basket-of-cats-and-witches

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

"You would have me leave this form? Forgo the greater good for the lesser?"

Those kind eyes that I had once known were empty. Filled with detached objectivity, as if I were merely a bug crawling up its coat.

I remembered hot summers. The blessedly chilled wind, the taste of cold ice cream that flooded my mouth with sweetness.

The smell of your shampoo. The way your head rested on my shoulder, rendering it numb over time.

"Yes," I said. "Your greater good is not mine. They are not lesser to me."

The angel stared at me. It didn't seem to comprehend.

Of course it couldn't. How could it know that the instinctive head tilt it gave was yours, that the bitten nailbeds of its fingers were carved by your teeth?

"What would you offer me, then?" It asked. "Would you give up your body for theirs?"

I smiled at that. A wry laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

"No. That would be pointless. They would do the same." I knew it. In the way you had hugged me tightly as I sobbed, in the way you shrieked my name and tackled me whenever we had gone too long without seeing one another.

You were mine.

And I was yours.

The angel furrowed its brow. "Then you would allow for the end of this world just for a few moments more with this vessel."

I nodded. "Of course. There will always be someone else to save the world overall. But there is only one of them. And my world begins and ends with them."

It still did not comprehend, of course. But my convictions remained firm. I would do whatever necessary to bring them back.

And the angel knew that. It knew its mission would end with me.

I watched as the light returned to your eyes. As they rolled up into your head and your body crumpled like wet paper, the force of the angel's presence draining you of your energy.

It didn't matter. I caught you in my arms, as I always have. As I always will.

You are mine.

And I am yours.

The end of the world is nothing compared to that.

horror is always like oh no they're possessed by a demon well what about possessed by an angel? angelic possession is also horror.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Party Banter (feat. "What if Illario was a companion")

I love that little fuckup so much. I think it would've been incredibly funny to have him alongside Lucanis, and in my own canon, he and my Rook, Lanalath (they/them) are in an incredibly complex...situationship.

Anyway, enjoy!

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

Illario: You came back.

Lana: Not on purpose. There were bigger things at risk.

Illario: Don't be like that, Lana. You didn't miss me at all?

Lana: If I missed you, I would simply draw back and aim again.

Neve: Do these two always fight like this?

Lucanis: I…honestly don't know. Illario never managed to keep anything private, except…

Neve: Except…? Were they together?

Lucanis: I don't know. It was the one secret Illario wouldn't tell me.

-

Lana: So, about Zara…

Illario: Mierda.

Lana: Don't swear, it makes your wrinkles more prominent. About Zara-

Illario: What? Do you want to hear all the illicit details? How I plotted with her to kill my cousin? How I groveled and licked her boots to make her think I was a loyal dog?

Lana: …

Illario: Well?

Lana: Did she hurt you?

Illario: What?

Lana: I want to know if she hurt you. Because I'll find a necromancer willing to bring her back to torture her if she did.

Illario: …you say the sweetest things.

Lana: I know. Now about this groveling business-

Illario: [groans]

-

Illario: You know, I didn't mean to hurt you.

Lana: The cheating is one thing. A Venatori? ‘Lario, even you have better taste.

Illario: Is that how we're going to play this?

Lana: I'm not sure what you mean.

Illario: I'm trying to apologize, Lana.

Lana: Then apologize. But don't lie to me and say you didn't mean to hurt me.

Lana: You knew what you were doing. You spent a year getting more and more agitated, and then suddenly your cousin vanishes? And then you want to break things off?

Illario: I was trying to protect you.

Lana: From who, the Venatori?

Illario: From me. From this. From my…punishment.

Lana: I don't need protection. I would have rather you skipped the Venatori and planned your cousin's murder with me. At least it wouldn't have been traitorous behavior. It would have simply been Crow tradition.

Lana: Sorry, Lucanis.

Lucanis: No, you have a point. Crow tradition is better than siding with the Venatori.

Davrin: There is something deeply wrong with all of you.

-

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

YELLING I LOVE THEM SO MUCH AUGH

My lancer oc Khione and @basket-of-cats-and-witches 's Shrike for oc kiss 25!! told y'all I'd actually colour something >:3c

Anyway I adore them so much with all my heart and Briar wrote a piece for these two as well and you should read it *:･ﾟ✧

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

OC Kiss Week: Day 4

Reunion

And so it continues! I'm actually really enjoying these prompts, it's a good writing exercise!

This time, with angsty hurt/comfort-ness. Feat. @dumbass-transboy 's OC, Zero (he/him), and my OC, Adrien "Booker" Graves (he/him) from the Lancer ttrpg! This is an AU we've been cooking for a while, where our characters got married and then Zero faked his own death. There's more to it, but that's the baseline that you need for this.

Anyway, if you enjoyed this, please give it a like or reblog! It gets my work out there and lets me know people like what I'm doing.

-------

“Dad, I'm heading out!”

The door clicked behind Nora, her footsteps thudding down the old salt-worm porch.

Booker watched as she headed down the path, her hair bouncing with her descent.

The house was already too quiet.

He sighed, turning away.

“Good morning, Zero,” he said, almost to himself. “Did you sleep well?”

There was no response from the old photograph on its little wooden shrine, kept gleamingly clean. Even now, Booker wiped away imaginary dust, relighting the candle by the frame. He could practically hear Zero’s exhausted grumble, the rustling of the sheets as his husband turned in their bed.

He looked down and smiled faintly. “Me too. Nora's already gone for the day, so you can sleep in a little longer. I'll make breakfast.”

With a sigh, he cracked his back, then his neck.

Getting old was a bitch.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the sizzling pop of bacon keeping the kitchen alive.

Booker had never quite adjusted to the quaint life, still expecting a flood of reports to get shoved in front of him.

Still, as he grabbed the french press and poured himself some coffee, he had to admit it wasn't the worst thing.

At least there was no Commodore to tear a ship apart anymore.

With a fried egg (“you should watch your cholesterol, Dad, you're not getting any younger,” he could practically hear Nora saying) and bacon in hand, coffee in the other, he settled at the kitchen table.

Mindlessly, he scrolled through the morning news. The universe was fucked, as always.

Still, the date caught his attention.

“Ten years, huh?” He sipped his coffee, savoring the aromatic flavor, deep and floral. “How time flies.”

Ten years since he'd become a widow.

Once upon a time, his front door would practically be rattling off the hinges. He didn't realize how many people cared about him until after he left.

No point in CORSAIR without his family, after all. His mother was long gone, his husband was dead, and Khione…

Well. He hadn't heard from them in some time.

He hoped they were alright. His sources weren't what they used to be, and gathering information was difficult.

Birds sang outside, the distant rush of waves providing a subtle background to his thoughts.

Booker stared into the distance, taking another sip.

“I miss you, baby.” His wedding ring sometimes felt like a shackle, weighing heavily on his finger.

Today, it felt like nothing. He wondered if that was a good or bad thing.

When breakfast was done, he washed his dishes and considered what he'd do with his day. Maybe go for a run, then check on the Empress? It had been a while since he'd taken her out for a spin.

Mac would scold him, for sure.

Life felt so…dull.

Lonely.

When Nora left for good, he didn't know what he would do. Maybe throw himself headlong into Graves and Co., become as insane as his mother.

Who fucking knew.

For a split second, frustration built up so sharply that his hand tightened around his mug, considering throwing the fucking thing into the sea.

For whatever good it would do him.

His hand trembled, and he breathed in.

Breathed out.

Knock knock.

Booker blinked in surprise. No one ever came up here anymore, unless it was the postman with a package.

Knock knock.

He set the mug aside, drying his hands and walking towards the door. “I'm coming, Dane,” he sighed. “No need to rush.”

He opened the door.

It wasn't Dane, the postman.

White-blonde hair swirled in the sea air, pale bluish skin tinged slightly by the wind chill.

Booker felt his heart lurch. This was it, he was finally losing it.

“Listen,” the ghost of his husband said. “I know, I'm sorry, I should have told you, but we simply do not have time. Khione is in Lace’s clutches, and I-”

Booker reached out, grabbing the front of Zero’s fancy shirt, and yanked his husband into a kiss.

At first, Zero stiffened, freezing against his lips. Almost as if he couldn't believe what was happening.

Then, he melted. Looping his arms around Booker’s neck, giving as good as he got.

When they finally pulled away, significantly more breathless, Booker smiled through tears. “Welcome home, Zero. Now, what was this about Khione?”

Zero blinked. “You're not going to ask about-”

Booker waved him off. “You're home, baby. That's all I care about. That and the fact that it seems you're not a figment of my imagination.” He stole another kiss, before turning to head inside.

“Come on. I have to grab a few things, and then we can go rescue our killer lesbian.”

Zero snorted, and followed him inside.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

OC Kiss Week: Day 3

Stolen

And so the brainrot continues. This time with @mossylocks 's OC Khione (they/them) and my OC Shrike (she/her)! Another set of Lancer ttrpg creatures that we maybe obsess over a little too much.

CW: Choking, killing intent but not acted upon.

Hope you enjoy, and if you do, please feel free to like and reblog! It gets my work out there and lets me know people enjoy what I'm doing.

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She didn't know.

It was late into the night, maybe even nearing morning, and she didn't know.

Amber light spilled dreamily through the room, dipping into shadowed corners and drawing them closer like a lover’s embrace.

It illuminated the cluttered desk, as busy as her mind.

She didn't know.

Pen scratched against paper, something real and solid in the way tech never could, as she filled out a report.

The clock ticked over another minute.

And then another.

And then another.

Unnoticed, like the figure in the doorway.

She tapped the pen against her lip, thinking.

Another dot. Another slash. Another remark on her report.

The figure’s face was hidden in shadow. Tall and beautiful, powerful as a lioness in the dark.

How vulnerable and exposed she was, completely unaware.

The figure took a step forward.

With a sigh, she ran her fingers back through her hair, only serving to let the light catch the golden strands like honeyed sunlight.

The only sound was her subtle breathing and the gentle clink of a spoon as she stirred her coffee.

Brought the mug to her lips.

Swallowed.

Her bare throat flexed with the motion, absentmindedly savoring the flavor as she set the mug back down.

The figure stood behind her. Doll-like eyes focused, their false innocence a tantalizing facade.

Cast in shadow, hidden from sight.

With a sigh, she leaned down, returning back to her work.

The figure flexed their hand. She had no idea the wealth of thoughts running rampant through their head, how close she was to a sudden end.

Her pen rolled off the desk. Quietly she swore, reaching down to pick it up.

The light caught her wedding ring dangling from its chain, kept warm by her skin.

She sat up to a hand around her throat.

Flexing slightly as it slid up the column of her neck, thumb pressing ever-so-slightly into her windpipe.

Still deciding whether to kill or caress.

Swallowing hard, she made her choice. Risky, as always, fighting against the odds.

She leaned forward into that touch, feeling her air supply slowly cut off until her lungs were screaming for sweet relief.

The hand slid sharply upwards. Gripping her chin as she opened her mouth, sucking in that sweet air.

Only to have it stolen once more in a kiss.

This…this she knew.

Lightheaded, she submitted to the sharp nails digging into her jawline, feeling the way they practically cut into her skin.

And just like that, the touch was gone.

The figure pulled back, and she coughed, blinking against watery eyes.

“Did I do something to offend you, Khione?” She rasped.

The figure shuddered, seemingly returning to themselves.

“No,” Khione replied simply. “I…simply came to find you. Zero and his husband were concerned as to your whereabouts, dear Shrike.”

That wasn't all of it, she knew. There were things Khione didn't yet say, things they did without visible reason, and Shrike had yet to learn the source.

So she just nodded.

Setting her work aside, she rose to her feet, glancing sidelong at the tall figure.

How easily they could kill her.

How easily she reveled in it. Like a sweet poison, shutting down her body one organ at a time.

“Why did you kiss me?” She asked instead.

Khione smiled, sharp as a beautifully honed blade.

“We have to keep up appearances, don't we?” She reached out, running a finger along Shrike's jawline. “Or did you forget we're in public?”

Shrike glared at them playfully, taking the hand and kissing Khione's knuckles with a gallant half bow.

“Never, dear spouse. Never.”

She didn't know. Didn't know the skeletons Khione had used to climb to where they were, or the blood that stained that perfect skin.

She didn't know.

But as Khione pulled her from her work, she knew she would damn well try.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

OC Kiss Week: Day 2

First

Ngl this one both had me struggling and also had me in brainrot. I knew what I wanted to do from the moment I started planning for the prompts, but writing other people's OCs makes me nervous.

Feat. @dumbass-transboy 's OC Zero (he/him) and my OC, Adrien "Booker" Graves (he/him) from the ttrpg Lancer! We've been brainrotting about an arranged marriage AU forever, and this felt very appropriate for those idiots.

(special appearances from my OC Dupont - basically Booker's best friend - and Khione, Moss's OC!)

CW: Verbal abuse, panic attacks, brief gore visualization.

If you enjoyed this fic, please give it a like or reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing, and encourages me to continue.

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

“Oh, stop worrying,” Lillian snapped. She fixed Booker’s tie for the fifteenth time, her acrylics like talons against his chest.

He held back a sharp retort, struggling to be polite. “It's my wedding day, Ma. I'm just a little nervous.”

She clicked her tongue. “It's Mother, Adrien. I thought those speech lessons beat that country bumpkin out of you.”

You used to be a country bumpkin too, he didn't say. Instead, he simply nodded his head.

“Yes, Mother.”

A sharp pin stabbed his chest as Lillian affixed a boutonniere to his jacket lapel.

He tried not to flinch.

“Now,” she said huffily. “This match was already hard enough to get done. Don't muck it up. You're to be a good husband. The best husband, even. You should be like-” she stopped herself short, her hands stilling.

Adrien put his over hers. Squeezing gently.

“Of course, Mother. As you say.” The ghost of his father lingered in the room, practically draping itself over his mother like a mourning veil.

Even now, at her worst, she was thinking of the man who'd widowed her.

Lillian swallowed hard and pulled away, fixing her hair. “Never mind that nonsense. Get ready. You're representing the Graves.”

He watched her turn away with a silent sigh. Disappointment was an old friend to him now, and he'd learned to welcome its presence.

“Yes, Mother.”

She walked out, and he followed her.

By Ra, the man was beautiful. To be honest, Booker had never noticed it before. Zero’s words had always come before his face, obscuring it like a mask.

Now, it was the beauty itself that he wore like a weapon.

At least Booker would have something nice to look at, he supposed.

They'd been practically avoiding each other the whole time. Khione and Dupont were the saviours of the event, flitting to and fro, keeping anyone who might annoy either grooms far away.

Aside from one instance of getting deadnamed, it had been startlingly smooth.

And then, the main event.

The music started up, a beautifully light melody that drew the guests towards their seats.

Across the room, Booker could see his mother make direct eye contact with him, mouthing words.

Don't muck it up.

He swallowed down nerves and made his way to the altar.

Zero and Khione were a vision to behold. Booker didn't know who had decided that Zero would be the one to walk down the aisle towards him, but he instantly knew they'd made the correct choice. The guests couldn't keep their eyes off the pair as they sailed forward, perfectly in sync.

It made Booker feel…off. He realized for the first time in many years he was having a sudden bout of gender dysphoria, feeling greasy and out of place here.

He tried to breathe. His eyes slid to the front row, where a picture of his father and sister sat on an empty chair.

It only made the feeling worse. He was five seconds from a panic attack, and there was no way he could stop it.

Someone pinched his side sharply.

Dupont stood next to him, withdrawing his hand quickly. “Breathe. You're not alone. I'm here.”

Booker breathed. His chest still felt tight, and he wished he had his emergency inhaler, long considered “immature” by his mother.

Ironic, really, that she'd risk his ability to breathe for appearances.

Zero stepped up beside him, and Booker offered his hand.

“You look beautiful,” Booker forced out. Thankfully, it sounded less shaky than he felt.

With an artful smile, Zero gave him a sidelong glance. “Of course I do. It's about time you noticed.” He placed his fingers in Booker’s palm, stepping up to the altar.

Right.

Booker had temporarily forgotten that aspect of Zero’s personality. He was like a poisonous flower, beautiful to look at but god forbid someone touched him.

It didn't help Booker's nerves at all.

The officiant in front of them was one Booker had known his whole life. The man was the one who married his parents, half the town, and now him.

He could barely keep track of the words.

His mother's words rang over and over again in his head, like a nail being hammered into a coffin. Where his hand held Zero's, it was cold and clammy.

He felt like fainting.

“Do you, Adrien Thaddeus Malcom Graves, take Zero to be your husband, to walk by his side in sickness and in health?”

The words jolted him back. He smiled politely and nodded. “I do.”

The officiant turned to Zero. “And do you, Zero, take Adrien to be your husband, to walk by his side in sickness and in health?”

Booker watched the most radiant man in the universe smile and lie through his teeth.

“I do.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Booker could see his mother sitting by the pictures, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

For a split second, he imagined it. Whirling and lunging like a feral beast, sinking his teeth into her throat and ripping it out, snapping open her ribcage to try and find his mother somewhere inside.

Not this decorative facade, this empty shell that breathed and walked and talked like her.

He forced it down, like he always did.

Like he had since the accident that killed his father and sister.

They were all each other had left.

He wondered if she remembered that.

The rings were exchanged, Booker’s last stand to his mother. He'd picked them out himself, complimentary and meaningful. Whether Zero cared or not, they would both look the part, at least.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married. You may now kiss.” The officiant proclaimed.

Booker turned to Zero, their hands intertwined.

He'd kissed so many people. Shared his heart and body with them all.

At that moment, he made himself a promise.

This will be the last. Til death do us part.

He leaned in at the same time Zero did, their lips meeting in a chaste kiss.

The guests cheered and clapped, their applause like the clanging of a cell door swinging shut.

As he pulled away, Zero smirked at him. “Well, would you look at that. We're married.”

Booker nodded, feeling ice spread in his chest, freezing him over.

“Yes, we are.”

Hand in hand, they walked down the aisle together.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

they promised they were only going to finish one more bit of paperwork, and they were lying through their teeth • oc kiss day 1 !! I'll draw an actual kiss at Some Point but for now it's funnier to explode Anuradha instead :3

feat. @basket-of-cats-and-witches 's Beastly (they/she) and their unseen companion Abyss (it/its) in their Lancer specific incarnation!! mostly because I couldn't figure out how to feature teeth, claws and/or wings in this one but I'll figure it out eventually count on it o7

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

OC Kiss Week: Day 1

Desperate

I'm participating in OC Kiss Week, bc my friends and I brainrot too much about our characters!!

Feat. @mossylocks Autumn Sidhe OC, Anuradha (they/them), and my possessed Werewolf Beastly (They/she) alongside Abyss (it/its)! We've thrown these two/three in both Lancer and WoD, but for this specifically it's WoD.

(Be warned! This one and probably most of my OC Kiss Week ones will be suggestive.)

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to like and reblog! It gets my work out there, and lets me know people like what I'm doing.

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

“Wait,” Anuradha gasped.

The door to their chambers flung open, Beastly striding through it in its wake. Their arms barely flexed with the weight of their lover, Anuradha's legs wrapped around their waist.

Beastly glanced up, their eyes reflecting the warm candlelight like a cat’s.

Or, more appropriately, a wolf’s.

“Do you really want me to?” They purred, not breaking their stride.

“I just- hh! I don't see where this is coming from!” Anuradha's back hit the mattress, and they glanced up just in time to watch the roll of Beastly's shoulder muscles as the werewolf stripped off their own button-up.

Beastly huffed, leaning over Anuradha. “You're leaving,” they growled, practically pinning Anuradha to the bed with their weight. “And you're not taking me with you.”

“O-only for two weeks!” Anuradha protested, gasping as sharp teeth sunk into their shoulder, their lover pulling back just enough not to break the skin.

With a scoff, Beastly ran their thumb over the mark, pressing into it just to bully them. “‘Only’ two weeks,” Beastly muttered irritably. “As if a day wouldn't already be too much. Leaving us alone and taking Cebrián and the tin can with you.”

Anuradha felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Beastly…”

Beastly shook their head. “Don't. I know what I am. I know those damn glitterbugs get skittish when I'm around.”

Reaching up, Anuradha grazed Beastly's jawline, skimming down the line of it to the muscled column of the werewolf’s neck, all the way down to that beating heart.

Pounding beneath Anuradha's fingertips, as if it could break through the padded cell it resided in and nestle lovingly in their fingers, staining their skin with blood.

“I'm one of them,” Anuradha reminded Beastly softly. “Those ‘glitterbugs’. What a term, by the way. Is that common in your world?”

Beastly gave a wry smirk. “No. And you're not, by the way. You're better.” They leaned down to murmur in Anuradha's ear, the promise of their violent teeth barely skimming the sensitive skin there. “You're my needy little whore.” The werewolf bit down, savoring the whimpering gasp it evoked.

Beastly leaned back, just enough for the candlelight to catch the glistening of their fangs, the odd flatness of their eyes. Barely toeing the line between person and monster.

“You’re so cute. Since you'll be gone in the morning, let me use you until then. Let me have my fill, and then some. Let us devour you.”

Anuradha reached up, grabbing Beastly's undershirt. “Please,” they whispered, kissing Beastly desperately.

The werewolf practically snarled their approval, working on taking apart their prey.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Codex Entry: The Ties That Bind

Another fun codex entry, this time feat. My non-Rook OC, Warden Falcon, and my friend @mossydice 's Rook OC, Cirrus! We've been shoving our OCs together a lot, and this was one such circumstance.

This particular entry is from Falcon's adoptive mothers, two Tal-Vashoth Qunari Wardens who decided to go fight in the South rather than listen to the summons back to Weisshaupt.

(and honestly, they're kind of Cirrus's parents too, in a way.)

I may have botched a few Qunlat terms (and straight up made one up), but I did my best!

Saarekari = Saarebas + Imekari, for demon/mage child. Here, Arvaraad and Kassanda mean it as a term of endearment.

If you enjoyed this, please feel free to give it a like and reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing, and encourages me to write more.

-

Cirrus, I thought maybe you would like to see this. Don't mind that half the tea and treats are missing, I just took my share.

-Falcon

[Enclosed is a package filled with candied oranges, chili slices, and dried peaches covered in a chili spice mix. A letter is included, wrinkled from the journey and already opened.]

Imekari,

Word has reached us of Weisshaupt. Esit tal eb. Empires are meant to fall, and the Wardens are no exception. I shall consider if any here are worthy to join our ranks.

Tonight, Saarebas and I will meditate on the fallen. Those who fall in battle are honorable, they have proven their worth.

I imagine you worry. We have joined up with the Inquisitor, as that us the best course of action. They seem relieved to have more than one Grey Warden at their disposal.

The Rainier is amusing, and has made Saarebas chuckle.

A rare accomplishment.

I have included candied fruits and tea, seemingly a rarity over here. Disappointing, but not unexpected.

Share them with Saarekari. I will know if you do not, and your Tama will know in turn.

Saarebas wishes to share words.

In a different hand:

Saarekari, practice your breathing exercises. You lead your people, we have heard.

Do well. You know what you need to succeed. You are in control. Become one with yourself, breathe, and succeed.

Do not die.

Imekari does not need my words, but you do. Breathe in. Gather your energy. Wait for the perfect moment to strike.

You will succeed.

The letter ends abruptly there.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Codex Entry: Sealed Regrets

This is posted with permission from my friend @mossydice who it's for, feat. My Warden Librarian Wren and their Rook, Warden Cirrus!

Not much context is needed here, Wren is someone I've written about before and dies after the events of Weisshaupt.

Hope you all enjoy some angst, and if you enjoyed this, please feel free to like and reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing and encourages me to write more!

------

[Enclosed with a wrapped package is a letter. It is presented by a member of the Mourn Watch in grieving clothes.]

"Warden Cirrus,

This letter was written in the hopes that you won't have to read it.

A vain hope, but a hope nonetheless.

I cannot imagine you remember me well. I was simply the librarian, so it must startle you to be on the receiving end of a posthumous gift.

To put it simply -

There are some people in one's life that will never know the impact they make. They believe they are yet another raindrop in a vast lake, never knowing the leaf that their ripples will move along.

I am that leaf.

Yours was a bright spot in my day to day. I always looked forward to when you visited, and visited often you did! To see which book you would choose, nestled in your usual spot, basking in the warmth of a well tended fire was that which I looked forward to.

I expressed my gratitude in the form of treats, a well-lit candle, or a blanket when you slept.

It was the most I could do without feeling inappropriate. After all, we are brethren, as Wardens, but also strangers.

Ironic, isn't it?

Regardless, this is my final gift.

As I write this, you are gone. Mere days have passed, yet the First Warden tells me it will be quite some time until you return to us.

I hope his tea is forever cold, bitter, and oversteeped. May his bed be lumpy and his shins bang on every conceivable hard surface.

You may have felt out of place with your fellow Wardens, as I sometimes did, but rest assured - you always had a place in my day to day.

It is my hope that you'll never read this letter. That someday, you'll return, and we might become friends.

But, since you're reading this, that is not the case. The Calling has come for me.

So, I entrust my brother with this final gift for you. The books you seemed to love most tenderly, only slightly illegally taken from the Warden libraries.

What are they going to do, conscript me?

Regardless, I thank you. I hope you love these for the rest of your life.

(And if you ever need a friend- my brother is a lot sweeter than he likes to show.)

-Wren

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Silk and Confessions

Honestly I don't know what I was intending when I started this fic, it just decided to go its own way, so I'm posting it.

Feat. my Veilguard OC Falcon, a Grey Warden! They're not Rook, moreso another recruitable companion. (Partially bc their Rook belongs to a friend of mine >:3)

Anyway, hope you enjoy! And yes, it is a polyship with Davrin and Lucanis, this one just focuses on Davrin.

If you liked this, please give it a like or reblog! It lets me know people like what I'm doing and encourages me to write more.

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

“Falcon?” Davrin walked into the old observatory, eyebrows raising at the sheer amount of things before him. Where there had once been a broken telescope was now an old fountain decorated with flickering candles, a couch and coffee table shoved into one corner of the room, and in the back was a barely visible cot. 

“Up here,” Falcon said. 

Davrin glanced up just in time to step out of the way of the ascending rogue, carefully wound around sapphire silk…curtains. 

He blinked. “What…what is this?” 

With a chuckle, Falcon dropped lower. They sprawled out in the silks, rolling their head back to look at Davrin. Their hair looked like pure fire as it tumbled loose and free, untamed in a way that made him itch to bury his hands in it. 

He forced himself to resist. 

“It’s called aerial aerobatics,” Falcon said lazily. “An Orlesian troupe came to Vyrantium once, and my old master paid a generous sum to have a few of us learn the skill. I keep it up for the physical benefits.” He grinned at Davrin, his expression upside-down from this angle. 

Davrin sighed. “Why do you do that?” 

Falcon tilted his head curiously. “Do what?” 

“The flirting. You don’t mean it, do you?” Davrin watched as Falcon’s expression shuttered, closing off. The rogue twisted in his silks, climbing higher with a seemingly effortless grace. 

Emotionally and physically running away. 

“Who says I am?” Falcon said flatly. 

Ah.

Davrin stepped closer, climbing onto the fountain’s edge. He knew when he’d messed up, at least. “It’s clear to me, at least. Unless you go about talking to all the Wardens about hunting your ‘prey’.” 

Falcon hadn’t noticed his location change yet, turning the silks into a swinging seat. “Perhaps I do,” he said testily. “Perhaps it means nothing.” 

“Did I offend you by pointing it out?” Davrin pulled himself up higher, onto the next ledge. He hadn’t thought this through, but that was fine. Either he embarrassed himself, or he got closer to the offended bird. 

The other bird. It seemed, somehow, he’d started to collect them. 

Falcon scoffed. “You offended me by being a dick about it,” they retorted. “If you weren’t interested, there are easier ways to do it besides telling me ‘I don’t mean it’.”  Glancing down, their eyes widened. “Davrin-” 

His foot slipped. 

The sound of friction against silk was almost as loud as the pounding of his heart as his wrists were grabbed, a calloused grip keeping him secure. 

He looked up, shocked. 

Falcon’s face was strained, their legs wrapped tightly. “Drop down,” they said through gritted teeth. “Legs straight.” Then, they released him. 

Davrin had no choice but to do as he was told, his calves absorbing the shock. Thankfully, the distance wasn’t too far. 

Falcon slid down, landing besides him with much more grace. “What were you thinking?” They hissed. 

That you’re beautiful when you’re angry, he didn’t say. “I..to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. You were running away. I just thought to follow.” 

Falcon’s brow furrowed in bewilderment. “Assan isn’t big enough to make you fly, dumbass,” they scolded, prodding his chest. “And I wasn’t running!” 

He caught their hand easily, holding it in his own. They were so tiny. How they had managed to hold him was…stunning. “You were. Climbed upwards the moment I opened my big stupid mouth. For what it’s worth, I was trying to ask you a question.” 

“I know, I know. ‘Why do you flirt if you don’t mean it’, I was paying attention.” They tried to tug their hand away, only for him to use it to pull them closer. 

“Nope. I just said it wrong. I meant ‘Are you flirting because you’re actually interested, or because you feel like you need to’.” 

“Davrin, that’s worse-” 

“Just answer the damn question.” 

“I’m interested!” Falcon snapped. Davrin watched as their face flooded with color, their eyes widening in mortification. The rogue glanced away. 

He smiled. “Well, good. Because we’ve been dancing around this for a while, and when Lucanis makes more progress than I do, it makes me worry that I’ve been too subtle.” 

Falcon’s eyes flicked back to him, their ears turning as red as their hair. “I didn’t know if you were serious,” they mumbled. “You’re too confident, Dav. And I’m not exactly liked amongst our fellow Wardens. Sometimes I think you just flirt because you’re used to the attention. At least with Lucanis, I know he’s as much of an idiot at it as I am.” 

Davrin snorted. “Trust me, you’re the only one who’s paid attention to me. Everyone else thinks I’m a hardass.” 

“You are,” Falcon muttered. They tugged at his grip again. “May I have my hand back, now that we’ve done our heartfelt confessions?” 

He tilted his head with a smirk. “Are you asking for it back because you want it back, or because you want to hide from me?” 

The rogue’s lips parted wordlessly, eyes wide. “Festis bei umo canavarum,” they said in response. 

Davrin grinned. “You’re lucky I know that particular phrase,” he teased. “But since you asked, no. You can’t. I never said I was done with mine.” He used their hand to pull them even closer until he could practically feel the warmth of their body against his. 

Falcon swallowed hard, staring up at him. 

Slowly, as if to not spook them, he reached out. Crooking a finger under their chin to tilt their face up. 

“Consider this my mark of surety in my confession,” Davrin murmured. “If you don’t want it, tell me now.” 

Falcon blinked. With a wordless huff, they reached up, winding their free arm around his neck. They yanked him down with a surprising strength. “Consider this my mark,” Falcon bit out, swallowing his startled laugh with a kiss.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

respectfully i don't think anyone gives a shit abt OC fics especially lads ones given how it's literally a otome game 😭

Thank you for being my first hate mail ever on Tumblr, I'm genuinely so excited for your ask! I've been on Tumblr since 2014 and you broke my "no hate mail" streak! This isn't a joke, I'm actually over the moon.

Anyway, I do tag my work, so if you don't want to see it, you can always blacklist it.

And in regards to "no one gives a shit abt OC fics", I'm not writing them for people to give a shit about, I'm writing these fics because I love them. This particular blog has maybe 50 followers, and I'm sure most of them are bots.

I'm writing for the love of the game. Both the content that I consume, and also writing as a whole. Fanfiction is just that. Being a fan. Of both my OCs, and the game. I just post my favorite pieces to this Tumblr.

I hope you get to write about your own OCs and enjoy being creative. To me, that's the best reward. Everything else is just an enjoyable surprise, when it comes.

(Besides, I'm sure there are plenty of people who would enjoy your work, too.)

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

New Year Reflections

It's New Years Eve and I'm stuck at home! Woe be upon me, and may Mac and Booker fic be afflicted upon ye.

Uh. Content Warnings: Brief mention of child abuse and murder.

We keep it angsty in this house, but move past it quickly. Mostly this is just fluff and humor. And angst. And hurt/comfort. And just a touch suggestive, without getting too into it.

Feat. Mac and Booker, my OCs, and various others!

Enjoy, and Happy New Year's!

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

“Are you ready?” Mac called up the stairs, pinning his cufflinks into place. The house was decorated for a picture-perfect Christmas, the smell of pine garland lingering in the air.

It was almost time to take them down.

Sighing, Mac took in the sights one last time. New Year’s was almost upon them and with it, an uncertain future.

“Baby?” He said again.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs. “Here, here.” Booker looked mouthwateringly good, from the classic crimson suit he wore to the simple embellishments that accented it. The gold body chain over his black button-up was slowly going to turn Mac’s mind to soup.

“Checking in on her one last time,” he admitted breathlessly. His dress shoes hung from his fingers, perfectly waxed for the evening.

Mac smiled sympathetically. “She’ll be fine, Adrian. You know Dupont’s good with kids.”

Booker made a face, slipping on his shoes. “Obviously,” he muttered. “Still, it’s the first time she’ll be here without us. What if something happens? What if an electrical fire starts, what if she can’t call for help, what if-”

Laughter interrupted him as Mac stepped forward, the corner of his eyes crinkling with crow’s feet. “I have an electrician come out yearly,” he reminded his husband. “And again, Dupont will be here. Everyone’s contact info is on the fridge, and Dupont has all that information saved already. It’ll be fine. Just enjoy the party.”

Booker huffed, reaching out and adjusting Mac’s tie. “When we discussed having children,” he grumbled, “you were supposed to be the worrywart.”

“As if,” Mac teased, stealing kisses from his husband. He successfully interrupted his husband’s fussing four times before Booker scowled at him. “Stop it,” Booker signed irritably, and Mac laughed, relenting.

His device went off, and he glanced at his notifications. “Oh look! Your archnemesis messaged us.”

Without hesitation, Booker turned and walked over to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a finger of whiskey. He turned, leaning against the wall. “The body is willing, even if the mind is not. What does he have to say?”

Mac smirked, clicking on the link, only to have it wash away instantly. “Oh, no. It’s another one of those stupid fanfictions.”

Wordlessly, Booker took the device from his husband. He walked over to the dining table, plopped down, and began to read.

“Baby, your tie isn’t even-” Mac’s protest was silenced by a raised finger.

He sighed fondly, shaking his head.

At the end of the year, he couldn’t help but be reminiscent. Things had changed so much, so fast, and for the better.

If he could go back and time and tell his younger self that this was the future that awaited him…well.

He supposed he wouldn’t have believed it.

-

Mac, 8

The year kicked off with a gunshot.

As the body dropped to the floor of the warehouse, Arson sighed in satisfaction, pulling out a cloth to wipe his gun clean.

“And t’ those fuckers who might think o’ unionizin’,” he drawled coldly, “Know that I have yer biodata. Try’n step foot outta this warehouse. Yer gonna be a smear on the floors before y’ can say “Happy New Year’s”.

The sound of quiet sniffling was his only response.

Arson grinned sharply. “Alrighty y’ fuckers!” He shouted. “Back t’ work! That product is shippin’ out t’morrow!”

He watched them scramble like rats, spitting on the body with a particular glee. “An’ that, Dick, is how you cull the herd. Don’t let none of them ever catch y’ off-guard. Nip that shit before it has a chance to grow.”

Richard Steelwell, later to be known as Mac, nodded quietly at his father. He was a silent boy, already accustomed to his father’s “listen, don’t speak” rhetoric. He’d certainly got his fair punishment for it in the past.

Arson patted his son on the back. “There’s my boy,” he practically purred. “Let’s go eat that roast yer mama an’ sisters made. A lil’ bloodlust always improves the flavor.”

-

Mac, 18

“Sit down, son,” Innes said teasingly. “We ain’t big on manners here.”

Dupont scoffed, sniffing the cafeteria food as if it would kill him. “Mh, perhaps you aren’t,” he said, shooting Innes a wicked glance. “But some of us weren’t raised by animals.”

Innes grinned, bumping his shoulder against his seat partner, the ever-silent Erstwhile. They shared a fond look, some sort of exchange passing between them before Innes turned his attention back to the newbie.

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling at Mac. “It’s not always this chaotic.” A pair passed him by, and he nodded to them, grinning at the way the sullen young man of the pair tossed his blonde hair, barely sparing him a glance.

“That kid’s gonna be trouble someday,” he said cheerfully. “Commodore’s already buildin’ him up to be the next poster boy.”

Erstwhile nodded. “Mm. Booker’ll learn.”

“Whose idea was it to have Taco Night on New Year’s, anyway?” Dupont grumbled, interrupting them. He scraped some of his food onto Mac’s tray, ignoring the kid’s protest. “Shut up. A young man like you needs to put on some muscle for this stupid fucking job. CORSAIR will kill you if you don’t.”

“Or Commodore will,” Innes joked.

Mac poked at the food with his fork. “Is it weird that I’m homesick?” He mumbled. His gut was twisting, screaming that he shouldn’t be here.

The table fell quiet. These three were the only people on CORSAIR who knew where Mac had actually come from, and it had to stay that way.

Erstwhile reached across, taking Mac’s hand. His was rough and scarred from decades of work.

A gentle squeeze was all it took to help settle the young man.

“Sometimes,” Erstwhile said softly, “there’s comfort in the familiar. Even if it wasn’t kind. It’s okay.”

Mac swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. Erstwhile drew away, returning to his meal.

The three other men at the table pretended not to see the tears that fell onto Mac’s dinner.

-

Mac, 28

The room door hissed open, barely in enough time to miss the two men who fell through it.

“Idiot,” Booker gasped, fumbling at Mac’s mechanic overalls. “You almost got us caught.”

Mac bit at his mouth, helping strip them both. “No one saw,” he scoffed. “Everyone’s too drunk already.”

Something fell and crashed. Neither one took notice.

With ease, Booker hoisted Mac up onto his desk, leaving the man there while he yanked off his button-up.

Mac grinned, watching the sight. “Well, you may be a piece of work, but at least you’re as lovely as your Sunzi.”

With a snort, Booker threw his shirt to the side, unbuckling his belt. “Coming from you, that’s practically a compliment.”

“I know,” Mac responded playfully.

Outside the room came the faint drunken singing of CORSAIR, oblivious to anything illicit going on.

Booker glanced over him hungrily. “Shut up and take your shirt off.”

“Yessir,” Mac replied. This was the most relaxed he’d felt all year, even with frantic need slamming through his body. There was something to be said about letting someone else take the reins, especially a man like Booker. At least he wouldn’t let Mac fall.

Not here.

Not now.

As Booker lunged in for another frantic kiss, nearly tripping over his own pants, the countdown started.

It echoed down the halls, throughout the entire Requiem.

5…

4…

3…

Both men were far too occupied to notice.

-

Now

“2…1…Happy New Year’s!”

The sound of cheering echoed in Mac’s ears all the way home. Champagne warmed his body, giving him just the slightest buzz.

“I’m glad I only had one glass,” he sighed as he stepped out of the vehicle. “That stuff is no joke.”

Booker chuckled warmly, walking over and taking his husband’s hand. “Quality champagne does tend to have that impact, love.”

“Mmhm,” Mac said in reply, tugging at Booker’s tie. “Now comes my favorite part of the evening.”

A welcoming flash of heat shone in Booker’s eyes. “Not yet,” he scolded half-heartedly. “We need to check on Nora.”

“Right, right. Sorry, baby.” Mac grinned as he followed his husband up the steps, thick snowflakes swirling all around them. “Can I say one thing, though?”

Booker turned. He was a vision in the low porch lights, his golden hair struggling to escape its pomade. The snow had already caught on some strands, decorating him in fragile crystalline majesty. “What?” He asked.

Mac felt his heart swell, his eyes stinging. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met,” he whispered. “I wish I could marry you again.”

Booker’s lips parted, stunned. His ears and cheeks were already pink from the cold, but Mac could have sworn they darkened with a blush.

He walked back down, his response the softest kiss Mac had ever felt.

“It’s never too early to renew our vows,” Booker said tenderly.

Mac smiled. “I would love that.”

The front door swung open, and a young girl flew out and crashed into both of them. “Adrian! Ricky! Happy New Year’s!”

The men both looked up at the tired Dupont, leaning in the doorway. He shrugged. “She refused to sleep until you two came home. Who was I to tell her no?”

Mac and Booker looked at each other, and then down at the girl. With a silent agreement, Booker picked her up, holding her between them.

They hugged her tightly.

“Happy New Year’s, Nora,” Booker and Mac said together.

The snow swirled around them all as they headed into the house, and the future.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Something Old, Something New (Something Broken and Bitter, Too)

Another Sybil and Angel fic, from Lancer! I have a lot of brainrot abt these two OCs of mine. They're both very horribly broken people, and I love them for it.

The warnings on this one are incredibly intense. This is not a light read. I'm kicking off their stories, which requires me to start somewhere, and this is the kindest place for them to start.

So! Trigger Warnings: mentions of physical violence, physical violence, choking, disfigurement, mentions of suicidal thoughts, concussions, emetophobia, mentions of abuse, light medical malpractice.

You've been warned. This fic is mostly for me, although I know a few friends of mine are interested and I'm always happy to chat about my OCs.

Sybil uses he/him pronouns, Angel uses he/they pronouns.

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

He found what he was looking for in a waste freighter.

The smell of garbage was already enough to make him want to gag, let alone wading in it.

The moment he saw those golden curls though, spilling out amongst rotting vegetables and trash like a mockery of an oil spill, he knew.

Sybil forced himself further through it.

“Horizon, get prepared for evac. Set coordinates for Ulyana’s place.”

[[Yes, father. Coordinates set.]]

He took a deep breath and shoved his hands down into the mess.

Thankfully, the body was still warm. With a strained grunt, he yanked it out, hands hooked under the armpits.

This smell was too much. He dropped the body, whirling away to throw up what little he’d eaten.

“Ra below,” he whispered. “What did they do to you?”

The body didn’t respond. The chest barely rose and fell, the only sign of life.

He forced himself to pick it back back up, dragging it away. The freighter driver looked away.

[[There are still signs of life, though he’s in critical condition.]]

“I know,” Sybil grunted. “He’ll live. But he won’t ever be the same. Whatever this is is to thank for that.”

[[Composition reads - acid. Simple, basic, but succinct. A point was made.]]

“Fucking KTB. Open up, Horizon. Let’s get him to someone who can help him.”

A wealth of Russian swearing was Sybil’s reward.

“You better pay me good for this, Simon,” Ulyana hissed. “Damn KTB scum better not come to my doorstep-”

“They won’t,” he interrupted, helping drag the body inside. “They threw him into a waste freighter, Ulya. Clearly, they didn’t want him anymore. Now fucking fix him.”

She muttered obscenities as they dragged the body onto the table, shouting for her assistants.

“Go sit outside. I’ll make sure your little girlfriend stays alive.”

Sybil made a rude gesture in return.

[[We have been waiting for quite some time.]]

“I know,” Sybil muttered. His knee bounced impatiently. “That amount of damage isn't easy to fix, kiddo.”

[[Why would they cover his face in acid? His flesh cannot withstand it.]]

He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Behind his eyelids, Angel’s damaged face played over and over again, a stark reminder of how fucked the KTB could be. “Fuck if I know. That's what I intend to find out. Maybe wipe some shitheads off the map.”

[[Are we going hunting, then?]]

“Not right away. But eventually. These hunts move slowly. Need to be cautious.” He stared at the doors.

Ulyana’s place was odd even without it being located on an asteroid. The entire building had an organic design, pieces of its housing anchored only by thick chains to keep pieces from floating off into the atmosphere.

If he wasn't mistaken, one of them was an unprimed breaching charge.

The double doors were done in paneled opaque glass, brightly colored and bubbled to obscure the interior.

“She's gotta be done soon,” he mumbled.

As if on queue, the doors flew open.

“He'll make it,” Ulyana said off-handedly, stripping her gloves and throwing them in the trash. “If he wants his face back, he'll have to go to some designer clinic, though. I'm not qualified.”

“Thanks, Ulya,” Sybil sighed. An invoice popped up on his device, and he paid it.

“As soon as your girlfriend’s awake, get out. I know what you said, but I don't want to risk it.”

She turned, yelling something at her assistants. They scurried around like rats while she led him inside.

The patient lay on a bed in a side room. The stark irony of his golden hair like a halo around him, his face bandaged to the point of obscuring his identity.

Bitter irony, that it would make it easier to hide him from his enemies.

“When will he wake?”

“Eh,” Ulyana supplied helpfully. “Anywhere from half an hour to a day. They intended for him to die as painfully as possible, or live a life of agony. I did what I could.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “You're free to stay in this room. You know what I said.”

Ulya left with those words, leaving him staring down at the body.

Angel’s eyes were closed

Sybil grabbed a chair, bringing it to the bedside.

[[We'll find who did this.]]

“I know,” he whispered. “But it won't change what's already happened. Angel’s got a long road ahead of him.”

He woke up to a scalpel pressed against his throat.

Honestly it was hardly the first time. One didn't work in a career like his without getting their life threatened five or twenty times.

The marked difference was the figure standing over him, blood seeping into their bandages from damaged tear ducts.

Sybil stayed perfectly still. “It's me, Azrael,” he said evenly. “It's Simon. I pulled you out of a waste freighter.”

“Why?” came their shaky voice. “Should've left me for dead.”

Despite the emotional turmoil, their hand was as steady as ever.

“You know me,” he replied. “Don't like owing favors.”

A sharp, cold laugh forced its way out of Angel’s throat. “Then you should have done me a favor and ended it.”

The dim light made it hard to see the full extent of Angel’s expression, the lights turned low to mimic nighttime.

“Well, you know me,” he said softly. “Always fond of making stupid decisions.”

A sob ripped its way out of their throat. “You couldn't have just done it. Couldn't have just ended it, let me be, let me go-!”

Hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing as tightly as they could. Stars appeared in his vision as he struggled to breathe, their grip just weak enough to allow snatches of air through.

Sybil met Angel’s eyes steadily. If this was his end, so be it.

[[You are under attack. Should I retaliate?]]

With the last vestiges of his strength, he forced out a firm “No.”

Angel’s hands released him. He didn't know whether it was the words not meant for them or something else, but sweet air rushed back into his lungs all the same.

Coughing, Sybil looked up at him. Even here, he felt the same. The same rage coursed through those eyes as the day they had met in training.

This time, however, there was no tightly held leash. It was free to tear the throat out of whoever it wished.

“I hate you, Simon,” Angel whispered, reaching for something behind him.

A flash of silver, and it was lights out.

[Rebooting…]

[Systems Online.]

[Warning! Head Trauma Detected. Medical Treatment Advised.]

Sybil coughed, jerking as he came to consciousness.

Hands grasped at him, gently pulling him up into a sitting position.

Instantly, the room swam, the nurse’s face warping and causing a wealth of nausea.

A tray was shoved under his mouth mere moments before he vomited.

He'd done enough of this for at least a month.

“Your girlfriend didn't appreciate your kindness, eh?”

Ulyana’s voice was wickedly amused, making him glare at the twisting image of her.

“Ulya…”

She snorted. “Be glad my assistant found you. Victoria’s sharp as a tack.”

The nurse blushed prettily, nodding at him before leaving the room.

Sybil groaned. “Did he leave? He can't have, there wasn't-”

“Stole one of my ships,” she interrupted sharply. “You're lucky it was just a transit vehicle. He couldn't have gone very far, and you still have time to recover it before you have to pay me for it.”

Grimacing, he rubbed his face. Knowing his resourceful friend, Angel had already stripped the damn thing for parts and sold it off. A fruitless endeavor.

“Just send me another invoice. For this treatment and the ship.”

Ulyana scoffed, tapping at a screen. “You're lucky you pay well, Simon.”

“I'm lucky I get paid well,” he muttered in turn. Sybil swung his feet over the edge of the bed, gagging as the room turned.

Instantly, he was shoved back down on the bed.

She glared at him, her hands on her hips. “You're a paying customer. Stay down. Your friend already has a head start on you, and I'll be damned if anyone learns I didn't treat you properly.”

Sybil threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. “Thank you, Ulya.”

She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “You're welcome. Idiot.”

[[I have placed a tracker on the ship, father. Angel’s approximate location is registered for whenever you are ready to begin.]]

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Ulyana smacked him, making him groan. “You already said that.”

He didn't bother to correct her.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Codex Entry: A letter stained with tears, carefully preserved

Alternate title: To Emmrich, in Case of Death

-------

Vhenan-

This is a horribly depressing letter to have to think about.

Right now you're in your room, we've just fought, and the only thing I can think of is how broken it would feel if I died after this.

If we never get the chance to reconcile.

So right here, right now-

I love you. Ar lath ma, ma vhenan.

I'd write it down in all the languages I know, all those words I learned to speak to every kind of dead that graces the Necropolis’s halls, but it would take far too much room.

Fourteen years ago, I was a newly minted Watcher, crying in the memorial gardens over the anniversary of the Fifth Blight, when so many of my people died in the alienage.

And you were the kind person who sat down beside me, held my hand, and didn't tell me everything would be alright.

Instead, you confessed your fear of death. A well-respected professor who I'd never met, admitting weakness.

Reminding me that I wasn't alone in my grief, in my terror. That anyone could be afraid and still live despite it.

Of course, the crush I formed on you then was entirely inappropriate - you're my senior by a wealth of years. Don't scoff, my love, you'll add more wrinkles to your face, and I won't be there to kiss them.

Entirely cruel of you.

However, years went by, my attachment remained, and after everything, it was Bellara who brought you back to my side. She is the brightest and best of us, as I'm sure you know.

Make sure to remind her every day.

Our journey together has made that silly little crush bloom into a roaring love, burning so brightly and intensely that I cannot help but feel it consume my breath every time you look my way.

I know you were terrified, you know. “Reviewing your assets” dearest Vhenan of mine, I know you've already triple-checked to make sure everything is in place when you go, and that Myrna and Vorgoth already have a copy.

I may be a meathead, but I'm not quite that oblivious.

It's heartbreaking, this knowledge that you might outlive me. I am always in the front lines. I am a warrior, and at the end of the day, I'm who must go down first before you.

But I would do it gladly, and please do not hate me for it. It is an honor.

In my absence, please have Davrin lead. I know he'll be good at it. He's a phenomenal Warden, and his head is more firmly attached to his shoulders than mine ever was. Guide him, please. I trust your wisdom.

Tell Manfred I love him every day, long past when he learns to say the words himself. I'm so proud of him.

I'm so proud of you.

And - should my remains be recovered, or whatever is left of me, bury me next to my sister. I spent years picking that plot as per her request, might as well enjoy it with her.

I love you, Emmrich Volkarin. With every breath, with every beat of my heart, with every contraction of my lungs. You've rooted yourself firmly into my flesh, and I would be loath to continue breathing without you.

Cast our argument aside. I do not hate you for it.

Eternally yours, our spirits walking hand in hand,

Ghil'danan Ingellvar.

P.S. -

Hezenkoss hates Scotch Broom. It made her break out in hives. Please place some near her skull when she's being a shit, just for me.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

A Bar Called Nephilim

Another set of people that I'm quietly feral abt, although Angel's personality is newer than Sybil's.

Mac and Booker are my feel-good hurt/comfort duo.

These two are my death besties.

Actually I intended for Angel to have a much warmer, sweeter personality than this, but he said "Hey no. I'm full of cold viciousness. Hell hath no fury and all that."

Anyway, enough rambling. Have my Considerably Worse Lancer Duo, because I had brainrot at 3:30am.

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

“Someone came back.”

Sybil took a drag of his cigarette, watching it wind through the air as he glanced over.

“You sound surprised, Angel.”

A derisive snort was his response, gold tipped nails wrapping around his shoulders like knives.

“Hardly. I'm the only one who knows you from before, after all. Your only friend.”

He took another drag before putting it out, setting the cigarette aside.

“My only friend died when he got caught sleeping with the boss’s son, last I recall.”

The claws detached from his shoulder, stilettos clicking across the wooden floors.

A lazy gesture to the bartender had a glass placed on the oak bar within moments, its contents swirling in the low light.

“There's no one here. Expecting me?”

Angel picked up the glass, examining the liquid before swallowing. He leaned back against the bar with a sinful grace, golden hair spilling across its surface.

He'd once been the most beautiful companion in the universe. Attached to someone of value in the KTB.

Now, he ran a bar in a spaceport in the middle of nowhere, and his acid scars kept all but the most persistent away.

Sybil being one of them.

“You know I know everything that goes on in my port,” Angel replied lazily. “The moment you and that thing of yours-”

The chair creaked as Sybil’s hands tightened on the armrest.

Angel smiled toothily. “Sorry. Your daughter. The moment you two hit the landing pad, I cleared my schedule. And here we are.” They gestured to the room. It was far classier than any backwater spaceport had any right to be, the entire place done in gorgeous dark woods and sinfully deep reds.

Low lit for privacy, of course.

Sybil stared unflinchingly at him. “Then you know what I need.”

Angel snapped his fingers. The bartender leaned over the bar, gold nails grabbing their jaw and pulling them close.

He never broke eye contact, even as his lips moved quietly.

The bartender nodded, taking the empty glass and leaving.

Arching a brow, Sybil leaned back in his chair. “The two of us alone? Whatever will your people think?”

“Nothing, if they want their tongues still attached. I've started a board by the port access.” Angel walked closer, a lioness stalking his prey.

Sybil grimaced. “I saw. It's foul-smelling.” He spread his legs, making room for the other man to plop neatly into his lap.

“Good. That means it'll be more noticable.” Angel fiddled with his tie, undoing it and redoing a complex knot against Sybil's throat.

Black eyes with a golden halo flicked between their work and his face.

“The job’s simple, this time,” Angel replied airily. “Cleanup for Harrison. Rats chewing the wires in the server rooms, or so I hear.”

Sybil swallowed against the knot. It was tighter, pressing into his adam’s apple firmly.

A trinity knot. Far too fancy for someone of his status.

“And the pay?”

Angel smoothed the tie flat, patting it affectionately. “I wouldn't skimp you. Harrison’s paying a pretty penny. They expect discretion, though. As always.” He jumped up, tapping a device on his wrist.

Sybil’s pocket dinged, and he sighed. “Break time's over, then. Horizon and I will get on it.” Slowly he rose, his joints cracking as he stretched. A loud pop made him sigh pleasantly.

“Leaving already?” Angel teased. “People will think I'm easy.”

With a snort, Sybil grabbed his cigarette. “Or that I'm quick. Not like I give a shit. Thanks for the job, Azrael.”

Angel grinned. “Anytime, Simon. Come play again soon. I miss having someone who can keep up with me in a fight.”

Sybil waved lazily, grabbing his pack by the door.

As he stepped out into the yellowing fluorescent lights of the spaceport, he glanced back.

“Don't get up to too much trouble.”

He closed the door on cold, predatory eyes.

[basket-of-cats-and-witches]

Conversations at the Fireplace

Another Lancer fic, another look at shit behind the scenes. Again featuring Booker and Mac, my beloveds.

I'm enjoying the shit getting stirred on the RP blog, and this is partially a culmination of events there, as well as a teaser of a character I've yet to properly introduce. This is NOT an RP piece (as this is not my RP blog), it's just some good fic I wrote while watching Christmas movies with my family.

Happy Holigays, and Merry Mechmas!

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The fireplace ran low, illuminating the room in an amber glow.

“Brooding?”

Heavy footfalls sounded Booker’s approach towards the couch.

Mac rolled his head back, glass in hand.

“No,” he said tiredly.

The fireplace crackled and popped. Booker raised a brow.

Mac sighed, glancing back at it. Strands of light caught his black curls, sliding forward to frame his face as he frowned.

“Yes,” he admitted quietly.

Perching on the edge of the couch, Booker ran a finger along Mac’s jaw. “You know it wouldn't have succeeded. Haven't you tried this before?”

“It worked on you,” Mac said, his attempts at being playful falling short.

Booker snorted. “I was desperate for it. And not to mention, you wormed your way into my heart stubbornly. There was an opportunity there, and you took it. Zero isn't the same.”

With a sigh, Mac took his hand, pressing it to his lips with a sigh.

He glanced up at Booker with wide, dark eyes. Beseeching him.

With a smile, Booker slipped down onto the couch properly. “You're annoyingly hard to resist, you know,” he murmured softly.

“It's part of my charm. I annoy you into submission.” Mac adjusted until they were pressed together in front of the fire, his head settled on Booker’s chest.

Another crackle.

Another pop.

Outside, the wind howled, smattering the windowsill with wet snow.

Under the gentle guidance of Booker’s steadily thumping heart, Mac spoke up.

“I'm sorry you had to get involved.”

Booker’s arms tightened around him. The smell of expensive sandalwood and brown sugar cologne surrounded him, providing a soothing aura.

“I'm your husband,” Booker said gruffly. “It's my job. Besides, if he's going to involve Khione, then you have the right to involve me. Zero’s well aware I can wipe the fucking floor with him.” There was a snarl in his voice.

Mac’s lips twitched. “Down, boy. I did this to myself.”

“He could at least have appreciated the damn cookies. Bending myself so low to say they're ‘not as good as store-bought’. They're a fucking delicacy, and had he tasted them, he would've realized how much he was missing out.” Booker pouted, making his husband laugh.

“Oh, baby.” Mac patted his chest. “Nora and I appreciated them.”

“Hmmph.” He sulked. “Prat.”

A sound made them both look up.

Coming down the stairs was a tiny girl, looking much younger than her eleven years, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “What are you two still doing up?”

“Complaining,” Mac said wryly. Booker elbowed him.

“Better question. Why are you up?” Quirking a brow at her, the girl reddened. She pulled her long hair over her shoulder.

“I kept sleeping on it,” she mumbled. “Could you braid it, Adrian?”

He froze. “Uh.”

“Of course he can,” Mac intercepted smoothly. “Come here.” He ignored the look shot at him by his husband, sitting up.

The girl stepped carefully closer. She still glanced around the space nervously, as if someone would come and take her away. Her nightgown hung off of her like a sack. It was the only thing they could find that would fit her.

Booker made space for her, spreading his knees so she could plop down on the floor. The barcode on her neck was stark even in the dim light, as if it was meant to be seen no matter the conditions.

“I’ve got you,” Mac said, reaching into a side drawer and pulling out one of Mira’s many hair ties. “Just follow my lead, Dri.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Booker muttered quietly.

Mac nodded. “I used to do my sisters’ hair when we were younger. At least until Dad - Arson - deemed it ‘unmanly’.”

“What’s unmanly mean?” The girl asked, tilting her head back to look at him curiously.

“Look forward, please. And don’t worry. Unmanly is one of those words that mean nothing.” Booker gathered her hair, following Mac’s pointers.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she complained.

Booker snorted. “You’d be surprised at how many things don’t,” he muttered.

It was Mac’s turn to elbow him, catching just who Booker was thinking of. “Don’t worry about it, Nora. He’s just grumpy. Now, grumpypants, split the strands into three…”

With a sigh, Booker continued.

In the warm light of the fireplace, the three of them distracted themselves from the worries of the outside world. From old acquaintances, to enemies, to dark clouds on the horizon.

A promise of what was yet to come.