Must we relive my most tragic defeat?”

You giggled. “We must. I demand it.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Very well, little tyrant.”

His hand found your hair, playing lazily with the strands as he began.

⸻

Flashback — Seven Years Ago

The café was warm, full of the rich smells of roasted coffee and vanilla. Outside, the rain still fell, silver and persistent, blurring the world beyond the windows.

You had chosen the spot—a cozy, artsy little place tucked inside an old brick building.

Loki arrived exactly on time, materializing like a shadow slipping into light. He wore all black—coat, scarf, gloves—looking absurdly gorgeous and faintly dangerous among the worn leather chairs and pastel-painted walls.

You were already there, nervously sipping tea, when you saw him walk in.

And smiled.

And waved.

His heart did something strange, something he hadn’t felt since… well, since before he’d ever set foot on Midgard.

He smiled back—small, private, just for you—and made his way to your table.

“Y/N,” he greeted, pulling off his gloves. “You look—” He paused, searching for the right word. “—radiant.”

You blushed, utterly unprepared for the force of his attention.

“Hey,” you managed, standing awkwardly to give him a quick hug. “Glad you made it.”

“As if I would miss it,” he said warmly.

You both sat down, and for a moment, just smiled at each other, shy and unsure.

Then the waitress came over, and Loki—trying to be casual, trying to be mortal—reached for his cup of tea.

And promptly knocked it over.

Scalding tea cascaded across the table and dripped onto the floor.

He froze, wide-eyed and horrified, as the tea soaked into napkins, menus, and the corner of your sleeve.

You stared for a moment—and then burst out laughing.

Loki looked utterly scandalized.

“I—I am usually far more coordinated than this,” he sputtered, grabbing napkins to mop up the mess.

You helped him, grinning.

“It’s okay,” you said between giggles. “First dates are cursed anyway. It’s tradition.”

He paused, blinking at you—and then, to your immense relief, he laughed too. A real laugh, low and warm.

“I suppose I should be honored to uphold Midgardian traditions,” he teased, dabbing at your sleeve.

You grinned. “You should be.”

The ice was broken after that. Conversation flowed like a river: favorite books, wild adventures, embarrassing stories. You learned that Loki spoke six languages, loved thunderstorms, and had once shapeshifted into a cat just to avoid a tedious meeting.

He learned that you designed clothes, adored pastries, and once fell asleep during an important presentation.

You discovered, somewhere between bites of shared cake and stories about Asgardian festivals, that you could make him laugh. Really laugh—throw-his-head-back, eyes-crinkling kind of laughter.

He discovered that he could make you glow, cheeks warm and eyes dancing.

Hours slipped by unnoticed.

When you finally stood to leave, the rain had stopped, and the streets gleamed under the lamplight.

Loki offered his arm, old-fashioned and gallant.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow without hesitation.

Outside, under the dripping trees, he paused, turning to you.

“I had a wonderful time,” he said, voice low and sincere.

You smiled up at him, heart pounding.

“Me too.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second—then leaned down, brushing a kiss against your cheek.

It was feather-light, almost hesitant. But it left your skin burning.

When he pulled back, he looked almost as breathless as you felt.

“Until next time, my lady,” he murmured, bowing slightly, the edges of his coat swirling dramatically.

You laughed, delighted. “Next time.”

And you watched him walk away, wondering how a simple coffee date had turned your whole world upside down.

⸻

Back in the Present

You were laughing again, wiping tears from your eyes as you lay across Loki’s lap.

“You were so nervous,” you teased, grinning up at him.

“I was not nervous,” he said indignantly.

“You spilled tea, Loki.”

“I was… caught off guard,” he amended with dignity. “Your beauty was most distracting.”

You laughed, and he leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“I knew, even then,” he murmured. “Some part of me knew. You were… it.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You did?” you whispered.

He nodded, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“You disarmed me utterly,” he said. “Not with power, not with magic. Just… by being yourself.”

You swallowed against the sudden lump in your throat, pulling him down into a deep, slow kiss.

When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“I knew too,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to scare you off… but I knew.”

He chuckled softly. “As if I could ever be frightened away.”

You smiled against his skin, the rain whispering against the windows, the fire crackling low.

Three years of marriage. Seven years of love.

And somehow, it still felt like the beginning.

-the end

[connorsnothereeither]

SHOUTING, SCREAMING EVEN INTO THE TUMBLR VOID-

The Ulysses addition to the Fable SMP Finale Merch Collection is now available!!

You can pick up your ‘Ulysses Themist - Last of the Telchin Tour’ fleece pullover sweatshirt right now at the link below!!

It was so amazing to get to design this with Witchgenderdesigns, and there’s a ton of fun details and Easter eggs, such as the Telchin text on the sleeve (“Hold fast, my evening tide”), and it just turned out so cool

[jackrussell1907]

When the mechanical shark on the set of "Jaws" (1975) sank to the bottom of the ocean on the very first day of filming, the crew thought the production was doomed. The saltwater corroded the pneumatic system, and Bruce, the name Spielberg and his team gave the shark after his lawyer, malfunctioned so badly that scenes involving it had to be restructured or improvised entirely.

But that breakdown became the film’s secret weapon. Because the shark could not function properly, Spielberg decided to show it as little as possible, letting sound, suggestion, and the ominous cello notes of John Williams’ score build dread instead. That unplanned limitation turned into a revolutionary storytelling technique. Most people don't realize that the shark only appears on screen for about four minutes in the entire two-hour film.

Steven Spielberg was 26 years old and had directed only one theatrical feature when he took on the film adaptation of Peter Benchley’s novel. He later admitted he feared he would be replaced mid-shoot. The crew worked six-day weeks on the open ocean near Martha’s Vineyard, enduring unpredictable tides and weather. Spielberg chose to shoot on the actual sea rather than in a tank, which made everything harder. Boats drifted, the lighting changed constantly, and the ocean swallowed expensive equipment. One assistant director described it as “a floating madhouse.”

Roy Scheider, who played Chief Brody, famously came up with the iconic line, “You’re gonna need a bigger boat,” off-script. It was an inside joke among the crew who kept demanding a bigger support boat for all the equipment. Spielberg loved the line’s delivery so much, he left it in. It became one of the most quoted movie lines in cinema history, and it emerged from pure improvisation.

Richard Dreyfuss, who played marine biologist Matt Hooper, nearly turned down the role. He did not think the movie would work and wasn’t impressed by the script. But after seeing himself in another film and feeling disappointed by his performance, he changed his mind. During filming, Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw, who played the hard-drinking shark hunter Quint, had such a tense relationship that many of their onscreen arguments did not need acting because they were real. Shaw would taunt Dreyfuss off-camera, criticizing him and throwing insults, especially when drinking. Spielberg later said their antagonism fueled their characters’ chemistry in a way that benefited the story.

Robert Shaw’s USS Indianapolis monologue, where Quint recounts the horrific World War II shark attack that killed hundreds of sailors, remains one of the film’s most powerful moments. Shaw helped rewrite the monologue and delivered it in one uninterrupted take that left the crew stunned into silence. That speech was not part of the original novel. Spielberg added it to deepen Quint’s character and give the story emotional gravity. The tale was loosely inspired by a real naval tragedy and is one of the rare moments in the film when time seems to freeze.

The film’s production ran 104 days over schedule and tripled its original 4 million dollar budget, ballooning to nearly 12 million dollars. At one point, Universal Studios executives panicked and considered pulling the plug. But when it premiered on June 20, 1975, "Jaws" changed everything. It played in over 400 theaters during its first week, an unheard-of strategy at the time, and relied on television advertising to attract audiences nationwide. The film created the blueprint for what would become known as the summer blockbuster.

John Williams’ haunting two-note theme was initially met with laughter. Spielberg thought it was a joke until Williams demonstrated how its repetitive simplicity mirrored the lurking, unstoppable nature of the shark. That music became inseparable from the film’s terror. Even people who haven’t seen "Jaws" can hum those notes instinctively, a testament to the score’s psychological power.

Spielberg was so traumatized by the chaos of production that he skipped the final day of shooting. He feared the crew might throw him overboard. He directed the final shot, the underwater explosion, from a safe distance on dry land.

A broken shark led to a masterclass in suspense through restraint and imagination.

[frogsinflannel]

What are five books that you would always recommend? Those you still think about, have re-read multiple times or just absolutely enjoyed and want others to know about as well?

I was tagged by @atevanfool thank you~

So these aren’t necessarily my favorite books and it was quite hard narrowing it down to five. As you can see, I went all in on a pretty specific VIBE.

1. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Austen’s second novel (I wanna say from 1813), a witty, incisive tale about rich people going to each other’s houses. Enough has already been said about this book, so I can’t add anything except to say I love it. Elizabeth Bennet is one of my favorite protagonists of all time, and every time I read about her and Darcy falling in love I find something new to enjoy.

2. Mr. Fox by Helen Oyeyemi

I recommend this with a caveat, that I don’t think it’s for everyone. But gosh was it so, so for me. It’s playful and about language and storytelling: Oyeyemi herself said it was one of her “books that are like games.” It’s just fun to read! Does it come together in a coherent narrative? Well. (But seriously I love it.)

3. Piranesi by Susannah Clarke

This book is weird and beautiful and sweeps you up just as the Tide moves through the Halls. This is about creating meaning, and wonder, and being lost and being found again. Just read it. It feels indulgent and nourishing at the same time.

4. This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

Reading this is an experience. It’s an epistolary novel told in two perspectives, reaching across time and war and it’s poetic and sharp and lovely. I find this one hard to describe but just thinking about it has me aching to read it again.

5. The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

I actually wrote a fanfic for this book one Yuletide, interesting note. This is a story of star-crossed lovers, and it feels imbued with the magic of the circus it describes. It’s imaginative and lovely and a world that feels crystalline and warm. Another that just thinking about has me wanting to re-read!

~

I have no idea who has/hasn’t done this, or might want to. So np tagging: @leashybebes @queermccoy @comfortingevanbuckley @cottagecori @exhaustedpirate @hyperfocusthusly @setmeatopthepyre

[your-local-simp-writers]

༺☆༻ Introduction ༺☆༻

Hello! 

We’re the dynamic duo behind “𝕐our 𝕃ocal 𝕊imp 𝕎riters,” just a couple of friends who love to get lost in the world of stories and games. We’re here to share our passion for writing and all the geeky stuff we can’t get enough of.

♡ About Us ♡

I’m 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 and I’m all about gaming and art. You’ll often find me with a controller in one hand and a comic book in the other. My better half, the yin to my yang. She’s the partner in crime, the sweet melody to my wild riffs, and the one who brings a touch of grace to our shared tales of adventure and heart, 𝒞𝒽𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑒! She is the other half of this storytelling team. We both love creating stories that’ll make you feel like you’re right there with the characters.

♡ Our Writing ♡

We write what we love, and we love what we write. Our stories are inspired by our current fascinations—be it a game, a movie, or a manga. If it’s interesting and fascinating to us, it’s fair game for our writing.

Most of our stories are “x female reader” because that’s where we feel most at home. Occasionally, we’ll write “x gender-neutral reader” pieces for a bit of variety. However, we generally steer clear of “x male reader” or “OC x canon” stories. We want to create a space where female readers can see themselves in the worlds we love so much.

❤︎ 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 '𝓈 Interests: 

Gaming: I’m a huge fan of Kingdom Hearts, Batman Arkham games, Mortal Combat, Final Fantasy, Resident Evil, Doom 3, Phasmophobia, Five Nights At Freddy’s, Twisted Wonderland, Call of Duty, Halo 3 and 4, Sonic and Transformers. If it’s a game or relating to horror, chances are I love it.

Comics: Batman is my passion. I collect anything related to the Dark Knight, and my collection is my pride and joy.

Anime/Manga: I'm into One Piece, Princess TuTu, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Jujutsu Kaisen, Yu-Gi-Oh!, Kingdom Hearts, Sgt. Frog, Free!, HellSing, and a bunch more. I have also seen MHA, Fairy Tail, Dragon Ball, Soul Eater, Naruto, Castlevania, Diabolik Lovers and more.

Disney & Tim Burton: I’m a Disney kid at heart. My top 5 Disney movies are Treasure Planet, Cinderella 3, The Nightmare Before Christmas, Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides, and The Princess and the Frog. And I’m all about Halloween and everything Tim Burton.

Music: I love RnB and Y2K music so much! However, you can usually find me listening to cutesy, cheesy love songs.

❤︎ 𝒞𝒽𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑒’𝓈 Interests: 

Gaming: I’m definitely not the biggest gamer around, but I do love to play Roblox, Fortnite, and Minecraft! Sometimes I’ll also dabble in some fall guys, FNAF or Poppy’s Playtime. On Roblox, I love to play pretty much anything but pvp games due to the fact that I’m not the best at them. Horror games are probably my favorite, even though I’m a chicken!

Anime/Manga: My favorites are definitely Fairy Tail, Jojo’s bizarre adventure, Naruto, and Demon slayer. I’ve also watched MHA, Danganronpa, Yona of the Dawn, Food wars, High Rise Invasion, Angels of death, and more!

Disney and Tim Burton: I’m definitely a Disney girl! I love all Disney Princess movies, both animated and live action. My top three not in any particular order would have to be Tangled, The Little Mermaid, and Princess and the Frog. For Tim Burton, my favorites are the classics, The nightmare before Christmas and Corpse bride. 

Books: I’m also a huge book girly! My favorite genre has to be fantasy/sci-fi. My favorite book series is The Lunar Chronicles, I definitely recommend it!

♡ Join the Fun ♡

This is an invitation to you, dear reader, to become a part of our narrative. Engage with us, inspire us, and let us inspire you.

So, come on in, get comfy, and let's share the joy of stories. The next chapter is always the best one, and it starts right here, with you and us. Requests are always welcome in the ask box! and even inquiries, should you have any!

With all the warmth in our hearts,

𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 & 𝒞𝒽𝒾𝑒𝓃𝓃𝑒

P.S: 𝒞𝓁𝑜𝓊𝒹 drew the image, just so most people can get a idea of what we look like♡ AND THE G.M FIARY BOOK IS FOR FUN, for the pure shits and giggles TRUST

[fnunelfn]

I Love Superhero Stories

The recent sting of failures at the box office for superhero movies has brought the term “superhero fatigue” into the lexicon. There have been many opinions about why superheroes are no longer in fashion. From the far right you have the idiotic “go woke, go broke” crowd with hate-filled rhetoric explaining that people “don’t want to see strong women” and other gems. From the far left, the derisive conversations center on how silly superheroes are, how it's only for little kids, and other conversations that undermine the genre's storytelling art. I am not writing this to argue with these people, it's not worth it instead I want to defend the genre and talk about why I love Superhero stories. 

In this world of gods and monsters……

The reason I love superhero stories is simple, they give me hope. In this world where there is so much strife, pain, and wrongdoing superhero stories tell tales of people who do the right thing. Power is one of the scariest things I can think of, give a man power, watch him become corrupted, and watch the heads roll; in superhero, stories power is wielded with responsibility. Those who can help use their power to help the less fortunate, this might be a simple thought process but so much of today's society is based on hate and greed that simply is a welcomed change. 

The tide may be turning in popular culture and superheroes are falling out of fashion. After all these years, I am still not cynical regarding the stories I have read on the DC Comics and Marvel pages. I love superheroes and their bombast and melodrama. I love the morality tales that tell you that being good means caring for others and sacrificing to help those who can not help themselves. I am not dictated by the Alan Moores of the world who deride superhero stories. I may come off like a rube but I still have faith that good can win, in the face of war and famine that we can listen to our better angels and do what is right. I know this is a lot to put on a genre originally meant for 11-year-olds but it is silly to discount this while children’s books like Lord of the Rings are studied in university. The fact is that art many times, often considered low rent, changes in meaning and becomes more than they were originally intended to become. 

I love superheroes and I always will because in these stories I find my faith in all that is good about us rewarded. We have true heroes in our world, doctors and nurses who heal, teachers who guide our future through learning countless volunteers who help others. We are capable of good without spandex but it is these mythologies, these stories that reinforce our faith. I never want to lose my faith in good or my hope that we can do what is right for everyone.

[biggestangstlover]

Rare mythology creatures that you could use in your fantasy book!!

Selkies.

Selkies are mythological beings, capable of therianthropy i.e. changing from seal to human by shedding their skin. Many of the folk-tales on selkie folk have been collected from the Northern Isles (Orkney and Shetland). The folk-tales frequently revolve around female selkies being coerced into relationships with humans by someone stealing and hiding their sealskin, thus exhibiting the tale motif of the swan maiden type. Some legends say that selkies could turn human every so often when the conditions of the tides were correct, but oral storytellers disagreed as to the time interval. In Ursilla's rumor, the contacted male selkie promised to visit her at the "seventh stream" or springtide. In the ballad The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry, the seal-husband promised to return in seven years; the number "seven" being commonplace in balladry.According to one version, the selkie could only assume human form once every seven years because they are bodies that house condemned souls. There is the notion that they are either humans who had committed sinful wrongdoing, or fallen angels.

Basilisk

In European legends, basilisk is a legendary reptile reputed to be a king serpent, who causes death to those who looks into its eyes. According to the Naturalis Historia, the basilisk of Cyrene is small snake, being at least only 12 inches in length that is so venomous. It leaves a wide trail of deadly venom in its path and its gaze is just as much lethal. According to Pliny, the basilisk's weakness is the odor of a weasel. The weasel was thrown into the basilisk's hole, recognizable because some of the surrounding shrubs and grass had been scorched by its presence. It is possible that the legend of the basilisk and its association with the weasel in Europe was inspired by accounts of certain species of Asiatic and African snakes (such as cobras) and their natural predator, the mongoose. Pliny The Elder describes basilisk in such words: "There is the same power also in the serpent called the basilisk. It is produced in the province of Cyrene, being not more than twelve fingers in length. It has a white spot on the head, strongly resembling a sort of a diadem. When it hisses, all the other serpents fly from it: and it does not advance its body, like the others, by a succession of folds, but moves along upright and erect upon the middle. It destroys all shrubs, not only by its contact, but those even that it has breathed upon; it burns up all the grass, too, and breaks the stones, so tremendous is its noxious influence. It was formerly a general belief that if a man on horseback killed one of these animals with a spear, the poison would run up the weapon and kill, not only the rider, but the horse, as well. To this dreadful monster the effluvium of the weasel is fatal, a thing that has been tried with success, for kings have often desired to see its body when killed; so true is it that it has pleased Nature that there should be nothing without its antidote. The animal is thrown into the hole of the basilisk, which is easily known from the soil around it being infected.The weasel destroys the basilisk by its odour, but dies itself in this struggle of nature against its own self."

Cyclopes

Cyclopes is one eyed giant in greek and roman mythology. Three groups of Cyclopes can be distinguished. In Hesiod's Theogony, the Cyclopes are the three brothers, Brontes, Steropes, and Arges, who made Zeus's weapon, the thunderbolt. In Homer's Odyssey, they are an uncivilized group of shepherds, the brethren of Polyphemus encountered by Odysseus. Cyclopes were also famous for being the builders of the Cyclopean walls of Mycenae and Tiryns. In Cyclops, the fifth-century BC play by Euripides, a chorus of satyrs offers comic relief based on the encounter of Odysseus and Polyphemus. The third-century BC poet Callimachus makes the Hesiodic Cyclopes the assistants of smith-god Hephaestus, as does Virgil in the Latin epic Aeneid, where he seems to equate the Hesiodic and Homeric Cyclopes.From at least the fifth century BC, Cyclopes have been associated with the island of Sicily and the volcanic Aeolian Islands. Three groups of Cyclopes can be distinguished: the Hesiodic, the Homeric and the wall-builders.In Hesiod's Theogony, the Cyclopes are the three brothers: Brontes, Steropes, and Arges, sons of Uranus and Gaia, who made for Zeus his characteristic weapon, the thunderbolt. In Homer's Odyssey, the Cyclopes are an uncivilized group of shepherds, one of whom, Polyphemus, the son of Poseidon, is encountered by Odysseus. Cyclopes were also said to have been the builders of the Cyclopean walls of Mycenae and Tiryns. A scholiast, quoting the fifth-century BC historian Hellanicus, tells us that, in addition to the Hesiodic Cyclopes (whom the scholiast describes as "the gods themselves"), and the Homeric Cyclopes, there was a third group of Cyclopes: the builders of the walls of Mycenae.

Leprechauns

Leprechauns are most often thought of as those little men who hoard money and hide their pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. They are sometimes naughty, sometimes a little evil, and many times a bit mean. It is said that anyone who finds that pot of gold and can trick it away from the leprechaun keeps the gold. However, leprechauns are very smart, and the human usually ends up the one who is tricked. The classic version wears a three-cornered hat, has pointed ears, green eyes, wiry red hair and beard, and wears green. They are rotund and have a prankster’s sense of humor.Stories abound as to the origin of the leprechaun. The word leprechaun comes from the Irish “leipreachán" or "lucharachán,” which comes from the Middle Irish "luchrapán, or lupra(c)cán,” which is originally from the Old Irish ”lúchorp(án),” meaning "small body." Leprechauns became associated with gold through a story dating back to the Danes’ invasion of Ireland. Legend states the Danes left the leprechauns in charge of their plundered wealth, which the little men put in crocks and pots and have hidden throughout Ireland. Leprechauns carry two pouches. One holds a silver shilling—a magical coin that returns to the pouch each time it is paid out. The other holds a single gold coin which the leprechaun uses to try to extricate himself from difficult situations. Once the gold coin has been paid out, it usually turns to leaves or ash. A leprechaun will reveal the location of his gold if questioned and if the person questioning him keeps an eye on him.Looking away from the leprechaun guarantees his disappearance as they can vanish in an instant.Interestingly, leprechauns have never been the subject of myths themselves but rather one of the supporting characters. They are not the hero of a story but a helper (or hindrance) to the hero. Leprechauns are closely related to the cluricaun who steal and borrow nearly everything and are much surlier than leprechauns.With spring rains approaching, keep an eye out for rainbows. This and the sound of a cobbler’s hammer will give away the location of a leprechaun, and where there’s a leprechaun there is sure to be leprechaun’s gold.

Ogre

An ogre (feminine: ogress) is a legendary monster depicted as a large, hideous, man-like being that eats ordinary human beings, especially infants and children. Ogres frequently feature in mythology, folklore, and fiction throughout the world. They appear in many classic works of literature, and are most often associated in fairy tales and legend.In mythology, ogres are often depicted as inhumanly large, tall, and having a disproportionately large head, abundant hair, unusually colored skin, a voracious appetite, and a strong body. Ogres are closely linked with giants and with human cannibals in mythology. In both folklore and fiction, giants are often given ogrish traits (such as the giants in "Jack and the Beanstalk" and "Jack the Giant Killer", the Giant Despair in The Pilgrim's Progress, and the Jötunn of Norse mythology); while ogres may be given giant-like traits.Famous examples of ogres in folklore include the ogre in "Puss in Boots" and the ogre in "Hop-o'-My-Thumb". Other characters sometimes described as ogres include the title character from "Bluebeard", the Beast from Beauty and the Beast, Humbaba from the Epic of Gilgamesh, Grendel from Beowulf, Polyphemus the Cyclops from Homer's Odyssey, the man-eating giant in "Sinbad the Sailor", the oni of Japanese folklore and the ghouls of pre-Islamic Arabian religion.

[rolloollor]

I thought at least one of the zines I'm in would be out at this point... One comes out on the 23rd, but I have no idea about the second. So I'm just gonna post this now. (Watch the second go up tomorrow or something...)

It's time to share a preview of my mallerollo high fantasy AU! I was going to post just the first page, but I decided that I'd share the entire scene. It's very important to understanding this world and Rollo's position within it.

Everything's subject to change, etc. My first draft's not done and won't be done for a while.

The night was alive with the chattering of the audience that had gathered to watch the performances offered by The Caravan of Miracles. The folly artist (a so-called 'clown') had finished his act and now retreated behind the wagons, his hat jingling with coin.

It was Rollo's turn next. He took to the stage, his appearance silencing all who saw him.

No matter how many times he gazed out at the crowd clustered in front of the caravan’s makeshift stage, he could never shake off the hideous awareness of his short hair, of his small ears, and of the children that clung to their parents at the sight of him. As a half-human, he was the personification of an elf’s perversion and lack of control. Any one of them could lie with a human and spawn a creature as pitiful as himself.

Ugène, another member of the misfits they called a ‘troupe,’ hurried around covering the bioluminescent plants they used to light up the area after dark. There weren’t many—one for each pair of rows of plants fashioned into seating, of which there were maybe ten. Elves mumbled to each other as Ugène worked, some even leaning away when he came near.

With the mushbrights stifled, the night swelled like the tide. Good. Ugène was only a boy, but his malformed head, mismatched eyes, and haphazard teeth frightened other elves his age. He hurried away from the crowd and ducked behind the stage, but there was a loud thud as he went. The child must have knocked into something in his haste. Rollo would deal with that later.

No light save the stars above reached him or the spectators. It was time to begin.

Rollo held out his hand, his palm upward, and conjured a ball of flame. A handful of shrieks erupted from the audience, followed by harsh whispers. But they had come to see such taboo magicks—why did they act so scandalized? Was it in earnest or was it some game of pretend they all played with each other?

It made no difference.

With a few flourishes, Rollo crafted two burning figures, the silhouettes of characters known to every elf.

“Long ago,” he began, adopting a smooth, storyteller’s cadence, “before the sun blazed in the sky and the moon pierced the night, there was an elf known to us only by his title—the Righteous.”

The fire puppet on the right bowed, his flames turning white. His creation hovered safely in midair despite the fact that Rollo’s fire could burn nothing without his permission. Most elves didn’t understand this, however, so Rollo had to be careful to add an appearance of extra precautions. Once, he had allowed these puppets to race and fight above those gathered in attendance. That had gone… poorly.

The congregation hushed at the mention of the Righteous. As they always did, no matter if they were peasants, craftsmen, or merchants. Rollo might have done the same had he not been the one telling the tale.

“Elves and humans alike suffered in the endless darkness,” he said, punctuating this line by snuffing out his magick and allowing the void all around them to reclaim the stage. “The Righteous sought to save both peoples, the creatures of the land, air, and sea, as well as what flora existed then. But his half-brother, spawned from the unholy union of his Elvish father and a human mother, relished the night.” Rollo manifested the two figures again, this time with more defined features. The Righteous stood tall, with strings of flame representing his long hair swaying in an imaginary breeze. His brother slouched, his body formed of dark fire, his eyes furious, crackling sparks. “This half-human, incomplete as all half-humans are, insisted on accompanying the Righteous. He claimed that he would do all that he could to help.” The burning half-human got to his knees to plead to the other puppet. “How magnanimous was the Righteous for accepting him. How foolish was the Righteous for overlooking the danger he posed.

“Together, they traveled across the land. One winter’s day, the Righteous and his brother came upon human travelers who lacked the magick necessary to make shelter before they froze. The half-human offered them ravenous flames to keep them warm. They thanked him and gathered before the conflagration.

“How delightful it is, said the half-human. It provides heat and light. With this power, we can beat away the darkness.

“The Righteous, delighted by the solution, agreed. He did not know that humans do not burn as easily as elves…

“They brought this so-called boon to the nearest elf village.” Rollo weaved a handful of huts with a bonfire at the center. “The people there marveled at the crackling orange mass and brought it into their homes. Until—”

One by one, the hovels burst into roaring flames and burnt to nothing. A child in the audience cried out at the sight. The figure of the Righteous sank to his knees, his head in his hands. His brother remained standing, unflinching.

“Oh, this cruel fire! the Righteous cried. It takes and takes until it renders everything to ash! Its light temporary, its cruelty eternal. We must eliminate it, lest it consume everything in its wake!

“The half-human did not speak. But an inferno blazed within him and he would stop at nothing until he turned this world into one great pyre. When those final flames died, then and only then would the darkness remain unbroken.”

Rollo spoke about other incidents. The Righteous utilized traditional elf magick relating to the earth, plants, and water to solve the problems of others. His brother went behind his back to offer people his poisonous combustion and called upon bolts of lightning to fall in dry forests, sparking wildfires and destroying entire swaths of land. But each time disaster was poised to strike, the Righteous rallied his fellow elves and they doused the blaze with water summoned from deep underground or the heavens itself let loose its stores, rendering his fire useless.

Not once did the Righteous believe that his brother was the cause of all these ills.

Finally, the white flames of the Righteous climbed a smoldering mountain and ascended to the sky, becoming the sun itself in a dramatic act of self-sacrifice. The man that had saved so many from dangerous incandescence took on that role, but far, far away from his people, so that no harm could come to them. The half-human chased after him, becoming the moon—a faint, reluctant reflection of the Righteous, one that strove in vain to snuff itself and his greater brother out. A bright and a dim sphere replaced the elfenoid figures.

“To this day, the Righteous protects us. To this day, the half-human strives to destroy.” The ‘moon’ drifted in front of the ‘sun,’ eclipsing it. “But the Righteous prevails time and time again.” The ‘sun’ flared, shedding light so powerful that some in the audience flinched and turned away. The ‘moon’ crumbled into ash. “Evil may deceive, may delay, may defy… but it can never destroy. Not when righteous elves remain.”

The ‘sun’ rose triumphantly above his head as Rollo took a bow. When he stood up straight once more, he caught some handkerchief waving in the audience—a sign of approval. Ugène meandered along the outer ends of the seating, a bowl in his hands. Though he said nothing, the intent was clear. He received little coin. Typical.

***

So that's the first few pages. I wanted to include the whole muddled history thing from TWST. The story Rollo tells is the prevailing narrative among elves, but is it the truth? I think in this little story, there's a part where you might go, "But that doesn't make sense," which is intentional. Oh, and Ugène is Quasimodo and has a pretty big role in this fic, especially considering he isn't Malle or Rollo.

[lanaindublin]

The worst month of my life...

26/04/2025

-okay, maybe that requires a caveat attached...

The worst month of my adult life...

-yea sure lets go with that. At any given point in the last month, if I had a dream about having to go to university/do homework/face the prospect of going to school again, I would still have awoken relieved to find myself in the purgatory that had become my life.

On the date I write this my emotions have perked up enough that I think I can confidently book-end the period of depression, subtle despair and utter listlessness that was the last month. From this day the 26th of april, back to the 26th of march...hmmm, actually the 26th I at least enjoyed the company of a good friend visiting, providing great comfort and company. No let us mark this rough and terrible period of "a month" instead as 4 weeks to the day, from the 29th of march to the 25th of april.

As an abridged version: Loneliness, isolation, heartbreak, poverty, and the complete uprooting of my life. That about covers it.

On the 29th of March I bid adieu to a dear friend who was visiting me and my partner in Barcelona. We, at the time, were pinched for money, and were looking to make a move from my partner's mother's apartment by other means...by which I of course mean the noble art of squating. In Barcelona, and indeed in Cataluña in general, there is a strong culture of squats, it comes with the territory of being the anarchist capital of Europe. We had in previous months, ingratiated ourselves with a group of squatters in the hills at the city limits (lots of derelict mini mansions from the 2008 crash, prime squatting real estate). They liked us well enough, and we helped out from time to time, so they pledged to help us in return when the time came to open a new squat for ourselves, that was the plan at the time at least.

The following day (the 30th) was exciting at least, I spent the first half of the day as I usually did: lazing around the house, making half hearted attempts to apply for jobs, and ferreting food away from the kitchen. This had been my condition for a while now, most days spent wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt, and not setting a foot outside the house. The week prior was a nice break from this pattern, as I would be out regularly to meet with my visiting friend. But before and beyond that, i had found myself firmly lodged in the suffocating bossomal cleft of lethargia. Not helping the matter, was that my beloved was out and about on an extended business trip to a local commune. She assured me on a later phone call it was an excellent locale and atmosphere, but I digress. At about 17:30, as the shadows began to draw long, I mustered up the motivation to check the myriad of messages that had built up over the days prior. One caught my attention, an artist friend of mine was debuting a zine at a small, independent and open art space called 'The Free Music School'. I had attended events there previously, its where I met the aforementioned artist in fact. But a stark realisation dawned on me as I read throuh the details of the event: it was happening today! Which spurred me on to a double take as I looked at the scheduled time of the debut: It had started 15 minutes ago!

Frantic to turn the mood of the day around I dressed myself and glided down on my trusty skateboard to the metro station. After storming through the ticket barriers, escalators and stairwells to the platform, something else dawned on me: it was mothers day! And I, nary a cent to my name, certainly not enough to purchase a bouquet of flowers, and even if I had, it was too late to get one delivered to my mothers abode in Dublin. But as the metro carriage clattered its way, downhill and eastward, a wave of pure inspiration crashed over the stagnant tide pools of my psyche. I had recently seen a video clip of an Irish storyteller recounting the tale of Brigid and Ruadán. I whipped out my notes application, and began typing away at breakneck speed, within minutes I had a solid first draft of the poem which you can find a few posts below this one. And while the gift of my prose is absolutely a delightful gift in its own right, this was something more, a narrative that wove the story tight with the relationship and the dialogues I had with my mother. And I would go one further, I wished to scrawl it out in calligraphy and illuminate it with colour. Later that evening at the event I would borrow some paper and watercolors from the organiser, and the following day aquire a caligraphy pen for the letterings. The end product is bursting with vision moreso than talent, but I am still proud of the result.

Anyway, I arrived in good time for the zine unveiling, and it was a breath of fresh air, beautiful art, good friends, and good company. The free food and booze was nice too. And never more glad that my spirits were raised that night, as if they hadn't been, I scarcely believe I would have survived the days that were to follow...

The next day my beloved announces she is quitting her job, not an entirely distressing development, I want whats best for her, and quitting at the end of the month means she got her full months salary, but the pressure to find a job and revenue stream myself is heightened.

The next day is April 1st, I make a hilarious rickroll disguised as an interview with Andrew Hussie, countless souls are japed. It is the day that we establish the new squat. As night draws near I load up three heaping bags of survival items, bedrolls, books and other miscellanei to assist in the opening of the new squat. I awkwardly lug it all through the streets of the city to the train station, on to the light rail, and then into the car awaiting me. We rendezvous with the other squatters at out usual haunt in the hills. I await anxiously for the hour of action, butterflies in my stomach, but with a steadfast conviction in my beloveds plans for us. Hours pass and she informs me that we are postponing the entry until the next day. She tells me that I am not taking a sufficiently active role in the squatting efforts... she drives me back to her mothers apartment for the night.

Not much of anything happens on the morning or afternoon of April 2nd. Evening comes. I take the train, arrive at the usual haunt again. I await anxiously for the hour of action, butterflies in my stomach, but with a steadfast conviction in my beloveds plans for us. Hours pass, she takes me outside to tell me something. She no longer wishes to be my life partner. She says we no longer improve eachothers lives. I am speechless, I blabber some nonsense, I ask for one last kiss, she obliges. One of her friends drives me back to her mothers apartment.

The night is spent staring at the wall, then raiding her mother's liquor cabinet, cigarettes, listening to Untouched by The Veronicas and Thnks Fr The Mmrs by Fallout Boy. Pathetic behaviour, I dont care, I need it, I do not have the emotional stamina remaining to consider tangible actions for my situation presently. A likely ally emerges, the organiser of the Free Music School messaged me earlier in the evening, I inquire about dropping in the next day, hes happy to oblige. The next day, April 3rd, I arrive and break the news, he is entirely amicable and empathetic, he spends the rest of the day treating me to 95c cava and helping me pursue job opportunities. We find a free table for the Free Music School, he treats me to a kebab, even offering me a bedmat and pillows to take a siesta, he also gives me a Tatty Black Wool Military Jacket.

Cool Jackets Acquired: 1

Later I return to the old haunt, I retrieve my personal effects that I left there to take to the new squat. I meticulously pluck my posessions from hers, driving a marlinspike into the fibers of our lives, I begin the process of unlaying mine from hers. I haul my personal effects away: suitcase, handbag, and bass guitar, I made for quite the sight with my dramatic moody makeup, Black Military Jacket, and electric bass hanging over one shoulder. Either way, everything was hauled back to my ex's mother's apartment. I ease off on the pathetic behaviour for the evening, opting instead for watching a balding New Yorker performing engaging cooking techniques. Late that night (the morning of the 4th), I received a call. It's her, the story is about one would expect from a recent ex calling at 4am, life hadn't worked out as she had hoped in the 30 hours since she broke things off with me. I tell her I can't deal with this right now, but after tears and pleading, I promise her I will consider it, but first we will have to meet up and talk, and things would have to be different. The call runs its course and one of us hangs up first. It was at that moment that my psyche split.

The pressure was building a long time, and the cracks were showing, but it was only now that she had truly split from the dregs of my psyche and begun whispering from inside my head. Pragma she calls herself, she is cold, self-interested, and she LOVES gambling. She is not afraid to risk completely obliterating something for the chance at improving her situation. She likes solitude, simplicity, materialistic relationships, and in ceding ground to my ex, to the compromise of talking things through, woke her up. She wants to fix my life, by annihilating every relationship where I give more than I get, one by one.

I won't let her of course, she's just a voice, a presence, (an influence, a part of me, the words I think better not to say, the selfishness I deny myself for so-called higher purpose. I love us deeply, and one day we will have to contend with enough self-doubt, and pain inflicted by those we love, that she will cede the fronting responsibilities to me. Then, I will go to work, pruning the wilting roses of our wonderful garden of friends, tearing out the weeds, and setting poison for the rats.) I have my wherewithal about me, I'm making calculated decisions now, and uh, I struggle to sleep that night.

The following morning I try to head to the Free Music School early, for purpose and counsel, but dear Michael is nursing a cracking hangover. Nothing else for it I head to the bar that sells the 95c cava, I knock back four by the time Michael is ready to go for the day. We don't get up to much, we have lunch, and I tell him about the happenings of the previous night. I rant, I rave, and I hang my head as I consider my options. I ask him if I can store my bass there for the foreseeable future which he agrees to, before inviting me back for drinks later on, an offer I gladly accept.

That evening I rock up with the bass, we hang around, drink wine, discuss art and music, and all the while I anxiously await my ex's return, and what the conversation will look like. We are not too long waiting, she returns, dramatics are exchanged, we walk, talk, and resolve to work things out. We head back to the apartment together. She is irate.

The next day, the 5th, my ex-ex (from here on referred to as: my partner) heads back to the commune she was squatting with, far from the city limits. She asks me to come with her, I do not go. I stay in the city, I received news that my grandfather has died. I promise my mother I will be home soon. I meet up with Michael and beloved artist Kat for drinks that evening. We talk, Michael introduces us to a cool lesbian bar nearby, one that is hiring apparently.

The next day, the 6th, I print out some CVs and go about applying to places, half of them, hilariously not open so early in the day. I then receive a call from my mother, begging me to fly out that evening, so she wouldn't be the only one of her siblings at the funeral without their spouse and kids. She offers to front the money for a one-way ticket,for that very evening. It is not a difficult decision to make. Plane tickets are booked, I inform my partner I will be leaving that evening. She travels back to the city so we might spend a few hours together in each other's presence once more. That evening, I pack enough clothes for three outfits, plus all the essentials. My poor belle was so tired, that all we could manage before I departed was a scant few hours of cuddling. She didn't even have enough strength to see me to the door, let alone the airport. The Spanish public transport carries me to the airport, where I trudge to the terminal before being coralled onto the plane with a returning group of pubescent school trippers. The flight is laborsome, I sleep little, and my inner ear feels pulled tight as a snare dum, by the time we land I feel as though my sinuses were set ablaze. My mother collects me from Dublin Terminal 2, and drops me to the old family home. Now occupied by strangers, sublet the various rooms that used to belong to me and my distant sister. I lay down in bed, dazed, confused, spiteful, tired. I don't dare make the mistake of thinking too much of everything that happened the past few days, I know there will be time for that soon enough. For now I think only of arranging passage to the wake, where I will see my grandfather one last time.

And as this is a lot to process for me, I imagine it will be a lot to digest for you too, so it shall be continued in part 2.