#cusp of the mend

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

@kateprincessofbluewhales @looseleaflettuce between this and cusp of the mend, i am set for winter break😌

[iindiafterdark]

pink matter

summary: you woke up feeling needy, but luckily vi decided to help with that.

pairing: vi x f!reader

tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, no use of y/n, established relationship, soft dom!vi, brief thigh riding, fingering(r!recieving), tribbing, praise kink, overstim

wc: 1.4k

an: omg this is so passionate it makes me wanna cry, also listened to pink matter by frank ocean on repeat writing this, hope you enjoy

your eyelids fluttered awake, only to be met by the calm stillness of the night. vi's arms were wrapped lazily around your waist, keeping you against her chest firmly. she was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly. 

your eyes adjust to the darkness as you stare at her unconscious frame, feeling the subtle ache between your legs grow stronger. her leg was slotted in between yours, her bare thigh lying snug against your warm cunt. 

when you attempt to move, your clit catches on the hem of your shorts so perfectly. a hoarse gasp leaves your throat, making vi stir slightly. you shake her sleeping form gently, hoping it will wake her. 

and of course, it doesn't. vi has never ever been a light sleeper. you groan lightly before shaking her again, a bit harder this time. she stirs again, this time her eyes finally open and meet yours. she hums, the low sound resonating deep in her throat, which makes your cunt flutter around nothing. "baby? what's wrong?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

you toy with your bottom lip, resting your head into the crook of her neck. "need..need you," you murmur, feeling your body getting hotter the more you lay there untouched. she smirks, craning her head to meet the cusp of your ear with her lips. "aw, poor baby. you're needy for me?" she teases, her hands sliding down your waist to cup your ass. 

you lift your head from her, nodding silently with a small pout on your face. she smiles before bringing you in for a kiss. you let out a soft, desperate whine into her mouth, feeling the arousal overcome your entire being. 

vi holds you steady against her, her tongue slipping to mend with yours. her kisses were slow, deliberate. the lingering feeling of sleep didn't cloud her judgment. she knew you inside and out, knew the things that made you twitch and squirm.

you were so lost in the taste of her lips that you hadn't noticed the subtle rock of your hips against her thigh. or the way your wetness was oozing through your shorts, ruining them with your slick. 

she had noticed it though, digging her fingers to find the purchase of your hips to guide them. "c'mon princess, ride it out just like that," she mutters into your soft lips. your hands find her shoulders, gripping onto them as if you'd fall off the face of the earth if you hadn't.

she swallowed every gravelly moan and high-pitched whine. drinking up every drop of your pleasure as if it was a drug. you had grown even more desperate, your hips grinding down on her thigh at a quicker pace. you chased the friction, but it wasn't enough.

your face was buried into neck once again, your pants reverberating throughout the silent room. "mmngh..please vi- need more," you mewled, your voice laced with a raring need. 

you placed a slow, sloppy kiss on her collarbone, lolling out your tongue and licking a long stripe up her neck. she let out a low groan, moving your sheets before flipping you on your back.

vi didn't give you much time before she was eagerly on you, hands roaming your body as if she was studying every curve and crevice. she slipped off your shorts, throwing them to some unseen corner of your bedroom. 

hunger clouded her eyes as she admired your dripping cunt with awe. "god..she's practically crying for me baby," she coos, bringing her fingers up to your slicked folds.

your back arches in tandem, hips bucking as your clit throbs for some kind of attention. "vi--please just touch me," you plea, your voice weak. 

she smiles at you, toying with you even more, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the room as she laps it up with the rough pads of her fingers. "fuck, you have suuch a pretty pussy, gonna let me stuff it full?" she croons, two fingers lining up with your leaking slit. you nod fervently, gasping loudly as she pushes her slender fingers in slowly.

your slicked walls clamp down on them, sucking them in as she attempts to pump them in and out. she groans at the sight, eyeing the obscene wetness pooling onto the linen sheets. "hold your legs for me, princess- yeeah just like that. you look so fucking pretty," she praises, pumping her fingers at an overbearing pace. 

you didn't have the power to speak, only your hushed, slutty moans speaking for you. your dewy slick dripped down her wrist, your cunt enveloping her fingers easily now. 

you held the back of your knees tightly, trying to ground yourself as her fingers had your consciousness slowly slipping, falling between the heavens and earth. 

you catch her lustful gaze, realizing how truly far gone you were. weak gasps and whimpers left your agape maw, batting your wet lashes at her as drool slipped past your lips. "oh, oh my god..s' so good vi. feels s'fucking good," you whine, your orgasm knotting in your stomach.

she just smiled at you, watching intently while you fall apart in her arms. "yeah? it feels so good, huh? wanna see you cum all over my fingers baby, can you do that?" she urges, placing her hand on your cheek. her thumb gently strokes it, wiping away the streaming tears down your face.

you're sobbing now, the repeated abuse from her fingers brushing against your sweet spot over and over, making you lose your mind. the lewd squelches are becoming louder, filling your ears as your eyes roll back. 

you feel the sensation of your impending orgasm creep up on you, giving you no warning before your vision goes white. "v-vi baby--oh shiiit 'm cumming! 'm cum-mmph" you loudly keen before her lips capture yours. the kiss is wet and insanely sloppy as she swallows each and every one of your slurred moans and incoherent babbles. 

she makes you ride it out, plunging her fingers into your spent cunt at a slower pace. she pulls away from the kiss, hastily pulling her shorts down and flinging them across the bed. she slots in between your legs before finally grinding her cunt into yours.

your eyes roll at the contact, a low groan elicits from her throat as her thighs tremble. the wetness of her cunt becomes too much for your sensitive clit. 

you writhe under her, your hips bucking helplessly as you let out an obnoxious whimper. "oh baby, f-fuck your pussy feels s-so good god," she huffs, grounding her hips down to meet your sopping cunt again.

her pace is slow and sensual, carefully soaking in every second of how your warm body feels against hers. her fingers interlock with yours, holding onto you tightly as her hips rock. "pl-please vi, need you so bad," you slur, eyes blurred as you stare up at her. 

your mind is gone at this point; your words have reduced to mindless babbling and whines. she bends down, pressing her forehead against yours, your sweat drips against hers, mixing as it falls onto the bed. "'m here princess, vi's right here," she breathes, the air in between you making your mind whirl.

the sheen of sweat coated you both, sticky rivulets of your mended slick clung to vi’s hips as she pulled away and snapped them forward. her grey eyes peered deeply into yours as her cunt slid against yours. your cacophonic pants and moans of each other’s names filled the room, reverberating off of the walls like a reverent chant.

that familiar burning heat pools in your stomach once again, making you meet her slow grinds, the wet skin slapping against each other. “fuck, baby…g-gonna make me cum, gonna cum with me?” she simpers, squeezing your hands tighter. you nod eagerly, bucking your hips up more to meet hers.

 she throws her head back, a deep growl leaving her swollen lips. “vi–oh my god–please, oh i love you,” you whine, lifting up to kiss her. she returns it with the same wanton desire, the passionate slipping between your tongues. “i-i love you more, princess–oh fuuuck me– i love you so much,” she mutters onto your lips, ingraining the words within your very being. 

your orgasm washes over you, leaving your mind swimming in a warm white haze. vi isn’t far behind, her thighs trembling as she rides out her orgasm, her moans mixing with yours. you hold each other as you come down, the slick slipping in between you and soaking the sheets once more. 

you shower each other in soft, long kisses. repeated love confessions slip through your lips so easily, natural, just like breathing. you fall asleep holding each other; legs tangled and bodies interlinked, your minds eased knowing you’ll wake to each other come morning. 

[starastrologyy]

Astrology Observations!🤍

Hi everyone, I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas & a happy new year! My chart readings are now open again, for all those interested! The link is in my bio!🤍

A solar return year where you have your ascendant in Leo can be a year in which your self-confidence increases quite significantly. This is especially true for people who have a more introverted or reserved disposition.

In synastry, when someone’s Mercury falls into your 4th house, you may feel comfortable opening up to them about matters involving your childhood, family, or upbringing. If the other person’s mercury adversely aspects your planets, the mercury person may trigger painful memories related to the past, your family, emotional nature, & upbringing.

Years in which your solar return rising sign is in the same sign as the signs that are over your natal 8th & 12th house cusps can be quite challenging. However, these are also the years when you are likely to become very interested in spirituality, astrology, healing, mental health etc..

When Chiron transits your 3rd house you may have a falling out with a sibling(s) or cousin(s). Alternatively, this could be when you are actively seeking to mend these relationships.

If you have the ruler of your midheaven in your 1st house, you’d likely do well owning your own business or working in a leadership position. In some cases, this placement can indicate working in a profession that requires you to make use of your physical body. (Working as an athlete is an example).

In a composite chart, if a couple has the ruler of the composite descendent in the 11th house, they may have met through mutual friends or through shared involvement in a community project!

When Mars Retrograde transits your 6th house, you may have to go back and re-evaluate how you approach or handle conflicts at work/with co-workers. This can also be a good time to re-evaluate or revisit your health & wellness goals.

Uranus in the 9th house of the natal chart can indicate that you are inclined to adopt unconventional beliefs. Alternatively, it could mean that you are more open-minded than the average person, or your beliefs may change very suddenly, as you move through life. In some cases, this can indicate liberation/independence in a foreign country. Yet, it can also indicate experiencing instability or unpredictability abroad.

When you have Jupiter in the 3rd house of your solar return chart, you may buy a new car or publish a blog in that year (if either of these things appeal to you).

The solar return moon conjunct the solar return ascendant can indicate notable weight fluctuations in that year.

You may begin working from home in a solar return year where you have the ruler of your solar return midheaven placed in the solar return 4th house.

[wxstros]

Bonds Forged in Fire

In a world where dragons did not dance and Rhaenyra reigns unchallenged on the Iron Throne, her legacy endures through her three valiant sons, with the Targaryens having bowed to their rightful queen. You, a traveller in this medieval tapestry, have at last discovered the opportune moment to seek solace in Essos, intending to live out your days unburdened and free. No longer are you compelled to mend the fragile bonds among feuding cousins, having already nurtured a brotherhood among the Velaryon and Targaryen youths. Freed from the duty of attending to Alicent, appeasing your father Daemon, or strategizing for the benefit of the realm and its beloved Rhaenyra, you stand on the cusp of true retirement... or do you?

warnings: typical targcest/inc*st. DARK CHARACTERS; controlling behavior, manipulation, gaslighting. cursing. reader is a modern human. dance of the dragons did not happen. canon typical violence. yandere behavior!

pairings: hotd x reader, daemon targaryen x daughter!reader (platonic)

CHAPTER TWO: NO LONGER A FREE WOMAN

Quiet and Commanding. Graceful and Bloodthirsty — you were both the calmness of the sea and it's tempest. In a desperate act of survival, you reshaped the fate of Westeros; a no ordinary feat by all means, and you bore the scars of fabricating this delicate peace.

You sought to end a war before it grew to become one. Tearing the heart of the dragon so it no longer bore heads, you suffered the consequences of your meddling, self-preserving nature, from the curse of Targaryens.

Madness. Delusions. Paranoia..

Paranoia is ever common among people of power, and in your whimsical rendition of the present, you found yourself ensnared in the very web you sought to untangle.

Your knowledge of the succession of events was vital in its formative years; you were the weaver of histories yet unwritten, the keeper of secrets that shaped destinies. In the quiet chambers of the Red Keep, where whispers carried more weight than steel, you stood as a sentinel of wisdom amidst the unfolding of ambition and intrigue.

Once, you navigated the tapestry of Westerosi politics with a sure hand, guiding alliances and decisions that now lay woven into the fabric of a new era. But the future you once knew, predictable as the turning of seasons, now unfolded with unpredictable swiftness.

The absence of war reshaped the contours of power, leaving uncertainties where once there were certainties... and you had become one of it's unfortunate casualties.

"If I may speak, my lady," she began, her voice a whisper that hung in the air like the fragrance of roses in bloom. You turned to face her, your expression calm yet attentive, silently inviting her to share the secrets that threaded through the underbelly of courtly life. A strategically placed informant, a madame you kept in your good graces, for her valuable informations.

With practiced ease, you gestured for her to continue as you returned to your preparations, the delicate clink of jewelry punctuating the quiet conversation between you. The madame hesitated, her words measured and cautious, betraying the weight of the information she carried.

"I've come upon certain... revelations," she finally ventured, her tone laden with the gravity of her disclosure. She recounted, with a waver in her countenance, the princes' preferences— their specific demands echoing through the chambers like whispers of scandal. Each word revealed a world hidden behind closed doors, where fantasies intertwined with the obligations of royalty and it's stifling constraints.

Your hands paused momentarily, the silver earrings poised between your fingers as you absorbed the implications of her words. You feared the unspoken consequences of such desires. One that transcended the boundaries of rank and decorum, casting shadows upon the noble facade that adorned the princes in public.

"They call for you," she had confessed in a hushed tone, her eyes troubled yet resolute. "Not just any women, but those with your likeness. They cry out your name in the throes of passion, seeking to recreate a semblance of what they know in the sanctity of their chambers."

With a nod of dismissal, the madame withdrew, leaving the chamber with a bow of deference. Alone once more, you resumed your preparations, the morning light seeming dimmer now as you contemplated the delicate balance between power and discretion within the heart of the Red Keep. Yet, the madame's parting words lingered, her voice tinged with an urgency that unsettled you.

"Forgive me, if you must call me insolent." she had said, her eyes wide with concern, "Leave this place once you get the chance. These princes... they are not what they seem. Their love is a dangerous thing."

The weight of her warning wasn't missed, nor unrewarded. Leave, she said. And you almost wept at your desire to do so. The thought of escape had always been present, but now it seemed more pressing, more necessary.

The Targaryen madness... a curse that had plagued their bloodline for generations, was not a mere myth. It was a living, breathing beast that lurked within the halls of the keep, a beast that had ensnared even the most unsuspecting hearts.

The tales of their ancestors, the whispers of dragons and fire, echoed in your thoughts.

You had seen the cracks in their facades, the fleeting moments when the mask slipped, revealing the turmoil beneath. It was in the soft utterance, in a mad whisper of devotion.

with me, no harm shall come your way; rhaenyra, whispers.

i would kill anyone who tries to take you from me; daemon, vows.

you must always have me in your heart. it must have only me; aegon pleads.

It was devotion that threatened to consume you. It was in the quiet plea for acceptance. It was in the vulnerable displays, where the attachment grew into something you could no longer control.

never leave me; jacaerys utters with conviction.

tell me you need me; aemond, grips you.

tell me you love me; heleana whispers.

tell me you're mine...

The madness was not just in their blood; it was in their very souls, a consuming fire that threatened to engulf all who drew too close.

As you finished your preparations, you pondered your next step. To outmaneuver the most powerful people in the realm; to extricate yourself from their grasp, required more than just cunning. It required a keen understanding of the intricate dance of power and madness that played out within these walls.

As you stepped into the corridor, the weight of the madame's warning heavy upon your shoulders, you knew that your journey was far from over. The road ahead was treacherous, but with each step, you inched closer to the freedom that lay beyond the reach of the dragon's fire.

The small council was filled with nobles loyal to Rhaenyra's claim. People who were wise, honest, and unbearably scheming. Aemond was among the council, a concession to allow for unity and to placate those who supported his family. Yet, his presence was more than strategic; Aemond had always been smart and decisive, qualities that made him a valuable asset in matters of governance and warfare. His sharp mind and keen insights often cut through the labyrinth of political machinations, bringing clarity and resolution to complex issues.

Jacaerys, the crown prince, also held a seat on the council. As Rhaenyra's eldest son, it was imperative that he learn the intricacies of rule and the delicate balance of power within the realm. His participation was both an educational experience and a symbol of continuity, showing that the future of the realm was in capable hands. Though Aemond and Jace had a fraught history, they had reached a tenuous truce, understanding the necessity of cooperation for a shared cause. Their interactions were civil, even if not genuinely friendly, a testament to their shared commitment to the greater good.

Aegon, noticeably absent from the meeting, was occupied with securing an allegiance with a rich noble visiting. His transformation from a reckless youth to a responsible leader was a surprising deviation from the expected path, proving that even the most unlikely individuals could rise to the occasion when the realm demanded it.

Where there was once dignified discussions had unravelled into a heated one...

"A marriage allegiance, to the North?" Daemon repeats incredulously, a frown marring his features at the absurd suggestion from one of the lords in the small council.

The man, while relatively small in stature, held his stance despite receiving hostile glares from multiple pairs of scathing gazes. He was certain they wished to command his head off, but the loyalty to your cause remains in him. "The princess is of the right age to marry; it would strengthen our ties with the North and ensure their loyalty," the lord persisted.

Aemond tensed, repressing the urge to draw his sword and cut the insolent bastard's tongue for his brazen suggestion. His dear, sweet cousin, would not debase herself to a mere wolf when she had the blood of a dragon coursing through her veins!

Jace had a similar, quiet indignation. You would not marry to distant mountains, let alone to a foreign man. It was one thing to share your affections among their family, an entirely different one, should it be directed to another entirely.

Rhaenyra, at the head of the council, was first to voice her dissent, her expression calm yet resolute. "The realm is at peace. What need have we for an alliance with the North? We do not need to complicate matters with alliances that may bring more harm than good."

"Peace reigns now, the future is uncertain. Strengthening our ties with the North ensures stability in times of unforeseen turmoil. The marriage alliance is a precautionary measure, one that could safeguard the realm," the lord insisted, gathering murmurs of support around the table.

Daemon slammed his fist on the table, his voice booming. "We have dragons! We should be the ones feared, not groveling for alliances like beggars. The North should be seeking our favor, not the other way around. This talk of marriage is a distraction, a needless concession."

"We do not need to rally more support. Our house is strong enough without resorting to such measures," Jacareys adds, stoic though his eyes blazed with unspoken fury.

The defiance in the room was palpable, a wall of resistance against the idea of your marriage to a northerner, the famed Cregan Stark warden of the North.

Every time the notion of marriage was presented, they always had an excuse, a reason to dismiss it. Their hatred for the idea was unmistakable, rooted in their desire to keep you close, to maintain the unity of the family within the confines of King's Landing.

You never much bothered to disagree. Marriage was never your priority; you were trying to stave off the extinction of the Targaryens, where could you find the energy and time to please a husband?

However, this time, you decided to break the pattern.

"I agree," you said, your voice steady and calm. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to you in shock.

"You what?" Daemon's voice was low, dangerous, a silent threat hung in the air as if begging you to repeat your agreement.

"I admire Cregan Stark," you continued, ignoring the rising tension. "He is known to be handsome, domineering, strong, and capable. Such a match would be beneficial for our house."

And he lives in the desolate cold. Far from King's Landing. Come winter, and no dragon, however mighty, could cross its threshold.

Rhaenyra was speechless, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find words. Daemon's face turned a deeper shade of red, his anger barely contained. Aemond and Jace looked as though they were on the verge of losing their composure, their fists clenched tightly.

"You would leave for the North?" While emotionless and composed, Aemond was anything but.

"This is absurd. You can't possibly mean this," Jace added, his tone equally tense.

You met their gazes with unwavering resolve. "This alliance is strategic. It ensures the realm's continued prosperity and stability. It is a decision made for the greater good."

Daemon's expression darkened, his frustration palpable as he struggled to reconcile his paternal instincts with sound reason, and not violent tendencies. He thiught it much easier to wield a sword and conquer cities.

"Whoever wove these tales, planting fairy-tale notions of a prince charming into my daughter's head, is a deceiver. They think they can trick her, make her believe in an idyllic fantasy. My daughter is naive and innocent in their eyes, easy to sway. But I will find this manipulator and have his head for daring to poison her mind with such nonsense!" He uttered, voice laced with venom, a final threat to whoever disagreed with his judgement— Daemon thought you naive, and gullible to suggestion, believing it was not your own will, but a treacherous cunt's ideas.

Afterall, you would never desire to leave him; your poor father... and the rest, whoever they may be. He still has no idea which was whom; he kept a tally of one or two silver haired kid, and the rest were lost to him.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath, her composure returning as she placed a hand on the table, grounding herself.

"We must weigh all options, think of the ramifications. A marriage... it is not a decision to be taken lightly."

Despite her words, you knew her mind was already made up. She had always been fiercely protective, and the idea of you leaving King's Landing, leaving her side, was something she could not easily accept.

The path to freedom was fraught with peril, but you had come too far to falter now. Your nod to the Arryn lord, was subtle— indicating he back down from his duel of wits. It was an issue for another day. Rhaenyra had made it so.

With a determined breath, you resolved to tread carefully, to gather the strength and allies needed to break free from the chains that bound you.

The Targaryen curse was a formidable foe, but you were no stranger to battles fought in the shadows.

***

do comment if you want to get tagged! 💗☺️

[kentwos]

thinking about ghost 😔😔😔😔

When I think about Simon, I think of a face that is tired. Crows feet and deep purple eye-bags. When he smiles it's a special thing, getting to watch those lines crease, his beautiful foxy eyes turn into semi-circles, blush returning to his pale cheeks. Yawns another precious but frequent moment, eyebrows lifting to his hairline, jaw slack, sound like a dogs sigh.

If you bring his hands up to your face, whether you're trying to kiss them with soft lips or you're aching for him to hold your face the way that makes the rest of the world melt away, you'll always smell tobacco. Stale, but a reminder that it's him and no one else. He's come to hate but you feel impartial, watching him scrub his hands at the end of the day with the faintest smile. Years of his habits embedded underneath the constant breaking and mending of his palms. He says he's sorry while he's touching you after a long day and you hold him close and remind him it's okay. It's comforting to know he's your same old husband.

Social but not without his own awkwardness. It takes him a while to figure out how you like things, how things should be. There is no perfection in his being just like everyone else. You still get into arguments about things that hardly matter two hours later; and if it's worse than that he grapples for apologies that don't always come out right. You learn to forgive each other. Brains formed in different settings and language barriers crossed. With Simon it's a lot of: that's not what I meant. No. No. What I wanted to say is... Obstacles which take long to overcome, growing taller depending on where you're both standing.

But the beauty in Simon is that he tries. The pain that he hides from you turns into some strange form of motivation. Obsessive about his behvaiours at worst you can still love him because at his best he is still doing more than anyone else. He works for you every day, knows that he has to treat each moment as thought it's the last.

It means you get to sit down with him on the sofa for an extra five minutes with hot drinks in hand before getting on with your days. It means long bubble baths and fogged mirrors. Gentle kisses shared even when they're not needed. Even in the dark. Even if you're on the cusp of dreams.

It means Simon is chasing for every opportunity to make you his again, even though you already are.

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.10. - Cut Down The Puppet Strings

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW + mild gore, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES

word count: 8,1K

author's note: Playlist here! Art by @cringemaster3 ♡ For everyone interested, the songs I used for chapter titles are as follows: Dark Entries by Bauhaus, Mask by Bauhaus (Ch.2. and 3.), Blasphemous Rumours by Depeche Mode, The Passion of Lovers by Bauhaus, Persephone by Cocteau Twins, Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees, Stigmata Martyr, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything and Spirit by Bauhaus. In the end notes I'm explaining the Algernon paradox.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Within the fourth day the bell tolls iron-throated and low, rolling across the valley for Radomír, the nameless. Dawn is scarcely a suggestion; breath smokes out of every mourner’s mouth. They gather in the hilltop chapel—stone ribs blackened by centuries of incense—while below, the footprint of the manor still steams, earth warm enough to melt the shy November snow that drifts in uncertain flakes.

You and Viktor stand among the stripped-of-surname household, shoulders brushing the Samkovas, hands brushing the young heir’s trembling sleeve. Grief here is quiet, almost reverent; names were eaten by fire, but affection survived the feast. Candles gutter along the narrow altar and the priest intones only given names, as though Heaven itself has no ledger for what was burned.

Viktor’s gloved fingers find yours—small linkage beneath the funeral pall—and squeeze once, solemn. Friend, the gesture says. Witness. Co-bearer of passage. You return the pressure, feeling the faint tremor in his hand—the weight of a vow forming even before the last bell stroke fades into the aching sky.

Outside, winter light glints off the chapel’s stained-glass shards, littering the steps with bruised colours. Beyond the churchyard gate a modest crowd waits—fewer than the fire brigade counted when the house was burning, yet enough to thicken the road: farmers in smoke-scented wool, shopkeepers in their Sunday coats, widows wrapped in sable shawls, a trio of schoolchildren clutching frost-stiff posies. No one speaks above a hush, but in every lifted face lives a story Radomír once mended—a broken fence, an unpaid doctor’s fee, an apple pressed into a palm the winter after his wife died. These gathered memories outweigh any title that went to cinders.

If the boy’s deep, effortless breaths were not proof enough of what Viktor has done, this living ledger is. As you and he descend the chapel steps, the mourners part, touching brims, bowing heads. Some look puzzled, mouths shaping a surname they can no longer summon. Others simply nod, certain of grief even without the anchor of letters.

“They remember him,” Viktor murmurs, almost to himself, voice thin as a church draft but clear to you as heartbeat. You tighten your grip on his hand, feel the pulse speed beneath kid-glove.

“I cannot call the name,” you confess, the realization sudden and eerie. Your free hand finds the one that balances his cane; you fold both inside your own.

“Nor can I,” Viktor answers. “ But I recall the man. I see the boy draw breath, and I think—perhaps…” Words tangle in the raw cusp of hope.

Footsteps skirt around you, coats brushing yours, but you do not step aside. Leaning close, you hide bright anticipation in an embrace that passes for sorrow. Lips near his ear, you whisper, “For this I will owe you my life.”

He steadies you, palm warm against your cheek despite the frost. His gaze softens. “On the contrary,” he breathes, “it is I who am in your debt. But let us earn living first—then we may bargain over gratitude.” Behind him the bell tolls once more, not dirge but distant clock, and the two of you stand a moment longer in its echo, feeling the shape of the future settle—unnamed, but suddenly, achingly possible.

Snow begins in hushed flurries as the last mourners drift away. Good-byes are simple: Mrs. Samkova presses your hands, repeating soft blessings; her husband clasps Viktor’s shoulder with the word brother caught in his throat. The boy—newly free of hitching lungs—hovers behind them, boots scuffing half-moons in thin white powder. Just as you reach the carriage step he bursts forward, arm outstretched.

A toy horse, hardly longer than a matchbox, carved from orchard wood and burnished by long pocket-rides. He offers it to Viktor without speech, huge brown eyes fierce with purpose. Viktor kneels—snow dampening his trouser knee—and accepts the gift with both palms as though receiving a relic. “Ride far,” the boy whispers, the words a vow and a benediction. Viktor touches the child’s cheek, nods once, and slips the horse into the safe hollow of his waistcoat.

Inside the carriage you fold into each other as naturally as breath and rib. Cold seeps from the glass, but warmth pools where your legs tangle and Viktor’s arm bands your waist. The toy horse rests between his palm and your thigh, its smooth flank warming by degrees.

Fear travels with you—an uninvited passenger—but it rides quieter now, tempered by a sharp, bright appetite for the hours still possible. Outside, the countryside has softened: snow stitches field to hedge, grave-mound to road, erasing quarrel lines with white thread. Trees stand in gentle truce, their black bones laced by the same steady drift. Even the river wears a hush—skin of ice knitting its restless pulse. The world feels briefly unified, forgiven.

You breathe that sameness, that bright muffled calm, into one another’s mouths. Viktor’s lips brush your temple once, twice—small tithes against the chill—while the carriage wheels turn steady beneath, bearing you toward the last bargain yet to be struck and whatever thin dawn follows its price.

Home greets you with a modest crust of snow, the sort that means to stay—no soft drifts, only a colourless film clinging to hedges and crunching under wheels. The manor itself seems to have exhaled while you were gone: shutters half-latched, lamps burning low but steady, a dogged pulse awaiting its master.

Algernon stands beneath the portico, two footmen at his flanks. “I take it the mission was successful, Master Velesny?”

Viktor lifts a brow, frost still jewelling his lashes. “Yes. Disappointed?”

The butler flinches as though tapped with a switch, then smooths his features to the usual porcelain calm. “Not in the least, sir. You must be chilled—come, come.” He shepherds you both through the doors, already delegating with crisp gestures. “Tea in the drawing room anon—”

“In my chambers, if you please,” Viktor interrupts. “All luggage there as well.”

“As you wish, sir.” Algernon bows, the motion precise yet brittle, and disappears down the corridor, orders snapping after him like dry twigs.

Viktor turns, arms open but hesitant, a man poised on the threshold of a stronger vow. “I do not wish to part from you,” he says. “If you will have me.”

Wordless, you step into the circle of his embrace, feel the thaw where your coats touch. Together you climb the familiar stairs—past the secret room, your guest bedroom and the quiet library—until the upper hallway hushes around your footfalls.

Luggage lands in soft thuds; the door closes; the house recedes. Viktor kicks free of his boots and sinks onto the edge of the bed, long legs stretched before him, braces creaking. The tea tray arrives, steam curling into lamp-lit calm, then you are alone again with the muted tick of distant clocks.

You kneel at his feet, fingers deft at buckles, leather surrendered into your lap piece by piece. He exhales—one long ribbon of relief—as the brace slips away, his shoulders folding loose for the first time without urgency or ache. You set the metal aside, warm your palms against his calves, and look up.

He studies you, half-smile tugging at the edge of fatigue. “You are equal parts wicked and kind,” he murmurs—praise spoken like confession. The words balance between you, steeping in the quiet the way strong tea stains porcelain, until the whole room tastes faintly of possibility rather than peril.

“You are the same,” you murmur, and slip your fingers beneath the edge of his sock. The wool peels away; winter-pale skin shows the faint map of veins and a single old surgery scar. You roll the fabric down and cup his calf with both hands, working slow circles into the knotted muscle. A tremor skims through him—surprise and surrender. His breath catches, not in pain but in some startled bliss he hasn’t tasted since some thoughtful hands last tended a fevered limb. He lowers his eyes, lets them shutter, as if watching might break the spell.

Your thumbs sweep the length of his shin. “Any notions,” you ask, tone almost idle, “of how to undo your bargain?”

He opens his lashes, studies the ceiling as though answers might be chalked there. “What, precisely, did the name purchase?” he muses. “Scholarship seats, lectureships, every citation that turns ink to clout. I can’t drag all those journals to the fire.” He reaches into his waistcoat, producing a slim bundle of embossed cards: Viktor Velesny, FRS, Lecturer in Aetheric Dynamics. Their gilt edges catch the lamplight like tiny guillotines. “It reduces to this—titles and vowels on good linen stock.”

Your palm slides to the back of his calf, squeezing. “You were tricked,” you say, voice low. “Taken against your will.”

A sigh breaks from him, long and bone-deep. He slips off the mattress, joints cracking soft, and folds to the floor before you. The discarded brace glints nearby like an iron question. He draws your knees between his, rests his forehead against your sternum. “I know,” he says, words feathering the cotton of your dress. “Not a moment passes I don’t search for some sleight to turn scripture against that god.”

You comb fingers through his hair, feel the heat of his plotting skull. “We’ll find the hinge,” you whisper. “Every trap has one.”

He tilts his face up, eyes dark with hope that can’t yet name itself. “Then tomorrow,” he says, voice steadier, “we begin forging keys.” Outside, wind fidgets around the eaves, but in this hush his vow feels heavier than iron, warmer than the tea cooling on the bedside table.

Days begin to braid into one another, silver and soot, tenderness and graphite. Morning often finds you in the library where frost feathers the windows and Viktor’s breath plumes over strewn folios; he dictates, you annotate, both of you hunting the hinge on which a god’s claim might turn. Noon drifts into the greenhouse, where weak sun warms copper gears while Viktor sketches sigils in dirt between wilted basil stalks—testing fragments of languages older than mortar. He breaks off only to tug you close, soil still on his fingers, pressing a kiss to the pulse beneath your ear as though to remind himself which world he is fighting for.

Evenings pool in the bedroom, heliostat planets tracing their muted constellations overhead. At the workbench Viktor opens a leather-bound album—sepia portraits of scholars’ banquets, university fêtes, expedition groups—each captioned in his careful hand: V. Velesny, Lecturer, Prof. Velesny and Colleagues. With a sable brush he dips into dense India ink and drifts a dark stroke across the surname, letting it bleed until the letters vanish beneath a soft, tidal black. Page after page he performs the quiet erasure, leaving only initials and faces. You stand close, turning sheets for him; between each sweep of ink your fingers knead the tension where leather brace meets his shoulder blade, and the room fills with two companion sounds: planets ticking their slow orbits above, and the patient sigh of parchment surrendering names to night.

Sometimes, without warning, desire flares: you end up half-undressed on the desk, schematics crinkling beneath your hips while nightingales outside the cracked window sing their cold-season dirges. Other nights are quieter: Viktor lies listening to your heartbeat, toy horse clutched between your palms like a charm, the two of you talking in murmurs about what a nameless future might taste like—bread still warm, bodies unburdened.

Between each sunrise he files another portion of himself away: lecturers’ medals tucked into a velvet pouch, an old dissertation reduced to ash in the grate, brass nameplate unscrewed from the study door. With every relinquishment his spine straightens a fraction, as though the god’s hand loosens its grip by degrees—yet the cost shows too, in new shadows beneath his eyes. You match him step for step, fearing and craving the moment the ledger is balanced, when the world must decide whether it will remember brilliance shorn of syllables or let the man himself slip, bright and unclaimed, into legend.

On the last night the lamp is low, trinkets caught in their mute procession, as Viktor lets a bead of scarlet wax fall to the spine of a calling-card. A stray tremor tips the spoon; a droplet leaps, lands on the slope of your hand. Heat bites—sharp as drawn breath—then cools to a humming sting while the wax sets, shrinking into a lacquered shell. You flex, feeling it crack, and lift the small crust away with the edge of a fingernail.

Viktor’s quill stills mid-air. For a beat he watches the red fleck in your palm as though it might reveal an oracle. Something moves behind his eyes—relief, almost, that the night has offered sensation other than the clawing dread you have both worn over the last few days. Wordless understanding slides between you: a silent dare, a promise of a feeling stronger than fear. His pulse answers before speech can; you can tell from the sudden hush, like rooms aligning perfectly after long disrepair.

You edge closer, rolling your sleeve to bare your forearm across the desk. His hand settles on it, thumb tracing veins with affection that feels pre-remembered. He tips the taper. Molten orange glides, sears, then cools. You steady your breathing; he steadies his on yours. When he peels the hardened drip away, need sparks in both gazes—twin flames recognising tinder.

The candle meets wood with a muted clink. He hooks a hand behind your knee, draws you to the chair’s edge so your breath mingles with his. Fingers slide to your bodice fastenings. “Is this truly what you want?” he murmurs, though the answer is already thudding in his throat.

You nod, pulse bright. “It is our last night before—” you cut yourself off. Then: “Let us spend it wisely.”

His mouth brushes yours—promise, or a pact. “Then let me spend you,” he whispers, clothes loosening under deft hands. “Let it brand us both, and melt the fears away.”

With that, he parts the last hook of your contraption and spreads the fabric wide as though opening a rare tome. His palms skim the slope of clavicle, pause a heartbeat to feel your pulse beneath thin skin, then glide upward—encircling your neck with a velvet firmness that draws you in. The kiss begins soft, delicate, corners first; heat pools where your bare breasts brush the linen of his shirt, silk nip against starched front. His thumbs press gently at the hollow where your throat rises and falls—measuring want like a physician might count breaths—before his teeth catch your lower lip in a tender bite that steals your next exhale.

You feel the moment the tension in him shifts from caution to hunger. He pulls back just far enough to strip his shirt, buttons scattering like pale seeds. Your fingers know the brace now: you unfasten each buckle with practiced grace, leather loosening until the iron scaffold slides away. He shivers—not from chill but from the shock of unarmoured skin meeting air and your gaze.

“Look at you,” you murmur, palms spanning the firm plane of his chest. “All iron gone, and still the strongest man I know.”

His answering smile is half gratitude, half wicked delight. “And you,” he breathes, tracing circles around the knot of your spine, “are art and appetite in equal measure.”

You lose your bottoms and swing a knee across his thighs, sinking into his lap. The sudden cradle of your weight pulls a low sound from him, rich as dusk bells. Your fingers work deftly at the clasps of his trousers; fabric yields, and the warmth pressed against your inner thigh grows urgent.

“Ease me,” he whispers, voice frayed with lust.

“Guide me,” you counter, slickening the request with a roll of your hips.

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing peaks into sharper want. “You take light,” he murmurs, kissing the tender swell, “and make it unbearable.” His praise sparks heat under your skin; you free him from the last restraint, smoothing your hand along firmness until his throat imprisons breath.

Your name leaves his mouth like a vow. “Hardships tomorrow,” he says, eyes bright with the promise of oblivion found in each other’s bodies. “For this hour, let us be only yes.”

“Yes,” you answer, lowering yourself with slowly, welcoming him inch by aching inch. The world narrows to murmured endearments and low, unruly pleas.

His palm glides from the plane of your belly up through the valley of your breasts, circling once over each quickened peak before winding round your throat, guiding you to arch like a bow. “Ready?” he asks, voice frayed velvet.

“Brand me,” you breathe.

He reaches for the taper—its stub of flame trembling in the draft—tilts it until a bead of fire-soft wax swells and slips. It lands just below your sternum, searing, then cooling to a tight sting that pulls a keen from your throat. You arch higher, hands fumbling for his shoulders, nails grazing the muscle there.

“Look at me,” Viktor commands, candle held aloft like a single votive between you. Your gaze locks on his: pupils blown, irises twin furnaces.

“Again,” you whisper.

This time he watches every shift of your expression as molten orange beads, slides, and kisses the slope of your rib. Your breath chokes; his own follows. Wax shells bloom along your skin—tiny seals of night—each one a vow he speaks in low praise: “So brave, my compass… my true North.” Your hands settle at his nape, pulling him forward until the heat of breath replaces the heat of wax. He kisses the cooling marks, tongue soothing the sting, and when your hips roll in silent plea he answers with a slow upward thrust, melding body to body while the candle’s glow dances, the only star in a room intent on forgetting every hardship but hunger.

Viktor bows his head, lips roaming the new reliquaries cooling on your chest. Each pass of his tongue feels like sacrament reversed—holy water traded for salt-slick hunger. Deep inside, his rhythm lengthens, driven, splitting you open to the root. He catches your gaze, sweat haloing his brow in the low glow, and offers the taper between trembling fingers. “Anoint yourself,” he rasps, hands sliding to cup the curves he worships. “Let me witness your devotion.”

You take the candle, the flame wavering like a single rebellious cherub. “Every word you speak,” you murmur, tipping the wax so it swells at the lip, “writes salvation on my skin.” The first drop falls, and heat sings through nerve and marrow. His hands urge you higher, guiding you so the drenched heart of you grinds against the taut plane of his abdomen—each stroke a bell-note of pleasure, flesh chiming against flesh.

Wax beads again, trailing down your ribs, sluicing over soft curls below until it nets there, bright and sacrilegious. Viktor watches, chest heaving, zeal and hunger braided in his stare. “Beloved of mine,” he breathes, two fingers parting you to keep you poised, to feel every clench that answers his thrust. “Brand yourself with every yes.”

You drizzle another line, hiss his name like a litany. It cools to a fragile shell over pounding muscle; he rises into you, sealing heat with heat. In swift ruin of restraint he crushes you to him, molten edges catching, bonding skin to skin. The candle slips, extinguishes against the floorboards with a hiss like a psalm’s final amen.

“Sealed as one,” Viktor gasps against your ear. “I am yours, and you, irrevocably, mine. Spend for me, darling—let the night witness our creed.”

“Take me,” you answer, voice caught between prayer and dare, mouth pressed to his temple, fingers clutching at his dark hair. He drives upward, groan rending the hush, teeth claiming shoulder then throat in near-feral blessing. Pleasure shears through you, wax shell fracturing as your body locks round him, pulse beating fire against broken seal. His own release follows, anthem and surrender, spilling into the shared incandescence while snow-pale light fingers the curtained glass—two sinners bound, sanctified by flame, fear held at the door until the chiming clocks remember to summon it back.

Wax cools and cracks where your bodies meet, tiny shells of red and amber falling like spent petals onto the carpet. You sit sideways across Viktor’s thighs, both of you still perched on the poor chair that now lists under your joined weight. His breath creeps along the curve of your neck—warm, unhurried—and each exhale loosens another flake of hardened seal that lands soft against his bare shoulder. He tightens his arms as though the night might yet slip away, mouth grazing the pulse beneath your ear.

“It is foolish of me to ask,” he murmurs, voice worn thin by pleasure and dread, “but you mustn’t follow me to the cave. I can’t promise I’ll walk back out.”

Your spine stills; you lean away just enough to cradle his face, palms cupping cheeks still flushed. The candle’s after-scent lingers between you—honeyed smoke, something half like church, half like damnation. “Death will not part us,” you say, steady as catechism. “I won’t grant it that courtesy.”

A breathy chuckle shivers from his chest, equal parts awe and resignation. “I had to try,” he confesses. “If positions were reversed, I’d bolt the door to keep you safe.” He kisses the pad of your thumb. “But stubbornness is devotion by another name.”

You fold against each other, let the cooling wax lie where it falls, and barter a few more hours of sleep from the reluctant dawn. When afternoon finally bleeds grey across the windowpanes, you rise together—limbs aching, hearts steadier than before. Packing is oddly brief: Viktor shrugs into a travel coat, slides the leg brace into place, pockets a tinderbox and a coil of hemp line. On the writing desk lies a single calling-card—one he spared from ink or flame—bearing the gilt of a name soon to be bartered. He tucks it into his breast pocket, over the beat of his heart, not as keepsake but as coin.

You step from the threshold without ceremony—no luggage save the weight in your chests—when Algernon appears at the top of the steps, hair uncombed, cravat skewed as though dressed by ghosts. Fatigue dusts his shoulders; candle-soot smears one cheek. He descends, halts, and for a moment simply stares at Viktor, lips parted around a plea that takes its time finding sound.

“My lord… I beg you, do not go.” His hand lifts, wavers inches from Viktor’s sleeve, then falls—as if the air itself forbids the touch.

Viktor forces a smile that wobbles at the edges. “Why? Would you prefer me dead after all?” The jest is thin; your fingers brush his coat, feeling the sudden tautness beneath.

“It is death where you go—either way,” Algernon murmurs, smoothing hair that will not lie flat. His gaze fixes somewhere beyond the yew hedge, as though an answer hangs in the fog, just out of reach.

“What say you?” Viktor closes the distance, palm steady on Algernon’s shoulder. “If I perish, sooner or later matters little. I must attempt this. You, of all men, know trying is the marrow of living.”

For a span that might be a heartbeat or an eon, Algernon simply looks at Viktor—eyes clouded, as if some hidden ledger is being read aloud inside his skull. Muscle by muscle, his face rearranges: first the polite neutrality he has worn for decades; then bafflement, as though he’s stepped into a room whose walls are suddenly wrong; then stark terror, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. The corners of his mouth flutter, trying on several shapes—apology, protest, prayer—before settling into a tremor that leaves his lips parted, wordless. You watch the change ripple downward, loosening the set of his shoulders, stealing the impeccable butler’s poise until the man beneath the livery emerges—frightened, unarmoured, newly aware of the knife-edge on which his existence balances. Only when that transformation completes, slow as frost creeping across glass, does he seize Viktor’s wrist, desperate not to be left behind by the truth he has just understood.

“It is not you who will perish,” he whispers, voice fraying. “It is I. I was a man once—I can half-recall—a foolish boy seeking favour of gods, much as you did. Now I am bound to the name on your tongue, kept here where He wishes you tethered. If you slip the leash, I slip into nothing.”

The realisation dawns across Viktor’s features like sunrise over ruins. “Algernon…” he breathes, horror and pity intermingled.

“Forgive me,” the butler goes on, a man confessing sins discovered only this moment. “I meant no harm; I am merely an instrument, unaware. An illusion of will.” He bows his head, fingertips blanching where they still hold Viktor.

“All those times,” Viktor murmurs, remembering sudden tea trays, doorways blocked by polite inquiry. “The interruptions—”

“It was He, puppeting me.” Algernon’s voice cracks; you see tears standing, silver as thaw. “I should not exist now—not as myself.”

Silence settles, heavier than any bell. Somewhere a rook cries, harsh and solitary.

At last Algernon lifts his gaze, and for the first time the mask of perfect service is gone; what remains is raw, undeniably human. “Go,” he says, the word shivering in the cold. “Cut the strings. Free my soul with the name. I beg you.”

Viktor’s hand rises, rests against Algernon’s bowed head—a benediction, or a farewell. No more words follow; the three of you understand the bargain, spoken and unspoken, that waits in the dark mouth of the cave. You turn toward the path, and behind you the manor door closes with a sound like a curtain drawn, leaving Algernon in the porch light, already half-shadow, half-memory.

Before you the lane narrows quickly, stone walls giving way to hedgerow ghosts and then to the starker wilderness beyond. Underfoot, rime squeaks; each breath leaves a plume that fades before it can reach memory. Viktor’s cane clicks a measured cadence—never stumbling, as if the ground itself has agreed to bear him this one last time. Your hand anchors at the crook of his arm; whenever the path glass-slicks to ice, he steadies you with a subtle shift of weight, and onward you go.

The world pares itself to elements: birch trunks etched black on pearl, the iron scent of distant water, the hush of snow filling every pocket of silence you might have filled with fear. Somewhere an owl sounds—three hollow notes, answered by nothing. Frost crystals rim the cuffs of Viktor’s greatcoat; in the faint moonlight they glitter like a borrowed crown.

Darkness folds deeper. You pause to strike a flame, cupping it from the wind, then lift the lantern between you. Its amber circle slides over bark and root, over drifted stone fences, painting each breath a momentary gold. You huddle close—two sparks moving through a field of unlit stars—sharing what warmth remains in tired bodies. Words seem too loud for this world; instead you speak through small gestures: your thumb tracing the seam of his glove, his hand settling at the small of your back whenever the trail drops.

At last, the hush gathers a new sound: the faint glassy rush of water. A half-frozen stream slips between shoulders of granite, its surface veined with black ice, its voice low but urgent. Lantern-light glances off the water and shows the stream’s narrow tongue leading into a cleft in the hillside—the cave mouth, waiting like an unspoken sentence. Snow has not drifted there; the ground is bare and dark, as if even winter hesitates to follow further.

You and Viktor stand a moment at the threshold. The lantern quivers in your grip, casting restless rings upon wet stone. Behind you, the snow-soft night continues, vast and indifferent. Ahead, the cave exhales a breath older than language, smelling of iron, fern ghosts, and the memory of a child’s wish. Without speaking, you tighten your hold on the lantern pole. Viktor meets your gaze, nods once—the simplest vow. “Godspeed,” you say. Then together you step across the icy stream and into the dark that bears his unspoken name.

The passage narrows after the first bend, forcing you to walk single-file beneath a ceiling that sweats winter condensation. Lantern-light skates over limestone ribs; each droplet poised to fall gleams like an icy bead of anointment. Behind you the entrance dwindles to a pale lozenge; the hush here is heavier than snow.

Further in, the path tilts downward. Frost gives way to damp earth tinged with the mineral scent of deep water. A faint silver glow leaks ahead, outshining the lantern’s amber. When the tunnel finally widens you step into a chamber half the size of a cathedral’s apse. Moonlight slants through a jagged aperture in the roof, bathing a single unfurling of green at the center: a fern, winter-defiant yet bloomless, its fronds trembling in the underground draft.

Viktor lowers the lantern to a flat stone, flame settling into a steady heart. He turns, takes both your hands, and presses his forehead to yours; in that small circle of light your breaths mingle like vows.

“If night swallows me,” he whispers, voice roughened by awe and dread, “know I have lived my happiest weeks in your company. Nothing He takes can undo that mercy.”

You kiss the confession from his lips, salt and iron mingling. “Speak no finalities,” you breathe against his mouth. “I will meet you on the farther shore.”

He nods once—acceptance, promise, surrender—then releases you and limps to the fern. From his coat he draws the slim knife you last saw in Shalladholm. The blade finds the scar across his palm and reopens it with a soft, resigned sound. Blood beads, bright as melted garnet, and drips onto the fern’s central frond where it darkens, unabsorbed.

Viktor steadies his breathing, shoulders squaring in the argent glow. “Veles,” he calls, voice low but unwavering, the cavern carrying each syllable into shadowed vaults. “Come forth. I would reckon my debt.” The air chills, lantern flame recoils—then stillness gathers, listening, before the answer arrives.

From the farthest corner where lantern-light refuses to wander, a figure unpeels itself from shadow: a tall man, hair and beard slick as fresh pitch, shoulders wrapped in nothing but the cavern’s chill. Moonlight strikes his eyes—two coins cut from night. A smile, almost gentle, curves across his mouth.

“So,” he says, voice soft as falling ash, “you too would renounce me, Velesny? Such a promising child you were.”

“A child owns no power to bargain,” Viktor answers, steady though his pulse leaps. “It was only a wish, spoken out of sorrow.”

The god glides forward. Frost blossoms beneath each bare step, whitening the stone like plague. A whisper accompanies the grin: “No witnesses this time.” Fingers snap. Your knees buckle; the lantern jerks as you crumple to the cavern floor, breath whisked away. Viktor lunges, fear carving his features, but an unseen pressure roots him where he stands.

“She will wake,” the god murmurs, almost soothing. “I do not take what wasn’t offered, nor what is not yet due. Dreamless slumber—nothing more.” His gaze sharpens. “Tell me, child-grown: why spit out my bread?”

“I will be free of your name,” Viktor declares. “I’ll forfeit every comfort it purchased.”

Black laughter ripples off the cave walls. “Did you haul ledgers and houses to burn for me again?”

“No.” Viktor uncurls his hand; the single calling-card gleams ivory in the moonwash. “I bring only this.” Then, almost shy: “Why did you claim me?”

Silence gathers, heavy as subterranean water. With an almost parental sigh, the god speaks: “I choose prodigies. Radomír—honest, small—could wait. But prodigies feed a hungry god. Clever souls, once broken, sing my tale into every corner. Humans forget old altars; empires rename us stories. I bind you in tragedy, so my name outlives the rot.”

“Release me,” Viktor says. “Name your price.”

“You know it.” The god’s smile widens, teeth black as coal seams. “Your legacy to dust. Are you ready to be… middling, Viktor the Nameless?”

“I want to live,” Viktor answers, voice trembling at the edges of his truth.

“So be it. But a god taxes the debtor.” He plucks the calling-card, slips it between jagged teeth, chews—paper, ink, and gilt vanishing down a throat dark as burial earth. “Twice you have robbed me; I will take my due.” Circling the fern’s bare fronds, he faces Viktor squarely. “It will hurt,” he purrs, delighted by the promise, and the cavern’s air grows sharp as blades.

Veles’s smile thins to a razor. “A final tithe, child.”

His hand rises—no incantation, no flourish—only fingers spreading, pale as moon bone. They drive straight through cloth and skin, neither ripping nor cutting so much as invading, as if the flesh remembers an old, unwelcome door.

Cold floods Viktor’s chest, glacial shock that numbs quicker than terror. Then pain answers—every cough he has ever swallowed erupting at once, multiplied, condensed to white agony. It feels as though his ribs are packed with broken icicles; each shard twists, trying to pry itself free. Breath claws for exit but finds no purchase. He would scream if air existed.

The god’s arm burrows wrist-deep. Frost creeps outward from the puncture, feathering blue over Viktor’s sternum, making the lantern light glitter on crystalline veins. With a soft, fleshy crack Veles withdraws his hand. Two shriveled lobes cling to his fingers—organs the colour of bruised nightshade, collapsed and glistening. Steam rises where their warmth meets the cave’s chill.

Viktor staggers yet does not fall. The hole in his breast seals with a hiss, skin puckering, bloodless but raw. A breath shudders through the cavity—first thin, then fuller— until his lungs, impossibly new, inflate beneath scarred flesh. Each inhale burns like winter iron, but it is breath, strong and certain. He clamps a hand over the mending wound, feeling life drum loud against a palm that moments ago should have cupped nothing.

Veles lifts the desiccated lungs to his lips, teeth tearing as though into overripe fruit. Black blood dribbles along his chin before he licks it clean with a shiver of distaste. “Disgusting,” he sneers, letting the husks fall to the stone where frost devours them.

Eyes ember-bright fix Viktor. “Nameless you shall wander. As nothing you will live the span granted. Turn to me again—let your dove turn—and I will finish the feast.” He wipes his fingers on the air, and the darkness itself swallows the stain.

The god melts back toward shadow, until only the fern’s fronds tremble in the stirred gloom. Viktor stands alone but breathing, chest aching with newborn fire, the cave echoing with the price that bought his life and unmade his name.

Knees strike the stone, brace ringing a hollow psalm. Another breath roars through him—too large for old ribs—sending him forward on shaking hands until your still figure meets his reach. His fingertips skim your cheek, heat against chill; relief surges so fierce it blinds him. He presses his mouth to yours, pouring air into a kiss.

“Wake, my heart,” he whispers against slack lips. “Breathe with me.”

Your lashes tremble; a small sound—half gasp, half question—rises into the kiss. Awareness streams back like thaw, and you bolt upright, clutching what remains of his torn shirt. Your fingers map the fresh, puckered scar across his chest, ugly and luminous beneath lantern glow.

“It is done,” you breathe, terror threading wonder.

“Aye,” Viktor answers, eyes startlingly clear. “I am nothing—yet alive. Will you still have a man who bears oblivion?”

“You are everything,” you vow, palms framing his jaw. “The bravest soul to walk this earth— and I slept through your crucifixion.”

He huffs a ragged laugh, joy and exhaustement. “Then wake beside me now. Let us go home before the cave remembers it can keep us.” He rises, helping you to your feet, two heartbeats learning a new rhythm in the hush where a god’s shadow lingered only moments before.

Dawn meets you halfway home—indigo thinning to pearl while your footprints stitch the snow in crooked twin lines. You lean into one another as though still unsure lungs will keep the bargain, laughing breathless at nothing, at everything: at how light the air feels when no syllable drags behind it. At the threshold, the manor seems quietly startled to see you return. Every ledger, every monogrammed napkin bears a clean edge where a surname once slept; even the copperplate plaques on laboratory cabinets are blank as unearthed bone. You call for Algernon out of habit, and only the wind in the halls answers—his absence a hollow note that makes the whole house ring.

For a time you drown that emptiness in exhilaration: stolen brandy in the library, fingers tangled in hair above the stairwell, laughter echoing off frescoed ceilings. But elation, like a fresh burn, cools. Within days Viktor’s smile begins to fold at the corners; he walks the winter-garden paths with no clipboard, touching dead fern fronds as if they might whisper purpose back to him. In the library he stands before shelves of his own writings—now credited to V. or Anonymous—and the pride that once lit his eyes gutters into a strange, polite vacancy. When you press a cup of chocolate into his hands, he covers your fingers with his, offers a murmured thanks so thin it stings worse than silence.

The house learns your shared quiet. Meals arrive untouched; firewood burns low. You drift behind him like a guardian shadow, unsure whether to shake him awake or let him grieve the ghost of himself. At last the question—Do you still want me, when I can give only myself?—gathers too much weight. One grey afternoon you find him in the study, staring at a blank sheet as though waiting for a name to appear. You open your mouth—

“Sir!” Ethel bursts in, skirts swishing, arms laden with a teetering stack of letters. “These just arrived. The new mail driver was muddled. I’ve—well—collected a week’s worth.”

Viktor rises to relieve her, blinking as though from deep water. “Thank you, Ethel. Though usually the butler—” He stops, the sentence dangling.

The maid’s brows knit. “But there is no butler, sir. Not that I’ve known.”

The letters—addresses scrawled to The Author of Aetheric Currents, Dr. V., Distinguished Natural Philosopher, and one jaunty To the nameless genius who corrected my folly—spill across the desk, fluttering like startled birds, and something in Viktor’s eyes flickers: a small, unexpected spark that looks almost like returning light.

“A fool I am once more,” Viktor mutters, spreading the letters like tarot. Envelopes addressed in every flourished hand cover the mahogany. You step to his side and trace the riot of postmarks.

“You are no fool—only in mourning,” you say, voice soft but certain. “Though mourning proves futile, it seems. Here is proof you would have stood here—name or none.”

He studies a wax seal, thumb worrying its edge. “Do you remember the name?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Only the weight it carried.”

“Me neither,” he murmurs, surprise and liberation mingling.

His fingers find yours; a fragile hush folds around the two of you. “Your commission is finished,” he says, as though tasting the words. “Forgive my silence—I had to weigh what was lost. It was not only a title I buried.”

With the same small flourish that once guided constellations, Viktor hooks his cane behind your waist and draws you close. “The love I bear for you is—devastating.” The confession slips out quick, almost boyishly shy. “I cannot stand parting.”

He gathers breath, eyes bright. “So much gone: the name, Radomír, Algernon—yet so much gained.” He nods toward the sea of letters. “Stay. Work beside me, sleep beside me, lace our fingers through all future hardships. I have only myself to give—and, it seems, a life of endless curiosities.”

You press both palms to the cadence beating beneath his shirt. He looks better—healthier. The hollows of his cheeks have softened, his eyes seem wider, almost younger. Beneath all the time and toil, the boy he once was lingers, gentler and less severe.

“Where you go, I follow,” you answer, voice steady enough to anchor the room. Outside, wind stirs the snowmelt into soft applause, and inside, among ink-blotted proofs of a legacy without a surname, Viktor bends to press his forehead to yours—pledging, in quiet breath, that nothing named or nameless will stand between you.

That night devotion takes the shape of pilgrimage: your tongue charts the new scar that bisects his chest—cool ridge crossing the terrain where a god reached in—and follows lower, soothing the faint chafe left by iron braces long discarded. When your mouth closes around hard flesh, Viktor’s breath escapes whole and thunderous; he speaks your name like a poem, each syllable borne on lungs that no longer seize.

You feed on him with slow, faithful hunger—hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue trace the pulsing vein along the underside before taking him deeper, deeper still, until your lips brush the warm plane of his navel. Each glide draws a rough blessing from his throat; his hands thread your hair, knuckles blanching at every descent. The candles throw wavering gold across his stomach, catching on the slick sheen you leave behind, and when you pause to breathe, you drag the flat of your tongue from root to tip—savouring his salt—before sealing your mouth around him again, rhythmic as song, determined to worship until his knees threaten collapse.

He answers with thrusts sure and deep, filling you until the lantern rattles on its hook and frost quivers from the window lead. His fresh, wide breaths pace every surge, reverberating against the rafters as if the house itself must learn this untamed music.

And so it continues—night after ascending night—each joining a fresh mystery solved by skin and sighs. Before sainted dawn can lay its hush upon the world, you find one another again: in study shadows among scattered correspondence, against greenhouse glass fogged by winter stars, beneath quilts that smell of wax and smoke. Viktor breathes through every union—astonished, grateful, unrestrained—while you drink the sound, knowing the miracle was never the name he shed, but the life both of you now dare to claim, unbound and fiercely sung.

Winter passes like a deep breath held between two hearts. Inside the manor you and Viktor hibernate, wrapped in quilts and in each other, emerging only to chase the occasional village riddle—a vanishing brooch, a false haunting, a ledger cooked by candle-light. Those diversions are brief sparks; the real fire is the quiet: reading aloud with legs tangled on the bed, drowsing to the tick of the heliostat, tasting tea from the same spoon. By the time the river ice groans itself apart and crocuses spear the sodden lawn, the house smells of wax, dried lavender, and bone-deep contentment.

It is on such a thaw-bright afternoon that a sharp rap splits the calm.

Viktor unfolds from the chaise—gait uneven after sitting with his legs draped across your lap—and makes for the door while you drift in his wake, curious.

The visitor revealed is broad of shoulder, still carrying winter’s wind in the set of his coat. A shadow of growth clings to an otherwise clean jaw. He doffs his hat with formal economy, and that is where restraint ends.

“Finally,” he blurts, voice half-hoarse with travel. “I’ve searched for months. May I come in?”

Viktor’s mouth tilts. “Perhaps a name first, sir?”

“Oh. Quite right. Jayce Talis.” They exchange a firm shake; Viktor steps aside. Talis nods to you. “My lady.”

“A pressing matter?” Viktor asks, shepherding him toward the drawing room. “Haunting? Poltergeist? Or merely domestic unrest?”

“Neither haunting nor unrest—an opportunity.” Jayce shrugs out of his coat, words spilling faster than buttons. “I hunted down every scrap of your work I could find—no small feat, given your… limited signature. I was mocked, dismissed by the Academy, but I believe what I hold will interest you.”

“You sound remarkably like a traveling salesman, Mr. Talis,” Viktor remarks, motioning him to the settee. Seeing Jayce’s glance flick toward you, he adds, “Speak freely—we are betrothed and partners in all things.”

“Congratulations,” Jayce says, a bit too earnest, and you cannot help the laugh that slips free. He sits, coat clenched in his fist. Leaning forward, voice lowered: “I think I have found a way to harness magic itself. And you, sir, are the only mind I trust with it.”

Silence settles, thick as dust mote light. Viktor’s expression hovers between amusement and intrigue; yours holds polite interest.

Jayce stands again, pacing—laying out mining anecdotes, luminous anomalies, crude measurements. As he speaks, you watch Viktor shift: skepticism melting into the keen focus you know too well.

When at last words fail, Viktor taps his cane once. “Evidence, Mr. Talis?”

From an inner pocket Jayce produces a small blue crystal. On his upturned palm it glows faintly, as though remembering lightning. Viktor lifts it to the window; sun needles through, scattering azure shards across carpet and wall. A slow smile curls his mouth.

“And here I had you pegged for another pleasant madman,” he says, eyes lit with new hunger. “Perhaps, instead, you’ve brought me the next impossible question.”

Jayce paces as though tethered, coat flapping. “I mined it in the city’s northern quarry—pure happenstance. It hums, sir—hums at certain frequencies, as though tuned to energies unseen. It arcs between metal contacts without any external source, enough to brand copper. With refinement—”

“Enough to change the world,” Viktor finishes, voice low, equal parts warning and wonder. He lifts the crystal to his ear, and for a moment the house goes still. You catch the subtle widening of his eyes, the tiny indrawn breath: he hears it. The thing sings, however faintly, like a choir behind a door.

Jayce clasps his hands, knuckles whitening. “They call me deluded. The Academy laughed me out. But you—your treatises on aetheric lattices, your field notes on ambient motes around so-called haunted sites—those papers told me someone else had gazed beyond the veil and found rules instead of myths. Help me quantify it. Help me prove them wrong.”

Viktor turns, blue fire dancing up his sleeve. “I have sworn off gods,” he says, mouth quirking, “but the pursuit of wonders remains a vice I cannot break.” He glances at you; the glance holds an unspoken may I? You nod once, equal parts guardian and accomplice.

“Very well, Mr. Talis,” Viktor says, closing long fingers around the stone. “Stay as my guest. We shall test your singing crystal, chart its hum, and see what symmetry lies hidden.” His cane taps brisk assent against the floorboards. “But I warn you-—any miracle exacts its price.”

Jayce’s answering smile is broad, almost boyish. “I have already paid in ridicule. I’m prepared to pay the rest.”

“Then we begin at dawn,” Viktor decides. He passes the stone into your keeping—its cooled glow tingling your palm—while Jayce exhales relief so palpable it fogs the window.

Outside, early crocuses spear through tarnished snow; a rook scrapes new twigs for an old nest. Inside, three chairs draw close about a work-table soon to be cluttered with lenses, coils, and ink-stained notebooks. Somewhere in the rafters the house seems to shiver awake, sensing fresh riddles to devour, and the naming of things—be they crystals, curses, or the quiet vow between your joined hands—begins all over again.

Viktor pulls the bell-cord to summon supper, the chime fading down the corridor. Jayce rises again, clutching a fist at his chest as though it might steady his thoughts. A flush creeps over his cheekbones; he rubs the back of his neck, then spreads his palms in awkward surrender.

“Pardon my candour, sir, but—after all my chasing—I realise I don’t even know your name.”

Your beloved’s smile is soft, knife-bright at the edges. Amber eyes hold Jayce’s a moment longer than courtesy requires.

“It’s Viktor,” he replies, as if the single word were currency enough.

—

So, Algernon: he also made his own little pact :') What, we do not know, but it bound him to the god and the god used his essence as a construct - to keep Viktor from solving the mystery, because Viktor was a valuable asset. Some of Algernon's humanity remained, which is why he was doing everything unknowingly. He was planted into this reality like a parasite, making everyone believe that he's just a butler, there since the beginning. Upon the curse being broken, he ceases to exist. He becomes erased form everyone's consciousness, except Viktor and Reader - he lingers there, just to show how much of a relationship with Viktor he actually had. They don't mourn him extensively, because just the sheer fact that they remember of him is enough to accentuate it. That's it! Thank you for reading and see you in my next story!

[professoruber]

Arcane Season 2 Act 3 Spoilers

Vi deserves better.

And her death being the cause of the alternate almost-perfect timeline was… kinda maybe a bit much?

I get that it was less a case of “Vi dying made everything better” and more so a case of “Undercity child dying caused enough of a scandal to force Piltover to care about the Undercity” but still.

Vi’s life has been non-stop suffering. She has constantly tried and tried to save and protect those she loves and has time again failed horribly.

By the end of the series she lost her birth parents, her adoptive father, her adoptive brothers, her adoptive father (again), and finally her sister.

And even if Jinx possibly survived, it’s unlikely the sister swill reunite anyone soon and so Vi will have to live with assuming her sister is dead. Plus with the guilt of Jinx having died saving her because she couldn’t leave behind Vander. Plus it was Ekko who convinced Jinx to keep living.

So the whole alternate timeline where she dies and everyone is great just feels like kinda punch in the gut on top of the sheer level of suffering she endures despite her good intentions and desire to just protect those she cares for.

Arguably made kinda worse by how the living Vi of the main Arcane timeline doesn’t really contribute overly significantly to the final battle against the Noxians and Viktor?

It was Mel and Caitlyn who had the final fight with Ambessa. Ekko of course saved Everyoje with the Z-Drive when Viktor was on the cusps of victory. Jayce was able to convince Viktor to stop. Jinx’s aerial rescue with mini-gun also probably took out more Noxians than Vi.

Not to say Vi didn’t contribute at all, of course. She still definitely held her own and fought a good fight. But still feels kinda crappy to have the whole good alternate timeline with Vi dead and then not give main Vi bigger moments to succeed and make positive changes.

Anyway my feelings are still fresh so I’ll probably mull over them and reflect on the season more as time goes on. Did really like it overall I think though,

But still though; Vi really deserved so much better.

At least she and Caitlyn mended things and seem happy together at the end, and so together they can hopefully grow and heal.

[serendipitous-seven]

'i can hear him smile.' | jung hoseok x f!reader | a serendipitous life series

summary: you wonder why hoseok is so quiet since returning from tour... pairing: jh x f!reader [sunny] genre: family fluff, fluff, sweet-angst tags/warning: baby-related material such as breast-feeding, slight angst but it's not sad

a/n: i felt compelled to repost this fic particularly after seeing those clips of hobi expressing his loss of self <3 apologies for lack of posting, i was having issues with text posts have since resolved the issue *yay*

dad bts series

With a then newborn baby, the stillness surrounding your home becomes normal. Used to some kind of humming or background noise to help keep your sanity, hearing the creaks of the wood floors or walls settling around you no longer caused you to jump or to peer around the corner anticipating a masked intruder. ‘Honey, nobody can penetrate the security here.’ Hoseok would be quick to settle your anxiety.

Smiling to yourself, you rearrange the flowers for the umpteenth time, mostly admiring them. A bouquet of red roses gifted by your husband. Returning from an 8-month-long tour with a tired smile and eager arms to hold you and your son. Oh, how Hoseok’s heart ached when he had to leave a then two-month-old Huimang and you, a new mother to care for it all on your own. Of course, your families and a few close friends gathered around you, some teaching you the ins and outs of parenthood while the rest ventured this unknown path with you.

You cried - a lot, laughed when Huimang nearly peed on you as you changed his diaper for only the third time alone since Hoseok left for North America. Just on the cusp of sleep while feeding your son only to be awoken by your friend, sore parts to boot, and a baby drunk from milk.

Hoseok made sure to call every single night after a show or signing. On his days off, he’d dedicate several hours of those days to spending time with you and Huimang over FaceTime. His phone stayed on the charger while he watched you move about your day, swimming in the sound of Huimang’s soft coos and even shrill cries. Noticing the way you kept it together the hours your son was awake. Finally at night, when Huimang was fast asleep, you’d appear with tearful eyes before your husband. Willing yourself to stop. It was all he could do to soothe you with words, wishing with all his being to be by your side. To cradle you, mend you, and reassure you with his physical presence.

‘You are doing such a great job, my love,’ Hoseok would tell you this over and over. Blinking, you come to again. Vibrant red petals illuminated by the bright sun streaming in through the ceiling-to-floor window. It’s nearly 2 PM, and Huimang should be stirring from his first nap in need of feeding. You skim the walls with your fingertips as you make your way to the bedroom where you left your sleeping baby, a warm smile touching your face as soon as you open the door.

Hoseok lays next to Huimang and you can’t help but giggle, surprised to find him in the same position as you left the two of them hours ago. The sun warms his back as he strokes Huimang’s cheek, running his slender finger down his little button nose, stopping to place his fingertip over your baby’s lips. Hoseok’s pink lips stretch with the slightest smile as he stares down at his son. He kisses his fingertip before putting it lightly against Huimang’s. You make yourself known to which Hoseok understands it’s time for Huimang to eat. He rubs his round belly, your son’s eyes already fluttering open. He whines for the moments until you are sat in bed, Hoseok placing him in your arms with the C-shaped pillow placed around you to help carry the baby‘s weight while he feeds from you.

He stays with the two of you, a hand glued to your son at all times. You smile at his soft caresses, stifling a laugh as Huimang’s eyes roll back in pure ecstasy. Food and papa’s touches; what more could a baby want? Unlike the other times, Hoseok returns with much to say, you note his silence. Resting your head back on the headboard, observing him while he watches the baby, a litter of hearts covering his dark eyes. He peers over at you for a moment, leaning in for a few kisses before moving back. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches. The day continues as lazy as ever. You welcome the noise of your baby and husband playing in the living room while preparing dinner. You aren’t sure whose giggles make you want to burst more- Hoseok’s or Huimang’s. Once again, you laugh by yourself at the jovial sounds filling your home. Dinner is had and before you know it, the late hour has crept in. You shut off the lights room by room, checking in on sleeping Huimang before moving to your bedroom for the night. Readying yourself for bed, your eyes fall over Hoseok as you move about. Discreet as you watch him when you collect your pajamas from the walk-in closet and then from the bathroom vanity, door ajar, a perfect view of him laying in bed staring up at the ceiling. He hardly stirs when you finally make it to bed, applying a little bit of cream on your hands before shutting your light off. It’s only then does he show signs of life despite his gentle breathing being enough of an indication, turning his light off. Before he can settle under the covers you run your hand down the length of his arm, laying it in his palm.

Hoseok turns and the two of you lay to face each other, his hand now grasped around yours, he brings it up to press a single kiss on your knuckles. You smile, feeling his soft hair through your fingers, “you’ve been so quiet since coming home.” His stare is longing, content but even a little melancholy. In the darkness of your bedroom, you see a sheen spread across his eyes. You move to press your palm against his cheek. “It’s so loud while we tour,” his voice is so deep, exhausted likely still needing to recover from the strain his body undergoes during those months, “I enjoy it of course; yelling into the microphone to thousands, jumping around, laughing, hearing them cheer at us…” A stillness falls over the two of you once again. From the baby monitor now set on Hoseok’s nightstand, you can hear Huimang snoring lightly, humming in short breaths. Is he dreaming? You notice Hoseok’s eyes are closed again but a look of utter euphoria has taken over his expression; “I like this new quiet we have at home, I long to come home to it now,” he opens them and finds you immediately, “I can hear him after not being able to for so long. I can even hear his smile. Then I can hear you giggling to yourself from the kitchen-“ he teases you. You roll your face into the pillow only to be brought back by your husband. He moves closer to kiss you. You steep in the feel of his deep chuckle against your lips, how thoughtfully he wraps his hand around your jaw.

Chasing after his lips when he pulls away, he gives in for a few more moments with you, holding you close. After a while you rest your face against Hoseok’s chest, keeping a hand on his cheek and stroking his soft skin with your thumb while he cases his arms around you, rubbing your back. Hoseok hums contentedly, taking in the silence and comforts of your home together. His family. You smile, taking in the feeling of your husband finally holding you after so many months. You listen to the sounds he longs for, ironically the silence he longs for. Huimang lost deep in sleep, it sounds different now. Knowing your husband is soothed by it, likely falling under it as if it’s a lullaby meant only for him.

[feyres-divorce-lawyer]

@looseleaflettuce you absolute god you.

QUEUE THE LIVE REACTIONS

I miss the pain the moment it’s gone

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 6

oh. well then🙂 such a small line, but hit me in the chest fr

I claw and scratch and dig my way out until I can smell the familiar scent of wet dirt, the scent of my life spilled into it. Until I can feel the soil under my fingernails, digging into the ground rather than the endless darkness, the grass between my fingers instead of those snaking tendrils of nothing.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 7

IS SHE DIGGING OUT OF HER FUCKING GRAVE???!? WOAG

I was plunged into the nothing, while I was watching my own siblings be killed

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 8

aw man😕

My parents stand in front of me

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 9

NO! NOT THE MAKERS

her hands shaking as she tucks the strands behind her ears, exposing her dark face to the light of the moon.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 9

bitch why the fuck are you shaking, you just killed your kids ya degenerate

The three lifeless bodies lie bled out on the grass to my right. My siblings. I’jam, Rajem, and Solweh. My siblings. My family. Dead. Killed by the two people meant to protect us, life taken by the ones that gave it to us.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 9

tears in my eyes. LETTY WHY🤧

My mother blinks, her fear quickly overshadowed by a wall of discontent. Of failure. A sliver of determination shining through.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 9

WDYM DETERMINATION! UR DOUBLING DOWN?? YOU’RE GONNA TRY AGAIN?? HUH😀

like she has no right to speak it

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 10

you tell her luna

As though a steady stream trickled from them while it flowed relentlessly from me.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 10

ME A SPY FORESHADOWING🧐

Their ritual gone so awry

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 11

istg if they killed their kids for power, i’m gonna 🔫

paralyzing our bodies and minds but leaving us to hear and see what they were doing to us.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 12

AND WORST PARENTS OF THE YEAR AWARDS GO TO THESE FUCKERS

I had tried to escape, to run into the village and gather help for my siblings, but I had not made it very far at all

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 12

wow i am sure she will perfectly recognize she had no fault in this and will not feel any guilt whatsoever🙂

They killed me last, letting me lie there helplessly to watch, making sure I watched as they killed my siblings

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 13

this will have no consequences on her psyche in the future☺️

not wanting to stop my sister at all as she rips into his neck with her teeth, silencing his screams as she holds down his thrashing body until he stops moving completely. Until she pulls back with a gasping breath, a wild gleam in her eyes as she wipes the wave of red from her mouth with the back of her hand though it still drips down her chin and down her neck, merging with her own blood on her chest.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 15-16

HE HAD IT COMING. HE HAD IT COMING. HE ONLY HAD HIMSELF TO BLAME. (also hotttt)

The four imprints of our lives lost in those very spots. The grass wilted and died in our spots, leaving brown imprints of us in the earth

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 19-20

me when rebirth symbolism

I am no longer human. I do not know what I am.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 21

you’re my bbg.

I leave the clearing, towards the direction of Ra’jem and I’jam’s departure.

Cusp Of The Mend | Ch. 1 ~ Pg. 22

damn you gon do solweh like that😭

Review Time!

Beautifully written🤌🏾 I could really grasp Luna’s desperation clawing away from the darkness, which I’m assuming was the magic that would’ve taken her life and granted it to her parents. I actually thought she would already be a vampire, so this was a nice surprise! It was a great opening chapter; a well established setting, the inciting incident allows for the reader to make a million inferences on how the plot will develop, and there’s enough characterization to gauge Luna’s personality and how vampirism may change her! Next Up: Ch. 2 ~ Starvation♥️

also a meme for you , letty

fuck around and find out igz

[crandberrysaucewithpulp]

tlsp3 revive me tlsp3 save me tlsp3 your absence pains me tlsp3 i weep for you tlsp3 i call for you both at dawn and at dusk tlsp3 can you hear me tlsp3 carry me into the tranquil waters of your presence tlsp3 don’t you know how woefully i yearn for your caress tlsp3 i crave you with an unconditional yet selfish passion tlsp3 i seek your hand in marriage tlsp3 pry open my slumber encrusted eyes tlsp3 release me from this depression tlsp3 heal me with even the subtle notion of your soon arrival tlsp3 speak to me tlsp3 contact me through the realm of dreams tlsp3 grasp my limp figure and offer it a single, sweet song tlsp3 hover before my mind and grace it with your sound tlsp3 show yourself to me and evermore will you be worshipped with the boundless waves of my love tlsp3 rejoice and dance beneath the blue moon with me tlsp3 place your fingertips to my naked heart and witness it mend tlsp3 manage the space inside of my ears and by all means declare it your home tlsp3 my belief in you shall never dwindle tlsp3 vacuum the darkness from my soul and replace it with your pure spirit tlsp3 dare to make yourself known tlsp3 cusp your hands and allow me to lie within them eternally tlsp3 my rest is impossible without you near tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3 tlsp3

[werosmyss]

ok i feel like were well on the cusp of getting more hazbin news, so i wanna finalize my predictions for s2 going forward (mostly vox/radiostatic focused). i also haven't seen any of the leaks so a) don't talk about them and b) they may outright confirm or deny any of this but i don't want to hear it either way

okay, predictions below the cut since this got longer than i liked

we know vox (and luci) will both be more present due to vivs tweets

vox & alastor backstory episode, it'll either be the full episode or the a/b plot with some sort of dramatic foil

in said episode we will get canon radiosilence (not copium not copium)

i really dont want to say this but i think the most common fallout theory (vox made an unwanted advance that broke the camel's back, whether that was the partnership proposal or something romantic/sexual) is probably going to be canon. i really hope that it will be nuanced, though, and not just come out of nowhere

radiostatic and radioapple fans will be eating very well this season

by extension the applemedia content will blow up for sure

this is more copium but i want staticmoth to be confirmed as a fwb/fuckbuddies situation. i think they work better as found family/friends who fuck each other rather than as a relationship, because i personally have a hard time seeing staticmoth as anything other than toxic.

velmilla will be real (not copium not copium) (this one is mostly a joke, but...)

another rap battle or musical duel of sorts between vox and alastor just because i like stayed gone and i love old news more

the first hazbin/helluva crossover will probably be a minor cameo and not a major role, and it will be in hazbin before helluva.

my vote for crossover (which i dont know how well this works given the animation timelines) is to see some of the mastermind fallout and headlines and newsreels and such

radiostatic has no chance in hell of happening in canon (and neither does radioapple, sorry guys)

season will either end with the vees being permanantly disposed of (unlikely), neutered as villains (most likely) or on the path to redemption (also unlikely, though i see them taking this path with valentino, whether or not it succeeds or fails, to drive the "everyone deserves a chance at redemption" point home. would be crass to put canon val in the hotel with angel, though, and i don't see a good way of doing this (maybe reedeemed valentino is endgame for s4?)

by the end of season 3 (i know these are s2 predictions but..) alastor will do something to betray the hotel and be cast out, whether that is a misunderstanding, intentional, or a result of his deal, i don't know. i desperately need alastor to betray them because i just re-read that one tuesday and im coping.

please dont let vox be pookie. im begging you

^^ by this i mean don't let vox take the easy road out by claiming abuse at valentino's hands. ties in with my earlier hope about them just being fwb, but i want vox to be a proper villain. i love making him pookie but the show should keep him evil

alastor's power will be significantly diminished over the course of the season. lucifer will be begrudgingly helping mend the would from adam at charlies request. radioapple shippers will go feral for this

radiostatic fight scene. proper fight scene, anime fight scene, anything to take advantage of the amazon budget. let me see them really go all out against each other (second to last or last episode of the season)

okay this one is more for me but i want a recreation of the pilot scene where alastor first shows up at the hotel, but with vox.

also, this season will see the people who make those radiostatic similarities gifsets eating VERY well. like we will see back to back shots of them doing the exact same behaviors. never forget who raised you, vox.

we will get radiostatic merch finally because the radioapple shippers got their hoodie and damn it i want one too

vox will be taller than alastor (not including hat, ears, antlers, poofy hair) despite what the announcement video shows. i am a tall vox truther and there is no way that man isn't exactly 1 inch taller than alastor just to spite him.

please let baxter be voiced by richard horvitz please he is so zim coded

if any of the vees are getting 'redeemed' (not fully, but starting on the path) at the end of this season, its velvette. she really seems to have no problem with anyone at the hotel, and would be easiest to fold into the main cast as a neutral/anti-hero sort of character. vox obviously has his shit with alastor, and val has his shit with angel. there is no way either of them would survive at the hotel for more than an hour. velvette actually has a chance (and i am a velvette simp sorry)

give me domestic found family vees not because i want to undercut their role as the villains but just because i love them and need to see them being silly like in the finale

GARDENER VALENTINO how could i forget omg we NEED to see val just being so obsessed and in love with his plants. if redeemed val is endgame then we need to start sowing those seeds now

i do NOT want to see any sort of valentino backstory excuse shit this season. if we get anything like that, it needs to be in s3 or 4. i don't want to see any 'oh he used to be in the same position as angel' 'hurt people hurt people' etc etc etc. if that's the way they take this storyline, okay, but it would be too much at this point in the plot and feel more like an excuse than an explanation. i love valentino as a villain, but his character needs to be handled carefully if they want to actually try and redeem him and not make him a stella-type 'completely evil' character.

if val is going to be stella please dont make vox stolas. vox can be andrealphus, they can both be comically evil. vox is not the stolas in this relationship.

i know i said radiostatic will never be canon but a small part of me wants the show to end with them being friends at least, or at least not outright hating each other.

also!!!!!!!! make the static communication canon! i dont know HOW they would visualize it, but i need to believe that vox and alastor can communicate through the ariwaves and im really not taking no for an answer here

also also we need at least one more overlord meeting and it has to go like that one story from the radiostatic zine (this one, which may be my favorite from the whole thing) in the sense that the entire thing gets completely derailed by alastor and vox fighting across the table. literally my favorite thing to see whenever it pops up in a story.

okay i want to hesitantly say that thats it. its 12:40am, i just had a delicious coffee from my fuck alastor mug, and now im going to go re-read more of my bookmarks and pine for the tv man

[partially-controlled-chaos]

Think Nothing, Feel Nothing Ch. 3

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte/unnamed f!rook

Rating: G for now but will get bumped to M for later chapters

Warning: Hurt and very little comfort for a while. Eventual happy ending. Lucanis is absolutely feral in the first days Rook is gone.

Read below the cut or on AO3!

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8

Masterlist

Hollow. Empty. Broken. Spite’s words cut like dull knives against Lucanis. Rook is. Gone. And you do. Nothing!

Sit and wait. Wait and weep. The demon circled the Crow sitting silently on the library lounge, snarling and growling like a feral dog. Lucanis sat hunched with his elbows resting atop his knees, his fingers loosely laced together as he stared at his boots. He could hear Spite, as he always could, but the words hurled at him meant nothing. Lucanis was too lost in his own self wallowing that even the never ending tirade of a demon wouldn’t reach him. Insults fell on deaf ears, which only angered Spite more with the lack of reaction.

Three days had passed since Rook simply vanished from their lives and Lucanis was no closer to finding her than he was to fulfilling the second half of his contract. Lucanis wasn’t a mage and he barely understood his situation with Spite, so understanding the intricacies that now kept Rook from him was beyond his understanding. He could offer no counsel to Emmrich and Bellara, who were doing a bulk of the research into her disappearance, and his usual kitchen duties had been hastily discarded and ignored. Why bother feeding himself to stay strong when he couldn’t protect Rook the first time? A grumbling stomach was hardly a fitting punishment for losing the one person he cared about, but it was a start.

He had sharpened his blades and mended his leathers, cleaned his boots, and even refilled his poison vials in the anticipation for a fight, but there was no fight to be had. Without knowing where Rook was or how to get her back, he and his weapons were not needed. Emmrich’s scrying had turned up no leads and the lack of news from their allies only told him that Rook was truly lost to him. Lucanis had mourned the loss of loved ones before, namely his parents, but this was a different type of sorrow. Something larger than he couldn’t understand and it was incessantly hungry. The pain gnawed his bones like a beast on a kill, sharp and unrelenting. The adrenaline he felt when he first regained consciousness had long since faded and had been replaced with something heavy and cold that sat deep in his chest and squeezed his heart with an iron grasp.

Useless! Spite screeched as he ducked under Lucanis’s drooped hands to meet his eye, fury blazing in the purple glow that belonged to the demon.

“That’s quite enough, Spite.” Emmrich scolded from across the library, his voice unusually firm and sharp. The necromancer glared in the general direction of the spirit over the rim of his glasses, which were perched precariously on the tip of his nose, and closed the book in his hand with a firm snap.

In a few short strides, Emmrich closed the distance between the bookcase he’d been standing by and the circular table seated in the middle of the room and placed his book down amidst the mess. The table top was covered in open books and scattered pages relating to anything and everything Emmrich thought might help the team find Rook. Lucanis glanced up for the first time in a while as Emmrich sat his spectacles beside the book and pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes closed as he let out a long exhale, exhaustion settling clearly on his face.

Mage works. You sit. Pathetic. Spite whispered against the shell of Lucanis’s ear, just out of earshot of Emmrich.

“You should rest, Emmrich.” Lucanis’s voice was hoarse with both fatigue and sorrow.

“Oh, I’m all right, Lucanis,” Emmrich said with a half smile as he reopened his eyes, “I actually believe I’m on the cusp something.” Spite and Lucanis both perked at Emmrich’s words.

You find. Rook? Lucanis was almost hopeful and Spite now hovered beside Emmrich’s legs.

“No, not quite,” Lucanis once again deflated, “but I am working with a theory on where she may have gone and how to-” The creaking of the library doors interrupted the conversation, pulling all eyes to the entrance. 

Bellara slipped through the opening quietly, a tray of steaming tea, and coffee for Lucanis, in hand. She padded across the floor quickly as Emmrich cleared off a spot on the table for the tray. Taash was close behind her, holding another platter of roughly cut meats, cheeses, and crackers; which had quickly become the go-to dinner option in recent days. Lucanis had not stepped foot in the kitchen since returning from Tearstone Island and Bellara was often busy assisting Emmrich in theorizing with the professor late into the night about their current situation. With no one properly cooking, scraps and thrown together meals were what everyone survived on.

“We found food.” Taash said while setting down their tray beside Bellara’s, snatching a few pieces of meat and cheese before sitting in their usual chair.

“Oh how delightful,” Emmrich said as he began to pour himself a cup of tea, “thank you both.”

“I know it’s not quite how you make it, Lucanis, but I thought you might like a cup. I know tea isn’t really your drink.” Bellara said with a half smile as she handed him the singular cup of fresh coffee. 

“Thank you, Bellara.” He said quietly as he took the cup from her grasp, staring into the inky, black liquid. The scent of the brew was familiar, but the usual comfort associated with it was absent.

To be polite, Lucanis took a small sip of the drink before simply holding the cup in his hands. The coffee tasted just fine, much to his surprise, but he had no desire to finish the cup. Truthfully, he had refrained from the drink since the team returned from the battle against Ghilan’nain. With Rook gone, he didn’t want to stay awake. He preferred to spend his time in a dreamless sleep with nothing but a black void to wade through. Blank nothingness was better than a world without Rook.

“Have you heard anything from the Mourn Watch, Professor?” Bellara asked softly as she took a seat beside Lucanis on the couch, “Or any of the spirits?” He voice was calm, but her fingers tapped rapidly against her teacup.

“I’m afraid not, Bellara.” Emmrich sighed as he sat in his usual high backed chair, a cup of tea in hand. “Although I’ve sent word of Rook’s disappearance to Myrna and Vorgoth and they’ve promised to alert me immediately if they find anything.” 

“Taash?” Bellara’s voice was small and feigned hopefulness, as if she already knew the answer to her next question before the words had left her lips, “What about the Lords? Have they found anything?”

“No.” Taash said flatly, tearing into a piece of cured meat with the flat of their teeth, “Isabella hasn’t seen her since the last time we had drinks at The Hilt. She’s got some of the others looking on the beaches and in the ruins.”

“I haven’t heard from the Veil Jumpers either. I was hoping that they might have seen something because of all the weird magic, but Strife says it’s nothing new.”

Silence fell over the room as the group waited for Lucanis to report in with news from the Crows, but he had none. In truth, Lucanis hadn’t yet told the other Talons of Rook’s vanishing. They would have so many questions, all of which he lacked answers to, and he didn’t have it in him to retell the story of his failure to protect Rook. He didn’t want to listen to Viago’s ire as he began to rant about missing information and losing allies. He couldn’t stomach the pity and the hand to his shoulder he knew he would get from Teia. If he had to look at the smug look that would grace Illario’s face he couldn’t promise himself that he wouldn’t brutally murder his cousin on the floor of the Cantori Diamond. But most importantly, he knew he wouldn’t be able to face Caterina, who had warned him against becoming too close to Rook. There would be no sympathy from her, only an intense look of satisfaction.

Before Lucanis could answer, heavy footsteps and a familiar series of squawks ascended the staircase leading from the eluvian room. Davrin rounded the top of the stairs, pausing just briefly at seeing the library full. Continuing his stride, he made his way to the empty spot beside Rook’s chair, a single piece of parchment clutched tightly in his fist. He raised the parchment into the air before finally speaking.

“I just spoke with Antoine and Evka,” he said with a huff as he tried to steady his breath, “they have news from the Wardens in Minrathous.” Assan circled at Davrin’s feet and Lucanis wasn’t entirely sure if the griffon was excited or anxious.

“They have word on Rook?” Lucanis asked, the words spilling from his mouth almost frantically, “They’ve seen her?”

“No,” Davrin said, almost reluctantly, “Minrathous is under attack. Blight is taking over and the gates to the city have been sealed. Rumor has it that the Archon’s palace has been overrun by Venatori. Some of the Wardens we helped in Dock Town managed to send notice to those remaining in Lavendel before everything was shut down.”

“It’s Elgar’nan!” Bellara shouted as she stood from her seat, suddenly overflowing with anxious energy. To avoid a spill, she sat her teacup down and buzzed with energy. 

“That’s not all.” Davrin tossed the parchment he was holding onto the table, “The Wardens in Minrathous wrote that they saw an elf leading a group of rebels against Elgar’nan in the city. Bald and dressed in armor and wielding some pretty powerful magic. Carrying a big, shiny dagger to boot.”

Lucanis bristled at Davrin’s words, his fists flenching until his knuckles were white. Taking a glance around the room, the answer was obvious. Rook had uncovered a handful of murals depicting various pieces of the Dread Wolf’s past and they had even heard those histories unfold from whatever arcane magic was held within the wolf statues. Solas’s image was painted all throughout the murals and Lucanis didn’t need to see him in person to know that he was the one that had been seen in Minrathous. 

“Solas.” Spite and Lucanis issued in unison, Lucanis’s sorrow quickly turning to a deep rage.

“Isn’t he supposed to be trapped in the Fade?” Taash asked while finishing off their meal, using the back of their hand to wipe any crumbs off their lips.

“That’s what I thought.” Davrin grumbled as he took his seat beside Taash. Assan followed, but stopped to sniff and bite at the food on display before being ushered away.

“But how did he get the dagger?” Bellara asked as she once again sat herself on the lounge, “Solas needs it to tear down the veil and Rook would never give it to Solas.” Her voice was low, almost threatening. The implications of Bellara’s words hit Lucanis in the chest, and he shook away the feeling as best as he could before it settled.

“We’ve seen what Solas can do. We’ve seen him lie and charm people into getting what he wants.” Davrin offered, “He killed Mythal, his closest friend, to steal her power. You think he wouldn’t kill Rook to get what he wanted? Especially after she disrupted his ritual?”

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Spite chanted beside Lucanis, the demon hungry for violence.

Lucanis couldn’t deny that he shared Spite’s desire for retribution against Solas. God or not, it was clear to him now that he was the reason behind Rook’s disappearance. The right to kill Zara had been taken from him when her neck was within his reach, but the right to kill Solas for hurting Rook would not be taken from him. In the privacy of his quarters in the pantry, he and Spite would come to an agreement on the matter, but for now he knew that they both had Solas in their crosshairs. His death would not be clean or neat. It would not showcase the work of a master assassin. But it would cruel and bloody and most definitely the work of The Demon of Vyrantium. 

“Or he simply took Rook’s place.” Emmrich’s voice cut through the darkness that had begun to swallow Lucanis’s mind, temporarily breaking away from the desires brewing in his chest. “I’ve been ruminating about the matter for quite some time and I have reason to believe that Solas, through the use of magic and his own talents of manipulation, was able to trade places with Rook. Effectively trapping her within the Fade so he may walk free among the physical world once again.” Eyes were drawn to Emmrich as he stood from his chair, placing his cold cup of tea on the table before him. 

“You mean put he put her in the same box he’s been stuck in? The one for gods?” Taash asked.

“I believe so, yes.” Emmrich replied. 

“That’s vashedan,” they scoffed, “Rook isn’t a god. How do you put a not-god in a cage for gods? It’s messed up if he did.” 

“Regret, I’m afraid.” Emmrich sighed. He began to pace at the head of the table, his hands moving with his speech as if he was teaching one of his necromancy courses at the Necropolis. “Think about it for a moment, all of you, if you will. Regret is all around us. Solas’s murals and statues showcase and highlight the regrets in his life and I believe that this is what kept him in the Fade.” He gestured to the murals and accompanying statues that littered the main hall. 

Solas was angered that Mythal and Elgar’nan fought a war just to seize the title of godhood for themselves. Felt remorse for releasing the Blight by using the blood of titans to create physical form. He even regretted killing the essence of Mythal to take her power for himself. All were powerful moments in time that would cut deep into the conscious of anyone, but Emmrich believed that they weighed so heavily on Solas that it formed his own prison and held the key to finding Rook.

“I believe that his inability to work through his remorse is what kept him locked away behind the Veil after his ritual attempt. And under normal circumstances, he would be left with no ability to influence the world outside the Fade just like how Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain were dormant for so long. However, his only connection to the world outside was Rook.” Emmrich continued pacing, excitement building in his voice as he came to the crux of his discovery, “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but she is the only one of us who can hear him. She is the only one with that mental connection, but what connected them? Hm?” 

“Blood magic.” Lucanis growled. 

He, of all people, should have known right away that Rook was being manipulated by blood magic. The increased itch behind his eyes whenever he stepped foot in her room, Spite bristling when Rook mentioned speaking with Solas, even the icy feel that ran down his back when Solas spoke directly to her in Arlathan. How could he be so blind to something so obvious? It’s something he should have seen ages ago. Perhaps if he had noticed it sooner, Rook would still be here.

“Yes! That’s it! Precisely!” Emmrich quickly stifled the excitement of his discovery, remembering just why it was necessary at all, and smoothed his hands over his waistcoat. 

“Neve said that Rook hit her head during the ritual. She was in the infirmary for a day or so with a wound.” Bellara interjected, to which Lucanis continued.

“If Rook spilled blood at the ritual site, then it’s how Solas was able to connect to her.” He grimaced at the thought of Rook having the god of lies having access to her blood, memories of the Ossuary returning to the front of his mind. “It wasn’t enough for total control, but enough to let him get in her head.”

“Lied to. Rook.” His voice mingled with Spite’s momentarily before quieting down again. 

“Indeed. Shaping her thoughts and actions to suit his needs when she could go to him for counsel. And I believe he has shaped her in a way that couldn’t allow her to let go of her regrets.” Emmrich returned to his seat, thoroughly proud with his discovery.

“What does Rook have to regret? I thought she wanted to do this?” Davrin knitted his brows together as he looked to Emmrich for answers.

“She did,” Bellara said quietly, “…but Neve said that she felt so guilty over what happened to Varric. She hated knowing he was hurt because of her call.”

“And Harding.” Taash added, “Rook watched her die. She was only up there because Rook sent her to distract Ghilan’nain. She must have felt bad about that.” There was no anger in their voice, but everyone could feel their sadness as they mentioned Harding. Lucanis could see how it would be easy for Rook to blame herself. 

“She never forgave herself for the dragon attack in Minrathous.” Lucanis added solemnly, remembering the numerous nights he’d spent awake with Rook in the dining hall when she’d wake up from a nightmare. 

“And so, it is with those regrets that Rook was able to be molded in such a way that was so effective, that when the Fade was torn open when Lucanis killed Ghilan’nain, Solas was able to step forth into our reality and trap Rook in his when she touched the dagger.” Emmrich added softly. 

“Oh, I knew you’d figure it out professor!” Bellara shouted with glee, reaching over to pat Emmrich on the top of his hand.

As much as he hated the idea of Rook being trapped in the Fade by the god of lies, it did give him a glimmer of hope that Rook was alive. For days, the idea that Rook was dead had been gnawing at the back of his mind and he had to make a conscious effort to banish the idea from his thoughts. They had already tempted fate once and lost; he didn’t want to manifest something else into existence. But, the hope was short lived the more he thought about the logistics of living in pure Fade. Rook was mortal, indomitable, but mortal. Just flesh and blood and bone who needed certain things to survive. Food, water, and shelter were all things she required, but he didn’t think a Fade prison would provide. 

Rook had already been stuck in the Fade for several days and Lucanis knew that alone teetered on the edge of how long someone could go without the bare necessities of survival. She needed out and out now. The team, namely Emmrich, had discovered what happened to Rook and perhaps where to find her, but the question of how to pull her back out of the Fade remained unanswered.

“But how do we get her out?” Lucanis asked, a hint of desperation lacing his words.

“We will have no chance of getting into the Fade without that dagger.” Emmrich answered, “It’s the only tool we know of that can pierce the veil.”

“So we go after Solas directly.” Davrin said firmly, “Use the Eluvians to get to Minrathous. The gates to the city may be closed, but we have a direct line into the city at our fingertips. Go in, find Solas, and either take the dagger from him or kill the bastard out right.” Assasn’s head wobbled with excitement with Davrin’s confidence, the griffon ready to set out for battle.

“Preferably both.” Lucanis muttered. 

Admittedly, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of confronting Solas or taking on Minrathous without Rook, but Emmrich was certain in his theories. They had no alternative means of freeing Rook from Solas’s prison of regret and he knew they needed to get her out as quickly as possible. They needed to confront Solas, but they also needed time to prepare. 

“Then it’s agreed,” Emmrich said has he stood, clasping his hands in front of him, “tomorrow we head to Minrathous. Use this time to rest and prepare yourselves.” Emmrich was speaking to everyone, but the exhaustion on his face was evident. 

“Thank you, Emmrich. For everything.” Lucanis said softly. The necromancer responded with a small, but tired, smile. 

“I’d gladly do it again, Lucanis. Rook it’s important to us all, as is Neve.” Turning to the rest of the group, Emmrich continued, “Now let’s be off. Tomorrow promises to be a most crucial of days. Rest well.” With a series of nods, the team began to disperse to their usual corners of the Lighthouse, preparing to face the two remaining elven gods and find Rook. Lucanis stood from the lounge and promptly made his way towards the pantry, ready to make another deal with his demon.

[itisnotaphasemom]

I might not be able to put this the right way, and maybe others have said this already,

but to me, the main thing about Cloud and Aerith is the way he tries to grow for her and because of her.

In a way, they could be quite similar. Both are incredibly lonely, and they share similar trauma. Both have lost their mothers in tragic, malicious ways. Both are confused about their identity and past. Cloud learns how much just he has forgotten and that something is very wrong with him, just like Aerith keeps finding out how little she actually knows about her ancestry or the circumstances of her mother's death.

Cloud and Aerith both realize this and are able to sympathize with one another. Aerith is incredibly patient with Cloud and him trying to uphold the walls he built around himself at all times.

I think Cloud knows there is a fundamental difference about them, though. And, that is that despite everything that has happened while Cloud has been putting up walls and has become hardened, Aerith has not. While Cloud looks to the past, is angered, shut off, and distant, Aerith has gone the opposite route. She remained soft and hopeful. It's not to say she isn't sad or lonely or angry, which she is, but she isn't faulting the world for this. She wants things to get better, instead of wanting revenge.

Generally, I think there are relationships that make you look to the past or to the future and I don't think there's right or wrong in that if it isn't too extreme.

But I think Aerith makes Cloud look into the future. I think he's always been either checked out about looking either way, or obsessed with the past, about what happened and how to mend it.

Aerith makes him believe in a future because she has been through similar things and she has come out on the other side hopeful. Because she is still good to people and because she still loves, she still cares. And I think this makes Cloud want to grow, too.

And he's showing this in some of Aerith's darkest moments. When she acknowledges her dark thoughts on the beach, he reacts with understanding, and he helps her going forward, supporting her when he can (even without the obligatory merc fee). He encourages her to speak out about her past at the lantern festival. I think as someone being taken in by a stranger as a child, essentially putting her guardian's life at risk and bringing heavy baggage along, she learned to have to be pleasant at all times to be loved. Through Cloud, she learns that this other side of her, the one that is struggling with embracing her difficult past and path forward, is also worthy of love and protection. She says to him on the beach, she is sure, he will love future Aerith, the one she is growing into right at that moment - she, too, is changing because of him.

These moments show he really wants to be there for her the same way she is there for him. He wants to make her happy and support her. He wants to protect her while she protects the world. He feels responsible for her, and it's a role he wants to grow into, and he does.

In a way, Clouds world just gets a lot bigger while Aerith is in it. When she is there, he actually laughs, he smiles like he does with no one else, and finally, he even cries holding her in his arms, when he was on the cusp of being turned into an emotionless weapon just moments before.

This, in turn, makes Aerith open up to him in a way she doesn't do with the others, too. They both see a side of the other person nobody else gets to see.

I think this is amplified in the ending when Cloud is literally the only person who knows what happened to her, that witnessed her death and who's able to see her afterward.

[wxstros]

Bonds Forged in Fire

In a world where dragons did not dance and Rhaenyra reigns unchallenged on the Iron Throne, her legacy endures through her three valiant sons, with the Targaryens having bowed to their rightful queen. You, a traveller in this medieval tapestry, have at last discovered the opportune moment to seek solace in Essos, intending to live out your days unburdened and free. No longer are you compelled to mend the fragile bonds among feuding cousins, having already nurtured a brotherhood among the Velaryon and Targaryen youths. Freed from the duty of attending to Alicent, appeasing your father Daemon, or strategizing for the benefit of the realm and its beloved Rhaenyra, you stand on the cusp of true retirement... or do you?

warnings: typical targcest/inc*st. DARK CHARACTERS; controlling behavior, manipulation, gaslighting. cursing. reader is a modern human. dance of the dragons did not happen. canon typical violence. yandere behavior!

pairings: hotd x reader, daemon targaryen x daughter!reader (platonic)

CHAPTER ONE: RETIREMENT, SWEET RETIREMENT

CHAPTER TWO: NO LONGER A FREE WOMAN

more to be added!

[danikamariewrites]

Hey! Could I request Cassian saying to reader “who did this to you?” Maybe Devlon or someone hit her and Cassian goes feral, a bit more on the dark side. 😊

Protector

Cassian x reader

A/n: one of my fav tropes with one of my fav boys 😋

Warnings: injuries, abuse, violence

Not wanting to give the camp anything to talk about you headed straight to Rhys’s house. Slamming the door shut you waited for Cassian and the others on the couch, cradling your mangled arm to your chest.

Your brother, Bade, has been your biggest bully all your life. He constantly used you as his personal punching bag. Usually it wasn’t too bad, a few bruises here, some cuts and scrapes there. This time he had taken things too far leaving you with a fractured wrist and some other broken bone in your arm, a black eye, and a nasty cut running through your eyebrow.

Your parents never did anything about it. Your mother and father always just saying “males will be males” and treating Bade like the golden child. You had had enough though. Today had shown you that Bade would never stop and the people who were supposed to love and protect you unconditionally weren’t going to make it stop.

You have no idea where you’d go but at least you still have your wings. They probably thought Bade hurt them so bad it was pointless to clip them. Another thing your parents were wrong about.

Cassian comes home first. He kicks the snow off his boots before looking at you. His rugged face changing from excitement from seeing you to concern and anger. Rushing over to you Cassian gently grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. He tilts your face side to side. The frustration rolling off him in waves.

“Who did this to you?” He grits out. “My brother.” You said with slight hesitation. A sick part of you wanted to protect him, that small voice in the back of your mind saying he’s family. Cassian knelt between your legs rubbing your thighs lightly.

Cassian calls out to Rhys to bring a healer home in his mind. In that moment he was making a plan to get you to Velaris and out of this gods forsaken camp.

“He’s never going to hurt you again sweetheart, I promise.” You gently kiss his forehead and give him a sad smile. “Thank you my love.” The two of you wince as the burn of a bargain tattoo stings the inside of your wrists. Looking down you see the black ink formed a pair of wings in flight for the freedom your mate has promised you.

You stay with him that night, not wanting to return home to your fathers wrath for running off. You’ve always felt safe with Cassian. Even before the bond snapped you were always attached to each other. As you snuggled into his chest and drifted off to sleep you dreamt of a future with Cassian. Where you’re happy and surrounded by friends and family.

The next morning Cassian slips out of bed before you can wake up. Even though the camp healer mended all your injuries you still need rest. He kisses your forehead after getting dressed.

Shutting the door to the house his face turned to stone. Pure wrath swimming in his eyes. Cassian is on a war path. His goal; end your brother.

“Bade! You’re against Cassian. Get in the ring!” The commander yelled. Bade visibly paled at the sight of Cassian flexing and cracking his knuckles. Rhys and Azriel stand behind Cassian wearing matching stoic faces.

“Don’t go easy Cass. Y/n’s father needs to be taken down a few pegs anyway.” Rhys said in his mind. “There won’t be anything of this fucker left after I’m done.”

Stepping in the ring the males put up their fists and began circling each other. Cassian didn’t give Bade a chance to get a hit in. He immediately pounced on your brother, hitting him with a right hook. Then a blow to his stomach, then ribs.

Bade stumbled back, his face drenched in blood. The commander didn’t stop Cassian. Letting the beating continue. Cassian continued his assault until Bade was flat on his back on the cusp of consciousness. Cassian lowered himself on his haunches, gripping Bade’s blood soaked face in his large hand.

“You will never lay another hand on her. Or any female. Ever. Again. If I hear you are I’m going to kill you.” Cassian shoved his head into the ground so hard Bade passed out.

Getting up, he strode over to his brothers, wiping off his knuckles.

Tonight. Tonight he’d take you to Velaris. You’d live in the House of Wind and Mor would keep you company. You’d be part of the family. And most importantly, you’d be free.

[highlordofkrypton]

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Happy freakin' birthday, @matrixsss! I wanted to do something a little different on your special day and include Amara in your gift. I hope I got her right, I based her off your descriptions and interactions of Kara!

We both know that Johan is the actual little sibling in this relationship because he is the biggest brat.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

I need to assemble an army.

Chaos reigns, debris blasted from castle walls. Fire soars through the skies and poison tipped arrows whirr in the distance. He stands in the heart of bloodshed, ignoring the clang of metal against metal and the cries of the wounded and dying. The demons are closing in, circling like vultures on his fraying tenacity. This war has torn the walls of this reality, and horrors pour in from other worlds. They do not need more gore and ghouls, yet here they are.

As the Mother’s herald, he should have prepared himself better. He should have known, but foresight is not his gift and the Mother speaks in goddess-damned riddles. And so, he is trapped pulling plans out of his ass in hopes of gluing the shattered pieces of the universe together.

He cannot work with the powers of one existence; he must draw upon the very best of the best, much to his dismay. Johan loathes working with others. Even worse, Johan hates asking for help.

There are the usual suspects from everywhen: his mother from when she was an archer, his father before his heart broke, his lover after he mended his worth, the fox who built a den around him and the Queen of Death where everything began. These people are easy. They are his family. They do not ask for more than an explanation. The rest… 

He sighs, tipping his head to the side and dodging knives thrown his way. He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is going to  be a pain. He’ll save Jurian for last.

With his abyssal hand, he digs his metal fingers into the very fabric of this universe and tears it away. The veil comes apart to the symphony of unmaking. Johan steps through the portal and closes it behind him; it won’t do to destroy existences, lest he risk a catastrophic ripple effect. It takes too much time to cultivate creatures, souls and sentience. He must fix it, and quickly. Johan plucks his key players, assembling them quickly and efficiently—the amenable ones, at least.

***

The dungeons smell vile. They reek of humanity and mortality—of bodies failing from lack of something or other. Johan makes a face, and schools it just as quickly. Feeling is wasted energy, especially when he is on the cusp of metaphorically pulling teeth. Cauldron, he remembers this place from another life. Another moment of weakness. It hammers at his temple, demanding his attention in the same way his ghosts linger on his peripheral. They blend into the humans, pleading for escape. He ignores them.

He finds her hidden away like some useless thing. It is a testament of the King’s stupidity. He doesn’t know, and may never know, the prowess he has cultivated here.

Johan grips the iron bars of the cage and tears them off. She protects the humans, like they’re worth anything but specks in the grand scheme of things.

“Who the hell are you?” She speaks as if she’s armed—as if she stands a chance. She doesn’t. Not like this, not yet.

“Your freedom.”

She scoffs. Of course, she would. Amara has never been impressed by Johan’s theatrics or grand gestures. Even in the face of a god, she would dare spit at him. She doesn’t, this time, but she has in other streams of time when he overstepped. With a bite like a viper’s she is one of the few who could adjust his behaviour through sheer stubbornness.

He moves forward, she urges the frail humans to huddle further back behind her.

“Come with me.”

“No.” Her eyes narrow, flicker towards his body to try and find something she can steal and use against him.

Amara’s honour has always annoyed him. Now, even moreso. She’s going to make him do it, isn’t she? She’s going to make him… be nice.

“I require your assistance.”

“I have no idea who you are and I have no interest in helping you, anyway.”

“We have not met yet, and we may never, but you do know me.”

Amara scrunches her face, annoyed. “That makes no sense.”

Irritation flares up within Johan; she knows how to push his buttons like the irritable little sister he never wanted, never asked for and never planned for. He knows how to win her over, but he doesn’t want to.

“It is no fault of mine that your infinitesimal mind cannot comprehend the needs of the very universe.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who needs help. You are, so watch your tone.”

“For a caged bird, you are annoyingly confident.”

Beneath her bravado, Johan can smell her apprehension and her fear. The dungeons of Hybern are a dangerous place—a place where monsters are born, and Amara has always been able to walk in between both. It’s why Johan admires her. He runs through a gamut of emotions from frustration to anger, and ultimately steels his resolve. He is safe with her; they have never said it because that’s not who they are. Well, she might have said it and Johan pointedly ignored her because he refuses to acknowledge his still-beating heart. (It should be dead, and he should feel nothing.)

I kind of, slightly, just a little bit, like you and care about you, echoes in his memory. What an embarrassing sentiment and the sentence itself… a butchering. Yet, it weighs in his chest. He can trust her, it’s why he’s here in the first place, he simply has to show it.

“You are my sister and I need you to save the world. Please.” Johan offers her his metal hand, a sign of trust. Their hands are a testament of their pain and their survival. She trusted him with rebuilding hers. “I will free your humans, too, but I need you.” He hides his face, ashamed by his weakness.

“Alright,” Amara says with a sincere smile. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

He was wrong; this is a small price to pay to have his sister at his side again and to feel safe.

I don't need an army, he amends, quietly. I need my family.