#blood and gold snippet

[obsidianpen]

Bellatrix Lestrange.

“No—no!”

Hermione felt heat licking up her spine, scouring her skin. The ropes caught fire; Lily yelped and jumped back; everyone shouted and raised their wands. Hermione shouted and twisted and pushed at her now burning constraints, forcing them apart despite how they burned her; she would not, they would not—no, no, no—

Flowers.

Hermione stretched both arms above her head, yawning as she she did. She looked about the flourishing field. Wild roses. Balsams. Ten-week stocks. Citronella flowers. Forget-me-nots. Zinnas. All the butterflies were white.

Hm, Hermione thought as she laid there. The sun was warm on her skin; she closed her eyes and sighed happily. This is all I want, she thought. To lay in the sunshine.

Just as she had the thought, a shadow crossed her face. Annoyed, Hermione opened her eyes again.

A boy.

He was sitting beside her, still as carved marble. His hair was black and his skin was white. He was facing the sun, but when Hermione shifted to better see his face, she saw that his eyes were closed.

“Can you move?” Hermione grumbled. 

The boy didn’t move; in fact, he was so still that Hermione was beginning to think he really was a statue. 

“Please?” Hermione said sharply.

The boy drew in a deep breath through his nose. “Will you ever stop haunting me?” he said, so quietly Hermione could barely hear him. His eyes remained closed, and he kept his face turned away from her, toward the sun. He wasn’t moving.

“Well, I might,” Hermione responded, “if you stop blocking the sun already.”

At this, the boy came to life. He turned and looked at Hermione, who was still pinned beneath his shadow. He looked absurdly surprised; his dark eyes were huge, and though his lips were parted, he appeared speechless.

“Well?” Hermione said. “Move, please. I was here first. I… think.”

The boy didn’t seem to be listening. He continued to stare at her in blatant shock. Slowly, almost fearfully, like he thought she might run away if he moved too fast, he reached for her. His hand was shaking.

“…Hermione…?” he whispered. 

His fingers hovered over hers, were on the precipice of taking her hand in his—

“Wakey, wakey, ickle mudblood.”

[garden-galaxytree]

Percy wakes up.

He’s covered in cold sweat and he runs to the bathroom and vomits.

After he decides to take a walk.

It’s early in the morning, just late enough to not be eaten by the harpies, but then again, Percy would fillet them if they tried. The sun had barely risen and all the Demigods were still asleep for the most part, still exhausted from the Battle, and from all the recent additions to camp and building everything for them.

“You would think the Hero of Olympus would be enjoying his beauty sleep.” A curious voice drawled from the porch of the big house.

“Mr. D.”

“Peter. It’s unlike you to be up so early.”

“Didn’t think you cared enough to notice.”

“Good to know the lack of sleep hasn’t affected your attitude. Nico told me about dreams of yours, why don’t you sit here for a bit. Not too long though.” The wine god said with a faint smile on his face. The war finally being over clearly made Mr. D feel better.

“So you can remember his name?” Percy complained but sat in a chair.

The silence drew on. It became awkward as Mr. D raised an eyebrow at him and slowly lowered his card.

“...The war affected us all, Percy Jackson. "Mr. D. says pointedly. "You in particular. You always had ah, shall we say an unique connection to the elder Titan-”

Flashes of gold, grains, sand in an hourglass-

“- And many campers were affected by the war. I would know as the God of Insanity as well. These dreams are likely remnants of the divine energy of the prophecy being completed.”

Mr. D shuffles his cards. With his godly, pudgy, hands. Once the hands of a mortal.

"What do gods dream of?" Percy wonders.

Percy feels the heaviness of Mr. D.'s gaze and he turns to look. It feels like the first time he met the god, twelve and grieving, and feeling the weight of purple insanity. Percy realizes that he could have shared Mr. D's fate, a demi-god that ascended.

"Do gods dream the same dreams as mortals?" Percy asks quietly.

"...No." Mr. D. says, the single syllable carrying several emotions, chief among them longing, grief, and nostalgia. "We have no need for sleep, and dreams are often the workings of fate-the domain of mortals, if they ever had one." Percy can't believe Mr. D. sounds wistful! "I...find myself missing it, almost."

Percy is frozen solid.

He thinks of his own dreams.

Were they his own?

“Do you think Kronos was insane?” Percy blurts out.

Silence.

The air seems to cool. The windchimes slowly clank together, a piece of paper skitters past in the wind, his heart beats loudly.

“...An interesting question. I am fortunate to never have met him personally, but wherever bits of his presence lingered, I detected irrationality, and yes, even some insanity. A functional lunatic, if you will. None of that matters now of course. He’s scattered so severely after dying a second time not even the elder gods with all their power could scrape him back together. His divinity is just too faint. I would suggest you quit worrying and be glad it’s all over. It’s unhealthy for a mind to ruminate.”

- Percy Jackson, Gold Heart, Chapter 1: Our Family End Of The World Road Trip

[alwayssassydreamer]

Show Me Your Desire

A/N: so since I've been sick for almost two weeks now I didn't get a whole story done and only managed to scribble some short snippets down and this is the result of me experimenting. I have never done something like this before so here's to the first try. You can thank @hakiofdreams for the character selection and the idea. Its basically one scenario for 5 different characters. Oh and sorry if I messed Lucci, Mihawk and Zoro up I usually don't write for them (and please no more requests for Mihawk and Lucci)

Plot: you ate the Yoku Yoku No Mi - the desire desire devil fruit - that shows you glimpses of someones deepest desires when you touch them. Therefore you made sure to avoid touches and insight into those personal moments. But during a conference things get out of hand.

Warnings: none really, sfw, maybe some slight tinie tiny bit of angst, not proofread and I'm really sorry if it sucks 🙈

Characters: Law; Zoro; Sir Crocodile; Lucci; Mihawk (all separately) x GnReader

Crocodile:

You hadn’t meant to touch him.

The conference room was full of killers, and you had stayed quiet, unreadable as you were told because that was your strength. You were a broker one of the only women allowed in this blood-soaked circle, not because of strength, but because you knew when to keep your damn mouth shut.

Except for when your fingers grazed his.

It had been a fleeting moment someone bumped your chair, your balance faltered, and your hand caught the edge of the armrest next to you. Except it wasn’t empty. Crocodile was already seated there, cigar in hand, gold hook resting on the table.

You touched his skin.

And everything shifted.

The vision hit like a freight ship.

You stood on a sandstorm-swept cliff, wind howling like a banshee. Crocodile was in front of you, bleeding, furious but not at you. "Don’t you dare - don’t you fucking dare leave me," he growled. You took a staggering step toward him. He grabbed your hand pressed his forehead to yours. "You’re all I have left."

And then it was over.

Your fingers recoiled like you’d been burned. Crocodile glanced at you sharply. The eye contact was brief, but he noticed. Of course he noticed. His gaze sharpened, a predator smelling a shift in the wind.

You forced yourself to look away. Pretended to jot notes but your hand, it trembled.

Later that night you were alone on the balcony of the summit villa, nursing a glass of wine and a headache. The sea below was black and endless and you were too lost in thoughts to hear him approach.

"You touched me."

You didn’t look back. “I lost my balance.”

Crocodile exhaled smoke behind you. It curled over your shoulder like a living thing.

"You saw something."

Silence.

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch but enough that you felt it. His presence was heavy, charged.

"Your Devil Fruit," he said slowly. "The rumors are true."

You turned then, eyes meeting his. "You were warned not to touch me."

His lips curled into something like a smirk but there was no humor in it. "I don’t fear little parlor tricks, little flower."

"It’s not a trick. I saw your desire."

You watched his expression and saw a flicker of tension, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

You went on anyway. "You don’t want power. Or revenge. You want….someone."

He flicked ash over the railing. "Lust is human." he said calmly, unimpressed even.

"It wasn’t lust."

Now he looked at you fully. Dark eyes, smoldering with something far more dangerous than anger.

"Then you saw too much." Was all he said before he walked away again.

The days that followed were hell.

Crocodile made sure to stay out of "touching range", but he hovered, always in your periphery. Always watching.

You felt it in the way your skin prickled. The way he lingered too long in every meeting. The way he said your name, like it was a secret he refused to keep.

And worse, the way he looked at you now was not indifferent.

You saw it, a piece of him no one else did. Something he buried deep under years of blood and sand and arrogance.

That made you dangerous.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about that vision. Not just what he wanted, but how desperately he wanted it. How broken and raw his voice had been when he said it.

"You’re all I have left."

The breaking point came the next night in the garden.

It was late. You were alone again - or so you thought.

"You don’t sleep much."

You turned. "And you don’t leave me alone." You said glaninc briefly at him.

He looked tired. Less composed. Shirt open at the throat. Cigar forgotten.

"Why?" you asked. "Why do you keep circling me like a hawk?"

"Because you took something from me," he said vpice low as he stepped closer to you.

"What?" You asked blinking confused.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached out and this time, he touched you on purpose. Bare fingers, sliding along yours.

Another vision hit:

You, standing in the rain, bloodied, but alive. Him, cupping your cheek with his flesh hand, thumb caressing your skin. His hook protectively at your back like an oath. "I’ll protect you. Even if it kills me."

You gasped as the vision ended.

He didn’t let go. "You saw what I didn’t want anyone to know," he murmured. "That I’m tired of pretending I feel nothing."

"Why me?" you asked voice trembling, body shaking.

A beat of silence.

"Because you didn’t flinch," he said. "Even now, you look at me like I’m still a man."

"Are you?" you asked voice cracking

His lips twitched. "Would it matter?"

You didn’t answer just looked at him and he leaned in. Foreheads so close, breaths warm and mingling.

"You scare the hell out of me," you whispered.

"Good," he said. "That makes us even."

And then he closed the gap between you two. The kiss was a mistake, it was desperate, messy. Like trying to drown a fire and you pushed him away the first time. He let you, smirking, but not too far.

The second kiss wasn’t a mistake as you pulled him back giving in to the temptation, the desire, the need.

They said you tamed a monster.

They were wrong.

He was still a monster.

But now, when he burned the world, he burned it for you.

And when his enemies came too close, they didn’t face a sandstorm.

They faced a man willing to destroy the world just to keep your hands from shaking.

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Mihawk:

You stood in a candle-lit hall surrounded by the most dangerous men on the Grand Line, playing the part of a neutral mediator.

You didn’t expect him to be there or well maybe you did but you had just hoped he wouldn’t.

Dracule Mihawk. The Greatest Swordsman. Dressed in black and crimson, leaning against the far wall like a painting come to life.

He radiated silence. Precision. Control.

You made a point to avoid him after your last encounters with him. But fate didn’t care about your plans.

The chaos began when someone bumped into you, a minor captain, flailing, spilling wine.

You stumbled back and straight into Mihawk.

A bare hand caught your wrist. Just for a second.

And that was all it took for the vision hit you like a blade.

You, barefoot in his castle. Dressed in silk. Standing in front of a fire, wrapped in his coat. Mihawk behind you, eyes unreadable, fingers brushing your jaw. "Stay," he murmured in the dream. It was the most intimate thing you had ever seen from anyone, especially him.

And when you jolted back to reality, his gaze locked on you like he knew.

You quickly pulled away. "I-I’m fine, I’m sorry," you muttered, voice brittle.

He said nothing. But his stare lingered too long.

Later that night, you found yourself alone in the garden beneath the moonlight, trying to slow your racing heart. He found you again, silent as shadow.

"You saw something," Mihawk said, voice low and cutting. Not a question. A fact.

Your mouth went dry.

"I didn’t mean to," you admitted. "It only happens with skin contact."

"Interesting," he replied, stepping closer. "And what did you see?"

You looked up at him. His expression was unreadable. Cold, calculating… but something flickered behind his eyes. Hope? Fear? Annoyance?

"You were… home," you said carefully. "At peace."

That was not entirely a lie. But it also wasn't the whole truth.

But he accepted it. Barely.

"Keep your distance from now on," he said. "I don’t need you reading my mind."

"You think I want to?" you snapped. "I see things I never asked for. Every handshake, every shove, every accidental brush…..it’s a flood of everyone’s secrets. Do you know what that feels like?"

Mihawk’s expression didn’t change.

But his voice softened just slightly. "No. But I understand the cost of power."

He left before you could answer.

Over the next days, he avoided you. And you avoided him.

Except when you didn’t.

He lingered longer during briefings. Sat closer at the table. Your eyes met too often to be coincidence.

And then, it happened again.

A thunderstorm cracked over the island. You slipped on the rain-slick stone and someone caught you…….him again.

The vision rushed in.

You, in his castle again, dinner together, candles lit, a glass of wine before you, untouched because you were busy……kissing him, like it was the end of the world.

You jerked back, breathless, trembling.

He didn’t let go.

"Tell me," he said.

Your voice shook. "You want something you think you’re not allowed to have."

"Because it’s dangerous," he whispered. "Because I always win. And I’m afraid I’d ruin you."

You looked up, and your heart cracked open like a wound.

"Then stop touching me," you said. "Or stop pretending you don’t care."

The summit ended with deals were made and for once no blood spilled. But he didn’t leave.

He found you at the edge of the cliffside the next night. Wind in your hair. Sand crunching beneath your boots.

"I don’t know how to love gently," he said.

You turned. "I don’t need gentle. I need real."

Mihawk reached for you, slowly this time, and you let him. His fingers brushed your cheek, and the vision didn’t hit you like a wave.

This time, it bloomed.

It showed a future. A choice he had made. Not a fantasy, not a secret longing, just him, choosing you.

And for once, you saw your own desire reflected back.

When the vision ended, he looked down at you and he kissed you, it wasn’t fire. It wasn’t war. It was something infinitely more dangerous.

Surrender – him giving in to his desire.

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Lucci:

Lucci sat across from you now at a round conference table. He was silent, unreadable, flanked by the pigeon that watched you just as closely as its master. You kept your gloves on. You’ve heard the stories about CP0’s attack dog. Stoic. Merciless. Efficient.

Everytime you crossed paths with him you were surprised all over with how beautiful he was.

Not soft, never that. But there was a deadly grace in his stillness, the way his eyes rested like the flat of a blade on your skin. It was a look that said he knew what you were. What you were hiding.

You were extra careful. Until the second day of negotiations.

It happened fast. A flash of chaos during the midday meeting, two idiots broke into an argument, and someone flipped the table. You were shoved sideways, stumbling, and reaching out blindly to steady yourself.

Your bare hand crashed into Lucci’s wrist.

Shit.

Your world snapped away and the vision flashed before your eyes, flooding your senses.

Red silk sheets and low candlelight. Lucci was leaning against the headboard, half undressed, but it was not the lust that stole your breath, it was the quiet. You were there, beside him. Sleeping against his chest like you belonged there, his arm around you, watching you, like he was afraid you’d vanish. A calloused hand brushed a strand of hair from your face with infinite care, and in that moment, Lucci, the monster, the cipher, the assassin, looked more vulnerable than anyone you’ve ever seen. He wanted peace. He wanted you. And he’d never allow himself either.

The vision collapsed.

You ripped your hand back like you’ve been burned. Lucci’s expression didn’t change. Not one fraction.

But he knew.

You saw it.

After that you avoided him for the rest of the day. You sat far away from him instead, engaging in dry trade debates you barely heared. But Lucci was never far. Every time you glanced up, he was there in the corner, always watching. Not speaking. Not moving.

You dreamt of the vision that night. Of his hand brushing your cheek. Of a silence that felt like safety only to wake up breathless.

The next morning, he cornered you.

Not roughly, he simply appeared in the hallway outside your suite, leaning against the wall like he belonged there. The hallway was empty and the air was sharp with frost.

"I won’t ask what you saw," he said, his voice low and even, making you tense.

"But I would like to know," he added, stepping forward, "why it disturbed you."

Your throat tightened. "You touched me," you said carefully. "I don’t like that."

"You touched me," he corrected. "The reaction wasn’t fear. It was pity."

That hit a nerve. "So now you read minds too?" You asked a little harshly.

"No," he said, "just yours."

You wanted to deny it. You wanted to insult him. But his tone wasn’t cruel it was…..curious. Cautious, even.

"It’s dangerous for people to know what others want," he grumbled tilting his head, making you clench your fists. "Especially when what they want is you."

The silence between you was suffocating. Your heart hammered behind your ribs like it was trying to escape. "It doesn’t matter," you whispered. "You’ll never act on it."

He took one slow step forward. "You’re right." He said bluntly.

His presence was overwhelming, an aura of silent dominance, raw and coiled. But there was a strange gentleness to it now. A restraint that rattled you more than any threat could.

"You didn’t see a fantasy," he murmured. "You saw a possibility. That’s what’s dangerous."

And with that, he left.

The summit ended with a treaty. You should have felt relieved but instead you felt hollow.

You caught Lucci watching you again as the final ships left the port. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, those dark, unblinking eyes, held something you now understood.

Need. Not obsession, not hunger. Just Need.

You found a note tucked into your room before you left.

"You saw me unarmed. No one else ever has. That should frighten you. But if it doesn’t, come find me. I’ll be waiting. —R.L."

You didn’t sleep that night, you just sat with the letter in your lap, fingers trembling above your gloves.

You’ve always feared touch. But now? You feared the idea of never being touched by him again and so you decided to go after him.

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Zoro:

The room reeked of tension, gunpowder, old grudges, and barely veiled threats. It was supposed to be neutral ground, a temporary truce between pirate factions to discuss territory lines, enjoy the rum and food and make trades and deals. You didn’t trust any of it or them. Especially not the Straw Hats swordsman leaning against the wall like he owned the air around him.

Roronoa Zoro.

You had heard the stories, demon of the East Blue, three swords, no tolerance for weakness. You even saw him once in action and after that had maybe 2 or 3 run ins with him but that was it.

You expected cold glares and muscle-bound not his eyes to linger on you.

So when you handed him some documents for his Captain, Zoro’s hand briefly met yours and you froze as the vision set in slamming into you like cannon fire making your knees buckle under the force of it:

You - bloody, breathing hard, standing between Zoro and a faceless enemy. Your back to him, a sword in your hand, and defiance in your voice. “You’ll go through me first.” His hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you away out of danger not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak but because he wanted to protect you to be your shield, to keep you from harm. And then it shifted…..you, in a quiet moment, tucked beside him. Sleeping. His hand buried in your hair, body curled protectively around you, eyes closed but still guarding. He didn’t just want your body. He wanted to protect you, he wanted your loyalty. Your fire. Your presence. He wanted you – all of you.

When you blinked, the vision snapped away. The noise around you from the other pirates was still there. No one noticed, no one paid attention. Except Zoro himself.

His gaze had sharpened and you pulled your hand back fast. Too fast, causing his brow to furrow.

That night you barely slept. The vision kept replaying in your head – how rare it had been. How genuine.

It made no sense. He barely knew you. Why would his desire involve you bleeding for him? Sleeping beside him? Protecting you like you were something sacred?

The next morning you kept catching him watching you after that. Silent. Focused. Not aggressive, but intense.

And you tried to avoid him…..but he didn’t let you.

"Why did you flinch?" he asked, his voice came out of the shadows while you were walking alone, heading back to the guest quarters. He stepped out from between two buildings like he’d been waiting.

"I didn’t," you lied.

He stared at you, then tilted his head. "You looked like you saw a ghost, when we touched."

"I don’t like being touched," you explained forcing a smile.

"Bullshit," he hissed.

"Why do you care?" you asked inhaling sharply.

Zoro’s mouth opened, but he paused because he didn’t have a snarky answer.

"I don’t know," he said, finally. "But I’ve been thinking about it too damn much."

You saw the storm in his eyes and you knew you shouldn’t but he was just as confused and torn as you were and so you told him your secret.

"The Devil Fruit I ate… shows me what people want. If they touch me." You curled your fingers into your gloves. "I don’t mean surface-level stuff. I mean their deepest desire."

"So… you saw mine?" he asked not blinking.

You nodded once.

He looked away. "What was it?"

"I’m not telling you."

"That bad?"

"No. That personal."

"Then I must’ve looked pathetic." He murmured jaw clenching.

You stepped forward, a little closer to him. "No. That’s the problem. You didn’t."

He looked at you then, really looked. "Then what’s the problem?"

You swallowed hard looking at him before answering. "It made me want it too."

Silence.

"What did you see?" he asked again now more persistent.

Your heart hammered. You reached up, tugged one glove off slowly, deliberately.

“Touch me again and find out.”

He stared but then stepped forward.

His hand lifted and for once, it wasn’t a brush, it was a grasp, fingers curling over yours like he needed to hold something steady. Maybe himself.

And you shared the vision with him:

You. His. In every way that mattered. Fighting back to back. Him protecting you. Sleeping side by side. Arguing and laughing and bleeding and living. The sword at your hip matched his. The way he held you wasn’t lust, it was fierce belonging. You weren’t his weakness. You were his anchor.

He dropped your hand like it burned him and backed away a step, breathing hard.

But this time it was you who took a step closer to him. "I saw you," you whispered. "And I didn’t want to run. I wanted to be in that vision."

He blinked once. Then twice.

And suddenly almost out of nowhere he kissed you.

It wasn’t elegant or practiced. It was the kind of kiss you gave when you didn’t have words, when you had seen something terrifying and beautiful and wanted to make it real.

After that you went with him, to stay close, to make the vision, the desire a reality. You never told the others what your fruit did though. You didn’t need to. Zoro never left your side. He didn’t say much but he didn’t need to.

And he always made sure to touch you, your bare skin because he wanted you to see it, see what he wanted, see what he desired, see how much he wanted you.

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Law

Why the hell were you in a room with infamous pirates, locked in a tense alliance negotiation, and thought it was a good idea to be bare-handed?

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you sat at the circular table. Law was directly across from you, arms folded, sharp eyes watching everything. You had met him once before during a cargo handoff and you were sure he didn't remember that. But you did.

Your fingers brushed a silver coin on the table.

"Keep your hands still," Law said without looking at you.

You froze, embarrassed. His voice was quiet but stern, laced with a kind of quiet authority that made the others look over.

You retracted your hand and folded it in your lap.

"Don’t be so harsh," one of the other pirates muttered at Law with a grin. "She flinched like you growled."

Law didn’t respond. But his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary.

Hours passed. The summit devolved into shouting, threats, and chest-puffing. You remained silent, observing. Calm. Neutral.

Until someone, an impatient mercenary with more ego than brains, tripped behind your chair.

You reached to steady yourself. Your hand flew out and….Law grabbed your wrist.

The world split open and your vision blurred and suddenly you saw his desire.

A cold room. Snow against steel walls. You, panting, drenched, eyes furious. He reached for you, desperate. A plea in his voice. "Don’t walk away. Stay. Just stay this time." You stood your ground, shaking your head, tears in your eyes. "You don’t need me, Law." His hand cupped your jaw. Gentle. Trembling. "I do. I just don’t know how to say it without destroying you."

The vision snapped shut like a trapdoor and you gasped, ripping your arm away, your knees nearly giving out.

Law’s brows furrowed. "What did you see?" He urged to know.

Shit. He knew.

You didn’t say anything just got up and walked out of the room.

You found him later that night on the edge of the island cliff, the ocean churning below like a storm waiting for permission.

"You didn’t answer my question," he said without turning.

You stayed back. "I didn’t think you’d actually know what my power does."

"I make it a point to know what everyone in the room is capable of," he said. "But I didn’t think you’d use it. Thought you were smarter than that."

"I didn’t mean to."

His head tilted slightly, dark hair blowing in the wind. "Then tell me. What did you see?"

You hesitated for a moment eyes shifting towards the ground. "You… asking me to stay."

He went quiet. So did the wind. And the waves in the ocean beneath it seemed.

"And what did you say?" he asked softly.

"I said you didn’t need me."

His laugh was low, bitter. "Typical. Even in my dreams, I drive people away,"

"No," you said quickly. "That wasn’t….It wasn’t like that. You… You were scared of hurting me. That’s not selfish. That’s human."

Law turned towards you, and for the first time, he looked vulnerable.

"I didn’t want you to see that," he said.

"I didn’t want to see it either," you replied, truth cutting between you. "Because now I can’t stop thinking about it."

He began avoiding you after that, making sure to keep his distance. His eyes were colder, calculations behind every word. But it wasn’t hatred, it was fear. You knew too much now. You had seen a version of him he barely admitted to himself.

And you couldn’t forget it.

You saw it in the way he stared at your hands, never touching you again.

In the way he tensed every time you stood near. He hadn’t spoken of the vision since, but you felt it constantly, the weight of possibility, just out of reach.

Until you broke first.

You cornered him one evening, at the medical bay. Just the two of you, surrounded by clean linens and the quiet hum of solitude.

"I can’t keep pretending I didn’t see it," you said. "Didn’t see what you want."

Law leaned against the counter, silent.

"You want someone who stays," you continued, stepping closer. "You want to let someone in. But you don’t know how. And you’re terrified that if you try, you’ll break them. That I’ll break."

His jaw clenched but you kept going. "I’m not afraid of you, Law. I’m afraid of how much I want to reach for you."

His head lifted, eyes sharp. "Don’t," he said firmly.

"Why not?"

"Because I’m already thinking about what I’d do to keep you."

The confession cracked the silence like thunder. He stepped closer, finally, hand raised, not touching, just hovering near your face.

"I’ve spent years pushing people away because it was easier. Cleaner. You saw what I wanted… and now I can’t stop imagining it."

"Then take it," you whispered. "Just don’t lie to yourself anymore."

And for the first time, he touched you willingly.

No vision came.

Because you didn’t need to see his desire anymore.

You already felt it.

[lokischocolatefountain]

Battlefront | At Your Service

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x Empress!Reader Rating: M Word count: 5.3k words Summary: General Acacius returns energized by battle when an unexpected guest makes themselves at home in his tent. Warnings: Historical inaccuracies, some historical accuracies, poor description of battle strategy. A/N: Listen, I know Rome never had a single reigning Empress. But seeing loyal husband Marcus Acacius has made me eschew historical accuracy. If Ridley Scott can have characters reading newspapers before their invention, I can have Marcus Acacius being devoted to his powerful Empress wife. I'm thinking of making it a lose series with snippets of these characters' lives together. Like my Married Javi series. So lmk if there's anything you want to read about them.

“What are you doing here?” 

The sounds of battle still rang in his ears. The strategies he’d laid out playing out in his vision as he sought to identify problems he could have failed to spot. His heart was restless, every beat reminding him how high the stakes were, reminding him that every young man there was his responsibility. And then you appeared. 

Like the brain cooled the body, the sight of you cooled him. 

“You dare ask what I do at my own battlefront?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. He stood in place as you took small steps towards him. He rushed ahead, calling attention to his broad shoulders that narrowed down to his waist. Your pace was wholly inadequate for his liking.

“This is not the battlefront, Caesarea,” he said, stopping in front of you and taking your hand in his. “These are my private quarters.” He bowed and placed a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you from behind soft brown eyes you did not believe capable of inspiring fear until you witnessed him in battle. 

“You forget your place, General. You have no authority to deny me entrance to my husband’s quarters,” you teased. His eyes darkened at your words and the implications they bore. Your relationship had been a delicate one since the two of you left childhood behind. But it was only more so with you on the throne and him the General at your command. 

“If you wish to assert your marital rights at this moment, know I will have to as well,” he warned, his hands itching to be upon you. Unlike his soldiers, Acacius had gone many months without the touch of a woman. Some high ranking officers brought their wives and some indulged in whores. Not Acacius.

“What man asks to claim his marital rights? I believed I belonged to a man who knew what was his and conquered it.” 

It was all he needed to close the distance between you. In an instant, your fearsome general, covered in the blood of enemies and grime of their land he claimed, pulled you to his chest. His large hands engulfed your face. His lips came crashing against yours, desperate and sloppy. You instinctively reached up to one, caressing his rough hand with your soft one. Teeth clashed against each other. Saliva dribbled down his lips, transferring the dried blood on his face to yours. Smearing you with evidence of his devotion. To you and to Rome. 

His hard iron armor covered in leather and embossed with gold dug into your chest in his desperation to feel you. One hand slipped to your neck, holding you in place with the force of a soldier and authority of a husband. His other hand slipped to your hip, rough as he guided you towards the thin mattress on the floor.

“I must have you…” he growled into your ear as his hands groped around through your clothes. He grabbed every part of you he could think of, squeezing as though planting flags on a territory he’d already claimed.

You nodded, the gold and gems that dangled from your ears glinting under the light of the torches that illuminated his quarters. 

“Good,” he muttered, pushing your coat off your shoulders, catching it before it fell to the ground and discarding it on a chair. The clips and fasteners that kept your linen, silk, and wool too intricate for his impatience, he tore through anything that did not yield. Delicate fabrics met their end at the hands of the ravenous beast he became at the battlefront, revealing delicious skin underneath. He needed this. Needed to plunge into your tight, wet hole and spend the aggressive energy that coursed through his veins.

He took whores, but that was before he wed you. Married men took other women both back home and especially when at war. As long as they were whores or any other women lower than his wife’s status. It was expected, encouraged. But he was married to the Empress. Anyone he took would be a disrespect to her. Sure, many mocked him behind his back as the Empress’ wife. It did not bother him. Not anymore. 

When men depended on one’s instructions to survive each day, they ceased to question his manhood. Further, it was hard to question a man’s ability when he lead the mightiest army the world had seen to victory. 

You were beautifully exposed in front of him, your veil, stola, and palla lying in defeat on the ground. Only your tunica, exposing your legs and the shape of your breasts. His lips claimed your neck, biting and sucking on everywhere he knew you favored the way he expertly mapped and attacked the vulnerabilities of enemy territory.

Every bit of skin he touched lit a fire in your belly, replacing the weeks of agonizing solitude with only your inadequate fingers for release. 

Buried in your neck, he inhaled your scent, of your sweat combined with the roses and attar from Arabia. He licked, grunting when your gold necklace tainted the taste of your skin. Reaching behind you, he tugged at the fastener, growling when it proved too delicate to be undone by his large fingers. You let out a laugh before slapping his hand away and undoing the offending jewelry in one swift moment. He liked you bare. Needed to rid you of any object that interfered with his preference be it fabric or lustrous gold and gems.

You were an oasis in the desert. For a man surrounded by young men with nothing but rage and fear coursing through their veins. No bath fully cleansed him of enemy blood, mud and grime. Grace to the gods, you were not a woman repulsed by his gory state of being. 

You whimpered as he forced you to the ground, laying you out on his small mattress before climbing atop. The pteruges of his armor tickled your thighs as he hovered above you.

“Marcus…I have longed for you every night,” you whispered, your words clenching his heart. You did not have the luxuries that other royal women enjoyed. The wealth and adoration came with a sword at your neck and the weight of all of Rome and her people. Rare was the opportunity to only be a woman in the arms of your husband.

“I think of you day and night. My duty to my Empress by day, my duties to my wife at night,” he said, peppering kisses along your jaw. You sighed, curving away from him to expose more of yourself for his kisses.

“Do your duty then. And allow me to do mine,” you said, reaching below to caress his thigh. 

He searched under his pillow and retrieved his dagger. He tucked the tip of the cold blade under your strophium. You gasped as he cut through the layers, your breasts spilling from their restraints. Hands that for months only knew the reins of his horse and the handle of his sword relished in the softness of your breasts. He was no barbarian. He knew to treat a woman with gentle touch and loving words. 

His appetite, however, was quick to defeat the gentle Acacius who was allowed his Empress’ hand in marriage. Your breasts filled his hands perfectly, like the gods had shaped them for his sake. For his touch. For his children to feed from. The image formed in the back of his mind, his child drinking from your full breasts as your belly grew with another. His cock twitched at the thought and he acted, forcing your legs apart with his knees.

Fear joined a familiar ache in the pit of your stomach as he slid the blade down your chest, resting it near your core. Your nails dug into his arm and your core throbbed with need. You yelped as he cut through your subligar. The night air caressed your cunt forcing you to feel how wet his bestial acts made you. Your hips bucked up in search of him, desperate to fill the void he’d left in his absence. 

He traced the dagger further below and rested it on your thigh. His eyes exuded a hunger you’d seen only in the exotic beasts that devoured gladiators. “Stay still,” he said and placed a soothing hand on your trembling thigh as the other reigned terror on its counterpart. With your nod of understanding, he moved the blade closer and closer until–

You shrieked as the cold blade sat at the edge of your opening. Before you could comprehend, he brought it up before your eyes and licked the blunt edge. His eyes closed and a moan rumbled from his chest as he tasted your arousal. 

“You drip for me, melilla.” 

“I have been aching for you,” you said through trembling breaths, thinking of every night you touched yourself in his memory. He had made your body his, rending separation tartarus on land. The closest your cunt had felt of him was the ring from his pinky he placed on your middle finger before his departure. 

He tossed the dagger aside and it landed with a clang. Your cunt clenched at the sound, thrilled by his animalistic want for you. He cupped your core in his hand, parted your lips and plunged two fingers inside you. It was already much more than you had in his absence, his thick fingers filling you better than your own. 

“Please,” you whimpered as he worked you open, your cunt dripping around his fingers with each stroke. He was always gentle with you, but not this time. You didn’t want him gentle. In peacetime, he bowed to you as your loyal subject. In war, when he overflowed with masculine power, you wanted him forceful. Wanted him atop you, taking you with the same ruthless power he did enemy land. You wanted to be unburdened of the weight of your empire if only for a moment. Be husband and wife, not General and Empress.

His hand slipped under your head, grabbing your hair between his fingers. You hissed at the sting of his grip on your hair and reached for his arm instinctively. He withdrew his fingers, pushing them between your lips when you whined to be filled. As you tasted yourself, he aligned his cock up with your weeping entrance. You choked out a sob as he split you open with his cock, your walls burning at the stretch. Tears clouded your vision, but you blinked them away to see your dearest, handsome even in war. Your bejeweled fingers weaved through his dark curls, needing to touch the familiar parts of the man you’d so long yearned to reunite with. 

His own hand and a few whores was satisfactory when he was a lone general who did not know the taste of a woman he called his own. He doubted he could find someone else to satisfy his desires now that he had you. His men found this sentiment strange as they chose to relieve their stress with whores and slaves. 

None of those fools had the fucking Empress waiting for them at home. 

“Look at you…” he rasped, luxuriating at the vision. You were divine. All goddess-like in your beauty even lying on his thin mattress, hair strewn across his pillow and your hairpins coming undone under his grip. No dingy military camp was worthy of a visit from such an ethereal creature. But you were no simple Lady content to stay in the palace surrounded by your riches. He doubted he could stop you from visiting him even if you weren’t the Empress but only his dear wife.

“You like me this way,” he said instead of asking. He did not need to ask. He had seen how you looked at him when he wore his armor. No stranger to combat, the blood and gore did not seem to rattle you. His other campaigns found you in the camps for celebrations. Too many times, he had to keep you at arm’s length out of respect for your station. Now that you belonged to him…

“Always… Always liked my General so. Always wanted to pounce upon you and fight those girls you chose over me.”

He snorted at the jealousy that returned to your visage though he was now all yours. “My severed head would have joined the barbarians had I defiled the Princess, my dear.”

“You should have abstained,” you said, the smile that played at your lips all he needed to know it was but a jest. 

“And deprive you of the fruits of my experience with the female form?” He taunted, angling himself to stroke the particularly sensitive place inside you. Your lips opened in a small circle, whatever witty remark you’d concocted now dissolved into a pathetic moan.

He pawed at your breasts, his large hands and the loss of etiquette making you feel mauled by a beast. You pushed up from the ground and into his hands, sobbing as he tugged your nipples, adding to the pain of penetration. He took you in long, hard thrusts, your needy cunt pulling him back in each time he withdrew. Each stroke soothed the pain he bestowed, eased by how he had you leaking around him.

“I need, I need… please,” you begged, too occupied by your lust to find better words.

“Anything you want, Carissima,” he whimpered, bending down and claiming your lips. He smelled of war. Of mud and blood and something vile that should repulse you. He did not kiss like he usually did. Did not explore you and drink your sweet sounds. He took you, forced your lips apart and invaded with his tongue. He bit and drew blood, the taste of iron adding to the familiar taste of your beloved.

“Anything,” he growled, filling you deeper. “I will make you feel me between your legs for days. Make you wince in pain when you ride your horse,” he said, his hot breath and the threat making you shudder. “Would you like that? Like the people who bow to you smell me on you? Make you strategize with my seed dripping down your legs under your dress?”

“Macrus, want…please” you blubbered, your intelligence leaving from his vicious ravaging. Your thighs burned from how wide he spread you to fit himself between your legs. It was an agonizing stretch without the aid of any oils, without his lips easing you open for his thickness. But none of it mattered for you ached more with longing. 

Fully immersed in you, he placed his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as though he were meditating. He was heavy, his large frame that mowed through enemy men and swung weighty swords through necks now being used to contain you. He took your breath away not only with his stature but with his beauty. You liked to believe him sculpted by the gods to put you in his thrall. To tame the wild princess into the tempered Empress Rome needed.

You needed him to move, to fuck you so thoroughly you would feel him with every move you made until you could reunite once again. But you did not have heart to push him. Not when he looked like a devotee at the shrine of his goddess. 

All men thought of in the midst of war was the people they left behind. It did not change when one rose to command the entire Roman army. He opened his eyes, sighing with relief when he found you still there beneath him. He had dreamt so many times lying all alone that he was home with you. He dreamt that the war had ended and he was sat by your side as you read scrolls from senators and discussed fucking sanitation of all things. He dreamt of you returning to his arms, of your kisses and your tight cunt holding him inside you. You were never there when he woke up. 

He pinned your wrists above your head, desperate to contain you so he wouldn’t be separated from you again. 

This was no dream. Even dreams of you didn’t feel as elysian as your true form. He fucked you in short thrusts, grinding against your clit as he did. You dug your heels into his lower back, your hips rising up to meet his thrusts. He cupped your cheek in one hand and you melted into his touch, confounded by his contradictions. He brought your hand between your bodies and you took his direction, rubbing your clit as he returned to a brutal pace. 

He grabbed your hip for purchase, his other hand mauling your breast. His balls slapped against your skin, the lewd sounds of skin against skin sounding through the camp. 

You cried his name as he rammed into you over and over until you could no longer find an ounce of regard for propriety in you. Word would’ve spread that you were here. Everyone knew the General to be fiercely loyal. Now they would know it was their Empress in the tent moaning like a whore taking their General’s cock. You clenched tight around him at the scandalous thought, wrapping your arms around him to anchor yourself to reality. 

He pulled you up off the ground and onto his lap, bouncing you up and down his cock as you kept yourself wrapped around him. You grabbed his hair and pressed yourself against his chest. His dark brown eyes bored into yours, soft even as he fucked you with animalistic vigor. You kissed him, his growl devolving into a mewl like a lion tamed. Your heart beat against your ribs, longing to escape its confines to find the man it belonged to. 

You trailed kisses across every bit of exposed skin. The patch above his jaw where his beard never grew called out to your lips and you rewarded it with kisses. He returned them, his strong aquiline nose pressing against your cheekbone. 

Full of him, the world disappeared from your thoughts. Your hips moved of its own accord, taking him deeper as he bounced you up and down his cock. 

“What d’you think they would say?” he taunted, breathless from the exertion. “Their unshakable Empress being used by her husband in the camps. Your perfect hair tangled, your jewels on the ground,” he growled and you simply mewled, the shame coursing through you only aiding him as he hammered into you. 

“Answer me,” he commanded, punctuating the words with harsh thrust. You opened and closed your mouth, eyes trained on his fiery ones as he demanded what he made you incapable of doing. A sob emerged deep from your chest, the only sign you were present in your body. 

He let out a mocking laugh. “All of Rome bows to your rousing speeches yet you become mute with a cock stuffing you full.” 

You whimpered his name, or you thought you did. You couldn’t be sure of anything in this state. Your thighs shook from the force of his thrusts and your hip hurt where his fingers dug in. Sounds you did not know yourself capable of producing escaped your lips. The fire in your belly blazed wilder and your vision blackened. You felt the pressure wind tighter and tighter. You threw your head back in pleasure, whimpering when you felt his lips on your neck. He lapped at your skin, devouring your natural taste and your sweat. He nipped and bit, mumbling words of praise you couldn’t make out in your dazed state. 

His name mixed with curses flowed from your lips as pleasure hit you like lightning. You felt your back hit the floor, your legs folded up as he rammed into you. Your hole spasmed around him as he continued taking you for himself but you lay limp, spent. His warm sticky spend spurted inside you, dripping out onto your thighs and his thin mattress as he buried himself deep before collapsing on top.

He tucked his head in the nape of your neck, panting as you both came down to Earth from the heavens. His body weighed heavy on you, as did his armor. He took the breath out of your lungs but you did not want to be without him. It was the antidote for your aching heart.

“That was quite the welcome, General,” you said, placing a kiss on his cheek. “I did not receive such treatment the last time.” 

“You were the crown princess when you last visited me in the battlefront.” 

“Ah. You needed me on the throne before serving me this way?” You teased, knowing full well how it pained him to restrain himself from having you before he won approval for your hand in marriage.

“I needed the Emperor to not have my head for defiling his daughter so,” he said, rolling you over and pulling you down by your arms against his chest when you attempted to sit up. You giggled as he placed kisses all over, delighted by how playful he became once he took his aggressive energy out on you.

“He should not have given his General his daughter’s hand in marriage if he was worried about that.” 

“Mmm, I don’t know dear. The princess was quite insistent she would only wed the General. Threatened to be caught in the General’s bed if denied.”

“Yes. I hope you are grateful,” you said, giving him your hand adorned in rings, the one he gave you from his little finger gleaming brighter than the rest. He took your hand and kissed it, his eyes so soft with love and devotion for you that you could hardly reconcile them with the hunger they exuded just moments before. The words were merely a jest, but he was indeed grateful. 

He was celebrated for his prowess in battle. For the many victories he brought Rome. Many men deluded themselves into the belief that this entitled them a victory of the princess’ hand. Not Acacius. Though your hearts reached out for one other through the years, you were the only one with the courage to act upon it. The one to show the Emperor why only he would be the right companion to a woman on Rome’s throne. For that, he would forever be grateful.

“How goes the battle?” you asked, getting up and depriving him of your warmth. He grabbed a scrap of fabric that was once your tunica and tossed it at you. You caught it and whispered a thank you before cleaning yourself up.

“Who is asking? My Empress or my wife?” He asked, propping himself up with his hands.

“Would your answers vary?” 

“They would.” 

“Give me both answers, General. Husband.” You asked, wrapping your furs around you and sitting back on his chair. 

“Caesarea,” he said, finally rising up. Something shifted between you. Your voice had altered from its girlish relaxed state. Wool covered your body. You were perched on his seat while he stood in front of you in submission to your authority. “We anticipated many deaths from illness but have been spared such tragedy by the grace of the gods. The Eastern front has advanced into the barbarians' territory and they have retreated. However, I expect them to recuperate and retaliate. Our men are advancing faster to take advantage of their momentary retreat. The Northern front is not faring well. Not as we’d hoped. We have received intelligence that the barbarians have armed even women and children to attack.”

“What is your next course of action?” 

“We’ve sent troops up North and we need more men to replace them. I was hoping you would grant approval for a few more men from our reserves.” 

“How many?” 

“One century and a centurion to replace the ones I sent north, and twenty cavalrymen.” 

“And how soon do you need them?”

“We can not hold out longer than seven days. Or we stand to lose ground in the East.” 

“I’ll see what I can do. Seven days are… It is not enough time. I must send word with Decimus and the men would take time to arrive.” 

“I understand.” 

“I hope you have told the men you’ve sent North to limit casualties. We are to rule over these people once you have conquered their land. I imagine killing their wives and children wouldn’t endear them to us.” 

“I have, yes. They are under the leadership of a good man- Faunus. He trained under me. I know him to be determined and level headed. Has children of his own as well.” 

“Being a father doesn’t stop many men from killing children. They simply learn not to see those children as children at all.” 

“I have seen that too.” 

“I trust your judgment, Marcus. Let us hope you are right about Faunus and his men. What of the rations? Are they adequate?” 

“I hear more grains are coming our way from the last harvest. If true, we will not be in want of food.” 

“It is, indeed. Is there anything else my General needs?” You asked, an eyebrow raised. 

“No. Nothing that needs your immediate attention.”

“Well, then tell me what answer you would give your wife. About how the war is going.” 

He smiled, his eyes softening and his shoulders relaxing at the permission to change role from General to husband. He stepped closer to you and caged you in with his hands on the armrests. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your lips and felt you relax. As he spoke, he peppered kisses across your face, enjoying his effect on you. “I would tell you that the end of the war is closer than it was the last time I wrote you. That I long for you every hour I spend in this wretched place. I would reassure you that I am unharmed and ask you to prepare our home for my arrival.” 

“Are you?” 

He tilted his head in question, making you clarify yourself, “Unharmed. I need to see.” 

“Is that why you have come so far? To ensure I am unharmed?” 

“Perhaps. I did not want my men to believe their Empress had forgotten them. I come bearing gifts. Letters from families who have not accompanied officers. Fresh fruits and nuts. Toys and books for the children. Some hearings to handle as you said in your letters. To boost morale.” 

“You have already succeeded with me there, my dear. My morale is higher than ever,” he said, nipping playfully at your ear and making you giggle. “Back to bed now,” he said and you obliged, wrapping your arms around his neck and allowing him to carry you. 

“A happy General makes for happy soldiers.” 

“Perhaps I’m not happy enough,” he said, laying you out on his bed, gentle unlike the man he was a while ago. “You must do more, my dearest. For the sake of the poor soldiers.”

You giggled and pulled him down to your chest, sighing when his weight settled on you. You traced the gold plating on his armor with a finger idly, saying, “Oh, iff it is for the soldiers…” 

He laughed with you and the two of you lied together, quietly taking each other in. Other high ranking men in your army had the privilege of bringing their families to the barracks, but not your husband. You hadn’t the duty to keep your home but to keep your empire. Though opposition to having you on the throne had begun to dwindle, you did not feel secure in your position. You couldn’t afford peace of mind. There was disease and conflicts awaiting your attention. Plebeians to care for without angering the patricians. Marcus unburdened you of all worries about the war for you knew he would bring victory to Rome. But you worried as wives did about whether their husbands would return at all.

“I will be here for four days,” you spoke up, needing a distraction from your burgeoning fears. “I must see to a few disagreements. Inspect the troops. Maybe I will even polish your swords like a good wife ought to.” 

“Oh? What else will you do?” 

You squinted, thinking of what else the women in the barracks did for their men that you knew to do. You couldn’t cook. Didn’t know to wash clothes. Did not yet have children to raise. You could spar with him, but that was frowned upon and not at all wifely.

“Clean your quarters?” 

“My quarters are clean, Princess,” he laughed softly. You pushed at his chest playfully but he didn’t budge. It had been a long time since you could push him around physically.

“I am not a Princess anymore.” 

“I meant it as a term of endearment, not as your title.” 

“Surely there is something I can do. I will have time aside from my duties to our people.”

“When you do, mea vita…” he whispered, hot breath tickling your ear. “Lie back here and open your legs for me.” 

“Whatever for?” You teased, wearing an expression of confusion as you pretended to think of the answers. 

“To do your duty to your husband. To please me,” he said, parting your coat and cupping your sex in his hand. He swept his ejaculate that dripped down your thighs and pushed it back inside you. He wanted it to take. Wanted you full and round with his child when he arrived in Rome victorious. It was their duty, yes. But he wanted children for more than duty and legacy’s sake. He wanted to experience the joy he witnessed in his men when they shared stories of their fatherhood. He could recall a time when he fought only to sate his bloodlust. Since you became more than his friend, more than his Princess, he began fighting to return home to you. He wanted one day to fight with his children in mind. 

He pumped his fingers in and out of you with practiced ease. You trembled, sensitive from his rough use, but did not pull away. You needed this.

“Have I not pleased you enough?” You asked, only half teasing. You did not have much experience with carnal pleasure. There were a few men and several women in your past. But the men were not interested in teaching you to please them. It wasn’t entirely their fault, of course. You did not want to please anyone before Marcus. It was a source of insecurity. You’d seen how women swarmed him since he developed from a little boy who sparred with you to a broad shouldered man with a deep voice. What if you were inadequate?

“You are simply too delectable, my dear. Each time I believe myself satisfied, I only want more of you.”

“I have duties to Rome. I can’t always be in your bed.” That was another insecurity you had. That he would find you lacking in wifely duties as compared to other women, those who did not have Rome on their shoulders.

“We barely had each other a week before I was sent here.” 

“Mmm… She sounds cruel, your Empress. Separating you from your new wife so early.” He could see how you sought to bury your fears with humor. Duty to Rome and your love plagued you despite reassurances of his unconditional support. The elders often turned their nose up at you, found you lacking as a woman. Though you’d proven yourself both in battle and in administration, old men set in their ways refused to accept you as Empress. Many already whispered about you not having conceived a child. 

“She is not cruel. My Empress,” he said, smiling. He wouldn't have you doubting his trust in you, be it as Empress or wife. Everyone was you tartarus, but he would only be your peace. “She is just. She is brave and kind with intellect as sharp as the tip of my sword. The right person to lead Rome into prosperity.”

You melted into his arms and he held you close to his chest, heavy with the weight of doing right by the Roman Princess who lent little Acacius her sword when he couldn’t afford one.

⌘ ⌘ ⌘

Read Part 2 Reward here

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[oohlook-thevoid]

Shout out to the songs we're never gonna get, gone but not forgotten.

Tracklist: 1. Devil 2. Haunt 3. Hymn to Virgil 4. Rob the Goddess 5. Blood 6. Alright 7. I Could Be Yours 8. Love Of 9. But The Wages

Playlist of the songs that are on YouTube can be found here (this isn't all - some just had written lyric snippets). Thanks to this tweet for helping me work out what the unreleased songs are as not all are on YouTube.

[ID: Image 1: A mock-up of an album cover. Featuring a black and white image of Hozier - a white man with long hair - in a shirt and trousers lying in the dirt. There is a gold border. Gold text reads 'Unreleased' on the left hand side. 'Hozier' is written in the bottom right corner. Image 2: A mock-up of the back of an album. An image of a clock in the dirt. There is a gold border. Gold text to the left hand side shows the tracklist of unreleased songs.]

[mediumgayitalian]

its wiiiiiiiip wednesday my little dandelions

HI all. it has been some days since ive posted. ive been feeling weird but im better now mostly. anyway.

it is time at the moment to choose one of five (+1, got more requests than usual this week and i am benevolent) wips for me to update tomorrow. will i 100% listen to democracy? we shall see. is there i chance i leave it to the last minute and get too tired to write anything but a 100 ways? you betcha. but regardless: the poll will immediately succeed this message. then, i will link previous iterations of each wip AND a small snippet of what i currently have for the update. i will work on and post this TOMORROW. read snippets before u vote. mwah. love u.

naomi fic: art more art 1 2 3

The baby does not scream. He does not cry. He does not even blink, for a moment, for a heart-stopping minute; he does not even move.

This is what the nurses tell her, anyway.

Naomi does not know. Naomi was unconscious, and damn near died on the table; her little parasite wormed his way out of her limp as a rag doll and the doctor had sworn he was dead, but he was only resting, taking a breath, a minute, to situate himself. To feel the cold air of the new world before committing to existing inside of it. Cautious, her little parasite. Wary. Already heeding her warnings.

All Naomi knows is that he is small, when she holds him. He fits in her one hand. There is still blood and fluid caked everywhere but his little face, where the nurses wiped him clean, and his nose, even this early, is dotted with freckles, spreading across his cheeks. He opens his tiny little eyes and they are blue --

-- celestial blue --

-- sky blue --

-- and Naomi gasps, struck breathless. He is silent. He is open. He is trusting, tiny and helpless, but quiet in her arms, against her chest.

"You and me," she whispers, tucking her baby son against her chest, against her slowly beating heart, "you and me, sheer fuckin' Will."

divorce fic: 1

Will huddles in the fork of his favorite tree, Cass nearby, gathering herbs, and taps his pen on his notebook. On a page near the end, in careful, neat writing, are names, scrawled up and down the page, crushed into the margins. It reads:

Top choyses: - Bekendorf (nice) - Clarees (proteks me maybe) - Carter (plays soker with me) - Silena (pretty) - Annabeth (frend) - NOT ellis (anoying)

Among others. Will works the end of his pen in his mouth as he squints at the list, considering. He tries to remember some of the summer-only campers, but he can't keep them straight as well since he hasn't seen them in almost a year.

"Cass," he calls, waiting for the sound of a snapped root and her followed yes, firefly? "Which summer campers are the least annoying? Nobody like Michael."

She ponders that question for a good moment. Will watches several different expressions morph across her face.

"...Well," she says, biting her lip to hide her smile, "it might help if I knew what you'd been scribbling away at for the last hour."

pomegranate au: 1 2 (*snippet once again subject to change; i have like 3000 words written that i am not vibing with so i might need to restart)

In his dream, they are in Ephyra. Will stoops low over a flowering bush in a meadow between two orchards, and Nico stands, hair curling in the misting humidity, watching him.

He looks good in red.

There are bangles of gold on his wrists and ankles, like there usually are. His fingers glint gold off the sun. Wine-dark begonias make home again in his hair, twisted among the strands, and black leather sandals adorn his feet. Nico tilts his head, noting them; the thin bands that wrap up his calves and the new soles sitting stiffly under his feet. He shifts, bending low towards the flowers, and Nico imagines he can hear them creak, creasing under the changing weight.

He steps, once, towards him.

He does not move.

He calls out, or tries to. His voice travels out of his mouth and wraps around the rain, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds; he huffs, and drops to the ground, crossing his feet under his thighs and resting damp palms on his knees.

Rain drips, stinging, into his eyes.

He watches Will for a long time. Or, it feels like he does, in his dream; Will flits, humming, from plant to plant, gathering stems and flowers in the apron of his robe, stretching ever few moments as the bend pulls the muscles on his back. When he has gathered enough, and his apron is overflowing, he stands, sighing, and walks up the hill to where Nico is sitting.

Will does not look at him. He looks through him, where he sits, he moves in his eyes in the direction where Nico is watching him but no recognition lights up his features, no part of his irises trace the shape Nico takes up. He only walks, as if there is no one, and sits an arm's length to Nico's right.

Nico reaches out. There is stone, between them, invisible, or at least it feels like there is.

scientific method fic: prologue 1

———

Step Two: Research

———

Will wakes up and beelines for the Hermes cabin, long before they are anything close to getting up for the day, and climbs through the window. He paid Connor seven dollars for a map of their booby traps yesterday, so he manages alright, only setting off the one pie plate full of whipped cream that Connor neglected to tell him about, but jokes on him 'cause Will tripped trying to get over the window sill and landed on his face before the pie plate could nail him on the nose.

He steps around the mess, creeps to the bunk on the lateral side of the cabin, nestled right in front of the opening of the secret tunnels Will isn't supposed to know about, and crawls very, very carefully on top, balancing on his knees. It's a strain, but it's no worse than the climbing wall. He breathes carefully and shallowly, hovering over the sleeping body, waiting for the sun to cheerfully inch all the way above the horizon, and for the rays to turn mussed auburn curls gold, for the light to fan over dark eyelashes. There is squirming, and then a sleepy yawn, and then, from across the cabin, a what the -- followed by harsh shushing. Will manages to bite back a grin.

And then there is the slow blink of brown eyes.

"Hi," Will says.

Cecil screams at the top of his lungs.

"There is something -- fucking wrong with you!" he shouts, kicking Will off his bed, and then cusses him out in so many different languages that Will loses the ability to actually inhale, dying in a little ball on the floor.

"Your -- your face," he wheezes, having no energy to dodge the kick Cecil aims for his ribs. "Oh my gods, your soul left your body --"

"I hate you."

"Oh my gods --"

"Genuinely. Die."

"Gods," Will says, wiping a tear from his eye. A quick glance around the cabin shows several of the other Hermes kids in a similar state. Connor seems to have actually blacked out. Julia reaches over and high-fives him. Will smacks her hand with verve, cementing his role as Cecil's replacement. Currently he is winning their eternal prank war 2,701 - 2,699, which has to sting.

"It doesn't sting. Just know that when I get you, there will be no mercy involved."

"Yeah, yeah." Will snorts, crawling up onto his best friend's bunk and making himself comfortable. He watches as Cecil tries to get dressed in the clutter that is his cabin in the early mornings and offers unhelpful commentary -- "You are colorblind, please stop trying to tell me what socks pair best with this shirt." -- until he sighs and stops fighting the smile pulling across his face. "You love me."

"Whatever." Will pouts. Cecil sighs. "Yes, I love you, you rat bastard."

"Excellent. Hey, subject change -- have you ever died before?"

road trip au: 1 2 3 4

It is not quite dark, when they cross the Tennessee border, but the sign is squarely behind them and deep, dark orange, glinting blindingly off the blue road sides. Regardless, Will doesn't falter; he does not slow down and squint at every exit sign or murmur to himself as he counts the miles. This is unusual, because Nico has seen him squint to verify the street signs on the road he lives on.

Nico watches him, quietly.

Will pretends he doesn't.

They are in and out of Chattanooga. The mountains, too, are only flashes -- beautiful, staggering flashes, but Will winds through them with ease, and does not pause. Nico notes the bored holes every few feet and traces the jagged cliff faces with his eyes, memorizing the way the setting sun turns the stone to ruby.

He flinches every time there is a sharp turn, or a hole in the road. Every twitch of Will's shoulders has him gripping onto the holy shit handle, and if Will so much as removes one hand to scratch his nose Nico stops breathing. They are never doing this again.

But it is nice, this one time. To watch the world whir by outside the rolled-down windows.

pillow princess: 1 2

He wakes up before noon, as instructed. Today there is no struggle. He does not bother to pray for the strength to keep his eyes open. In fact he almost leaps out of bed, and would have outright sprinted to the Apollo cabin was there not a piece of paper balanced on his nose.

He sits upright and collects it off his lap, where it falls, inspecting it closely. It is heavy paper. Cardstock, ivory. Folded crisply once, like a place card at a banquet table. The writing is elegant cursive and shiny gold, which is murder on his dyslexic eyes, and takes him a good twenty minutes to puzzle through.

To His Highness Niccolo di Angelo, son of Hades, Prince of Hell, it reads, in confirmation of your appointment at the Chelsea Hotel, Penthouse Suite. On this day, June 5th, no later than 2 post meridiem.

And then, in messier, penciled handwriting, under elegant swirling decorations:

do NOT shadow traval!!! xoxo Will <3

Nico traces his finger over the misspelled 'a', grinning.

"Alright, you little weirdo," he mumbles, heading to his closet. He digs around until he finds the deep, wine-red shirt that always makes Will twitch. "Let's see what this is all about."

[junkdrawerfics]

Game On

(one of my favorite clips, lowkey)

Jasper X Reader

Summary: A little snippet of wolf!reader playing baseball with the Cullens. You and Emmett have a little rivalry going, and you'll do anything for some Jasper scratches.

Word Count: 1021

---

“You sure you can keep up with us, wolfie?” Emmet calls from the batter’s box with an absolutely snarky grin.

You cock a brow at him, settling into a crouch with an equally vicious smile, “Just you watch me, Em, you won’t make it to first base.”

“I’d like to see that,” he taunts back, twisting his grip on the bat and posing it over his shoulder.

Jasper chuckles from across the field, the sound easily reaching your sensitive ears, “Take it easy on him, darlin’.”

“No can do, Jas.” Your friendly rivalry with Emmett started as soon as you and Jasper got together, only made worse by you being a shifter. Competitiveness runs deep in your blood. “Someone has to put him in his place, and you pansies sure aren’t going to.”

“Ooh-” Emmett hisses through his teeth dramatically. “-you gonna let her talk to you like that?”

“I’m not one to get offended by a few words,” Jasper shoots back, smirk all too cocky, “Not like when you whined a full week when she called you a cream puff.”

“Hey-”

“It’s time!” Alice chimes before Emmett can stand up for himself.

You snicker and he throws a glare your way.

Game on.

With your enhanced speed and strength, you put up a good fight against the vampires. It’s almost unfair, you and Jasper working perfectly in sync, getting them out one at a time. On your turn to bat, the feeling of smashing the ball, brutal and unrestrained, makes your whole body spark to life, driving you through the plates like a flash of lightning. It’s exhilarating.

Nearing the end of the thunderstorm, the game is close, your team up by one run. Emmett is back up to bat. Chest heaving, heart pounding, you make eye contact with him and, with the most wolfish smile, mouth a silent, ‘Bring it.’

Emmett scowls, eyes focusing back on Alice, and you hear Jasper chuckle softly.

Alice winds up, moving with practiced ease, and launches the baseball straight down the line. A crack of thunder overlaps the loud ring of the bat slamming into it, and it goes flying. You go flying after it.

You tear through the trees, eyes bright with glee as you follow the ball. The wind whips your hair around wildly, the damp ground giving way under your feet. You feel free. Out of breath, every muscle aching, but free. The moment right before your feet leave the ground, adrenaline surges through every cell of your body and you explode into a mess of fur and snapping teeth.

You jump, far too high, far too fast. But your teeth clamp down on the baseball, practically ripping through the leather, before you go crashing to the ground in a flurry of dirt and grass. The earth shakes at your impact, the sound louder than the storm’s thunder.

“(Y/n)!”

The family of vampires freeze, eyes wide. Jasper races after you. Worry burns through his veins as he comes to a stop at the crater’s edge. Gold eyes narrowed, he desperately searches through the haze of dirt for a sign that you’re okay.

Then you pop back up, and all his concern dissipates. You, in wolf form, look up at him with happy, squinted eyes, the ball still clamped firmly in your jaws. Your whole body practically shakes with how hard your tail is wagging.

“Well look at you,” the blond sighs, shaking his head, “I didn’t know wolves could fly, darlin’.”

Shaking off the dirt clinging to your fur, you scramble out of the hole you created. Without hesitation, you push into Jasper’s open arms. He chuckles as you wiggle in his grip, letting out little happy huffs as he scratches your head. You love it when he gives you scratches in wolf form, it’s like getting a massage in human form.

“You know-” You perk your ears and pause to look up at his slanted, mischievous grin. “-Emmett won’t like this.”

You let out a muffled ‘woof’. He better not like it, because he just signed his defeat. You won. The thought makes you growl happily as you adjust the ball in your mouth. Time to show off your victory.

Jasper sticks by your side and you trot back to the field. The moment you reach the tree line, Emmett lets out a loud, rumbling groan.

“That has to be cheating!”

“Umpire?”

Everyone turns to Esme. Emmett looks so hopeful, but then she looks at you and winks. You’ve never been so happy to see someone’s face plummet.

“You’re out, Emmett.”

You drop the ball and let out a small victorious howl. The man glares at you playfully, but you catch the smallest glimpse of a smile when you do a few happy stomps and throw yourself at Jasper. The blond grunts as your full weight takes you both to the ground. 

“Darlin’,” he wheezes out a bright laugh, “you’re crushing me.”

You huff, not caring even a bit as you drop your head on top of his chest. More scratches. You deserve more scratches, you won the game! Jasper can feel your insistence, having grown accustomed to reading your more chaotic emotions in this form, and gives in when you nudge him with your nose, licking his face. He curls his fingers through your thick fur, earning a happy grumble from you.

“We’re going to head back to the house,” Carlisle announces, voice ringing with amusement, “Feel free to join us when you would like to.”

Which ends up being far later in the night because there is something so lovely about just curling up with your vampire and watching the stars come out. He eventually goes and retrieves your extra clothes (he started keeping some with him after several phasing accidents) and you return to the Cullen household, where you mercilessly mock Emmett.

“How does it feel to lose to a wolf, cream puff?”

“(Y/n), I swear to God I’m gonna-”

You dash up the stairs, giggling wildly. Jasper follows behind slowly, tossing the bigger vampire a smug grin.

“Next time, you shouldn’t underestimate her.”

---

This idea came to me at like midnight and I wrote down the idea and I love it. I hope you guys enjoyed it too!

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

title: vulnerability

author: sciencebecameouraddiction

fandom: hazbin hotel

rating: PG

genre: angst & fluff

pairing: alastor x reader x lucifer

summary: you find alastor after the battle in bad shape. you have to help him and get him healed.

note: this is the fic from the snippet i posted the other day! ☺️

After the battle, you saw immediately that Alastor was missing. Quickly running off to search for him and realizing the only place he could be was the broken down radio tower. Finding Alastor broken and battered in that tower did not fare well with your soul. You helped patch him up temporarily, but he was still bleeding a lot, barely hanging on to a thread of consciousness.

“Al, I need you to get us to Luce’s room. Can you do that?” You ask, looking at him, your hand caressing his face. He nods, shockingly quiet and with a heavy sigh, you’re both engulfed in shadows and reappear in a bright and circular room. You support Alastor, clumsily as his seven foot frame leaning on your five foot frame was difficult to manage. You get him over to a chair and look at him.

“Al, I’m going to grab Lucifer.” You whisper, tears coming to your eyes looking at him. The bandages not even looking pristine at this point and his blood seeping through quickly. His button up open and hanging on his shoulders as he slumped in the chair, looking the most human you had seen him.

“Just stay with me chére. He’ll come.” Alastor murmured, pulling you to the arm of his chair.

“Please, Alastor. You’re scaring me. You’ve lost so much blood. And I can’t… I can’t loose you.” You look at him, tears falling down your face. He looks at you and shakes his head.

“You couldn’t-“ He’s cut off as the door opens and a disshelved Lucifer comes charging in, his eyes wide and when it lands on the both of you he gasps.

“Fuck Alastor.” He says coming over, making you cry harder. “Is he…” Lucifer trails off thinking the worst. Alastor opens his eyes for a moment and looks at Lucifer.

“You wish.” He whispers. Lucifer’s eyes widen and he goes to the other side of Alastor.

“You’re making our girl cry, asshole.” Lucifer points out. Alastor looks at you with a soft smile.

“Don’t cry. It’s okay.” He tries to assure you but when he moves a bit, the bandages start leaking. Lucifer’s eyes widen.

“It’s not letting you heal is it?” Lucifer asks.

“No, I haven’t been able to heal at all.” Alastor responds, his hand going to the wound again on his chest. Lucifer takes his jacket off and tells you to stand away. You shake your head as Alastor grabs your hand.

“Fine. Fine. This might hurt.” Lucifer warns as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. Your mind is reeling on what this all means and what Lucifer is doing. But you stay silent, knowing that your questions right now would delay whatever they were doing.

“Do your worst.” Alastor grinds out. Lucifer puts his hands on Alastor’s chest and his hands start to glow gold. Suddenly the wound it self is glowing gold and Alastor’s eyes shoot open. The scream that rings out is nothing like you’ve ever heard. Alastor starts thrashing, trying to get away.

“Damn it, hold him down!” Lucifer yells at you as he keeps his hands on Alastor’s chest. You push Alastor’s shoulders down as he looks at you betrayed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You have to stay here, please.” You tell Alastor as tears fall from your eyes as Alastor’s demonic form takes shape.

“Fuck, Al, calm down!” Lucifer yells pushing him back down now with you.

“Alastor, please, we’re trying to help you. Lucifer is healing you. Please, we love you, we wouldn’t hurt you.” You say, gently taking his face in your hands. His eyes lock on yours and you watch as the radio dials fade and his crimson eyes shine back.

“Darling…” He whispers and cries out as the golden glow is the brightest and then the room is shrouded in what feels like darkness, but it’s just the same light as before. You look at Lucifer and see the sweat that had beaded on his forehead, and you wiped it away. Lucifer looks up at you grateful. You both look down at Alastor as he looks down at his chest which he unwrapped. You follow his eyes and see the wound healed but almost like golden stitches were tattooed across it. It wasn’t normal gold though, they glittered and were almost glowing in the dark.

“You branded me.” Alastor deadpans looking at Lucifer. Lucifer just glares at him, his eyes partially lidded with exhaustion.

“Thank you Lucifer for saving me.” You say. “Oh you’re welcome Alastor, I’d probably do it again.” You look at Alastor after that, “These tattoos are pretty cool. Thanks again for saving me. Love you!” You then look at Lucifer, the panic you felt before fading into manic, “Oh no problem. They look great! Love you too!”

You shake your head as you hop down off the chair and walk into the bathroom, missing the looks that Lucifer and Alastor exchange. You grab some soap and start washing your hands, getting ready to wash your face. Wanting to be away from both Lucifer and Alastor’s sheer ridiculousness.

“Ducky, why are you crying?” Lucifer asks, standing on your right behind you, scaring you as you jump, not hearing him or Alastor come into the bathroom.

“I-I’m not. Not crying.” You say looking at your self in the mirror. You blink and more tears fall. “Maybe I am.” You sigh.

“Why?” Alastor asks.

“Why? Why?” You ask loudly rounding on them. “I almost watched you die, Alastor. And either one of you could have died in that damn battle. And I just- I can’t loose you. I just… I can’t loose you both.” You whisper out as you slump against the counter of the bathroom, hiding your face in your hands. There’s a beat of silence and then you feel two hands pull your hands from your face. Your eyes meeting Alastor’s.

“I told you I’m not going anywhere.” He whispers, holding your hands to his chest.

“And I’m not going anywhere.” Lucifer says, coming to your side and resting his head on your shoulder. You sob as you stand there.

“You promise?” You ask, feeling ridiculous asking these two beings to promise. But you needed something that felt more concrete than their words at that moment.

“I swear it.” Lucifer says, kissing your lips.

“So do I.” Alastor adds on, kissing both your hands. You nod and take one hand to wipe the tears away from your eyes. Alastor stops you and wipes the tears from your eyes for you. And then suddenly your clothes are changed into pajamas. You look at Lucifer who is also in his pajamas, smiling for the first time.

“Remedial creation, darling.” Lucifer winks at you.

“Aren’t you just a useful little devil?” Alastor purrs, and both yours and Lucifer’s eyes widen. Lucifer’s cheeks completely red. You chuckle as you walk through them to the bed. As you look back you see them murmur something to each other and both nod, as Lucifer hugs Alastor. Alastor pulls Lucifer back and quickly gives the King of Hell a quick kiss and they both make their way to the bed. You climb in and ask what side each wants or where they want to sleep.

“May I-uh, sleep in the middle?” Alastor asks, still uncharacteristically quiet.

You excitedly nod and hop on the left side as Lucifer takes the right. You cozy up to Alastor’s left side and rest your hand on his chest. Lucifer grabs your hand as you both rest your hands on Alastor’s chest and cuddles into his right side. Alastor, is fast asleep almost the minute his head hits the pillow. You look at Lucifer who is also out like a light and smile. You all made it through this, you could make it through whatever came next.

[definitelynotshouting]

saw this post assigning devastating quotes to each life series members, got incredibly inspired, and decided to try my own hand at it but specifically with snippets of the poetry ive personally written throughout the years :] thoughts and musings on several of my choices will be under the cut if you're interested in that sorta thing!! Enjoy<3

Bdubs: "it's all so blue. so blue, so wet, so cold, but you've got a fire in your heart like a hundred rockets. you aren't hungry, but you could eat the dead, / cut your teeth on a rotting corpse."

BigB: "SOMETHING HAS FRACTURED HERE AND IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN. EACH DAY YOU WILL CHASE THE FAULT LINES LOOKING FOR A BRIDGE ONLY TO FIND IT ALREADY BURNT."

Etho: "I am above myself, hovering, pressing pale fingers into the dull bruise of yesterday to test its lingering ache. Is this all that's left?"

Gem: "what are gods if not the mothers of our own inventions. we are the avatars of violence and love and hope and fear in equal measure."

Scar: "I think I want to live. I know one day, I must die. In the cosmic wheel of fortune, I am a gamble in the making, gentle breath washing a little luck over the dice."

Grian: "Within the shape of my clawed fingers are knives: scrabbled dirt; scarlet lines; the escape route / Between a fence and / Tall grasses."

Impulse: "Life's bitter, stilted offering / Is that every person we meet / Will one day become a perfect stranger."

Martyn: "Dangerous beasts must earn / Their survival. / You are no different than a knife / In the hands of murderers."

Lizzie: "When I think of the egg-tooth, / I revel in purple glass; the lightning; the shatter; the knife-slip between / Death, and a wake."

Mumbo: "This is your life now, / Found in the cracks and crevices, scraps pried between laughter and reckless abandon."

Pearl: "I am begging, raw in the face of absolution— do not hate me. Please, keep watering me in your garden, / Despite how closely my heart resembles a weed."

Ren: "— and sometimes hearts are forged in violence /— and sometimes blood cannot form scabs / — and sometimes wounds carry half-hearted sutures / — and we are all but living fragments / —"

Skizz: "Just a little longer. Please. / There is light pooling at the bottom of the flower vase."

Scott: "I can only hope that with the rising of the dawn / I will pass through darkness and return to day, / Where I am a solar ray blinding— teeth and claws sharpened, the stretch of my skin carrying gold / Above the dull, dug out earth"

Joel: "Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; / Yes, there is a loss."

Jimmy: "for year after bloody year, i clung to life with aching fingernails, grasped at every straw, took every scrap of double-barrelled hope and shot myself in the chest with it."

Tango: "every time you claw yourself from the ashes you insist it will never happen again. every time you reach the breaking point, it happens a little bit faster."

Cleo: "It's about catharsis, not letting go. / Because a part of me wants to hold this, / A swelling hurt deeper than tides, / Hotter than stars. The kind of rage / A mother might raise against her own child."

I dont share my poetry on here very often, partially because it tends to end up coming from a very personal part of me, but since this was actually a lot of fun maybe i'll start posting my poems more often here :]] i think what i found most interesting about this exercise was that as i scrolled my notes app and cherry-picked quotes for each character, it felt like the ones i chose naturally became part of a larger conversation-- as if the characters were speaking to me through my own words about their lowest points, about their ultimate views on the games filtered through the lens of a red life.

It felt enlightening; i dont often feel like im speaking to characters or being informed about their plots/preferences, etc. the way many other writers discuss in workshops or casually online, but by the end of this exercise i felt like i just... understood them, better than i had before. There's something inexplicable about reading your own words and consciously finding ways to apply them in a way that encapsulates them down to a character's core that just... truly highlights the specific qualities that resonate most with you. And i think stumbling upon that organically was a very vivid and incredible experience for me

Admittedly, i did struggle on Scott, Ren, and Etho a lot-- im not as familiar with them as characters, and for a while i couldn't quite pinpoint what exact themes they tend to carry with them throughout all their life seasons. But when i started to really look at everyone's quotes as a whole, i realized they felt like a story, like the response to a question-- as if i was being TOLD what they felt and how, and that that was how i needed to frame the rest of my selections. So Scott's ended up being about control, and the desperate hanging onto of it; Ren's is about the acceptance and bitterness of what he cannot change; Etho's is a quiet resignation rounded out with softer disbelief. The more i looked at these choices, the more they felt correct to me-- and while i still think i have a ways to go before i fully understand these characters, i feel like this has helped me a lot with that ultimate goal :]

Of all these poetry snippets, though, i think Scar, Skizz, and Joel's are my absolute favorites. Skizz's poem is actually the whole poem in its entirety (as is Cleo's, funnily enough)-- it's a short, very simple poem that is incredibly close to my heart for many reasons, but the main one being because it was written at one of my lowest points a few years back. Its about clawing for hope when there isnt any, and finding even the smallest of beautiful things to hold onto, and begging yourself to keep holding onto that at any cost. The pure, clean beauty of watching light refract through a vase of flowers, and knowing that sometimes, that's all there is to live for-- I felt like that really spoke to Skizz's life series character as a whole: finding the beauty in every tiny thing, no matter how small, and scrabbling for more time to appreciate it.

Scar's snippet comes from a much longer poem of mine about the difficulty of reconciling the idea of a future when you havent had to think of one before (incidentally, Etho's snippet comes from this poem as well). I think out of everyone, this quote encapsulates him the best; i like how it subtly references that inner well of vivacity he draws from that many other characters struggle to find, and how that in turn ties in with the lore that he never died a final death during Secret Life. And i love how it simultaneously manages to encompass the way he utilizes the social game in each season as well-- Scar's an incredibly intelligent social player, and i think the imagery of a gambler breathing their luck over the dice as they cast it, and as he casts himself at others for alliances and enemies, truly does fit him.

As for Joel, the full poem his quote comes from is one im particularly proud of, especially for its final lines. I think, quite honestly, i can let this poem stand for itself in its entirety:

They say transformation is letting the light in, But in my mind it's a violence. A coarseness, a fracturing, the bloody vowels between a scream And a howl. How do you transform without killing yourself? When I am a lion, my hands and feet Grow claws; my teeth sharpen. No longer do I spark— I ignite. Tamed by nothing, no one, I lose myself to the shattered chains; Yes, there is a loss. To transform is to leave behind a body And eat its still-breathing corpse.

I find myself referencing this poem a lot even in my daily life-- as longterm readers of mine already know, one of my favorite themes is that of replacing yourself and permanent transformation. This poem really is just about how changing, in any shape or form, alters you forever; how you can look back on yourself from even just a few months ago and feel like a completely different person despite remaining the same. Connecting it with Joel's character, and how he acts during his red lives in each season, was a natural and intuitive progression once i really sat and thought about it.

Alright thats enough yapping from me 😂😂😂 im not used to writing meta nor delving into my poetry on here, so this was a bit of an experimental post for me. If youve read up until this point, i both applaud your patience and really hope you enjoyed this window into my personal works and thoughts on them :]] cheers, and thanks to @/chipperchemical the op of the original post for inspiring me!!!❤️❤️❤️

[obsidianpen]

Cold.

Despite the hellfire color of his eyes, there was no other word Hermione could use to describe the look on his face. Cold. Furious and frigid. Hermione trembled so badly her teeth began to chatter, and that icy expression cracked.

He—

He? Tom? The Dark Lord?

Voldemort?

—advanced, gliding down the stairs towards her with a swiftness and elegance that surpassed even what Hermione recalled of him. He had always been swift. He had always been elegant. 

Now he was… otherworldly.

What happened to him?

Hermione had so many questions—what happened, how, why; how was that stained glass window here, where was here, why were his eyes red—and no time to contemplate any of them. Too soon he stood before her. After a moment of hesitation, he unfastened the clasp on his outer cloak and pulled it from his shoulders. When he knelt down, Hermione flinched and closed her eyes.

He was looking at her. Hermione could feel his eyes examining her as she sat there, helpless, shaking and bare. She whimpered and hid her face in the crook of her elbow.

Something soft and thick was draped over her back. Hermione dared to open her eyes. His cloak. He had wrapped his cloak around her and was holding it now, keeping it in place over her shoulders. Desperate for the warmth and the coverage, Hermione grasped the fabric from the other side, pulling it tighter around her.

He was so close.

Hermione met his eyes and all of her wild fear, her confusion and panic, went blank.

How was it possible that someone like Tom Riddle could become even more stunning? But he was; up close, it was undeniable. Yes, his features were sharper; yes, his skin was unnaturally white, practically glowing in its paleness. Yet it all suited him. And that magic, that power—it was far more intoxicating when he was so near. Everything about him said worship me, fear me, bow to me.

Hermione might have been swept away by the gesture of his cloak and his beauty alone, might have been tempted to pretend, for a moment, that nothing had changed, that he had not spent fifty years without her—to close her eyes again and lean forward and find out if his lips felt the same—

But… those eyes.

Hermione’s moment of thought-annihilation was over; there was no possible fantasy to be had beneath violent, red eyes such as those.

For as frightening as that bloody hue was, there was something familiar in the way he examined her. Analytical yet awe-struck. Perhaps he was searching for golden lines that weren’t there. Perhaps he was still uncertain that it was really her. 

Finally, after an agonizing stretch of silence that Hermione was too stunned to break, he lifted one hand. He reached for her face. 

“Hermione… Granger.”

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Astro - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx tries her hand at superstardom...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

In the summer, the Baron's Bugle published a puff-piece: 10 Things We Love About Jinx!

It was no cheeky little write-up, but a full five-page photo spread devoted to Jinx's accomplishments as a Fissure prodigy: her gadgetry, her artistry, her style. There was a listicle ranking her top outfits (#1 was a gold-spangled cocktail dress, #2 a frilled acid green coattails-and-miniskirt combo, and #3 a pink-sequined bustier, black leather hot pants, and fishnet stockings because why the fuck not?). There were streetside interviews where every stratum of Zaunite gushed about Jinx's evolution from gun-toting terror to a glamourpuss heartthrob. There was a featurette on Jinx's collaborations with up-and-coming inventors from across Runeterra, the highlight being an article on Viktor, whom the reporter dubbed the "Hangman of Zaun", which Vitya loathed.

And then there was the pièce de résistance: a double-spread photo-essay complete with a candid interview by none other than B. Goode, who, after quarreling with The Sun & Tower's editor over certain journalistic ethics (a.k.a the refusal to peddle lies), had jumped ship for the Bugle, and was in the process of winning a Golden Quill with their meticulous coverage of Zaun's rise.

"Goodie-Gumshoe!" Jinx crowed when they'd reunited in the Laguna Lounge under Silco's watchful eye. "Back for round two, huh?"

Goode, for reasons unknown, glanced Silco's way, then blushed.

The spread chronicled the arc of Jinx's soaring comet from penury to privilege, and the series of brutalities that had each served to fuel the fire that forged her. Goode was a pro: armed with hard-hitting questions, each one geared to evoke Jinx's resilience and charm. The narrative didn't shy away from Jinx's history, either, and wasn't afraid to address the controversial issues—the Day of Ash, the Siege, Shimmer.

But, true to form, Goode did not sensationalize the story, or reduce it to a salacious slideshow.

Jinx kept the interview blithe, bantering, breezy. Goode quizzed her on everything from her first successful invention (Buttons), her latest project (an aerial filtration system for toxic miasma), the secret to her skincare regimen (sump-vole grease, duh!), to any special man in her life.

Jinx deftly sidestepped that sticky subject: "I'm too busy to get busy. But I'm open to applicants! Just submit your CV to Daddy's goon squad, and duck the barrage of gunshots."

When Goode asked how Jinx felt about Zaun's future, she'd replied, "Zaun's gonna eat it for breakfast. And I'm not talking metaphorical. We've got a new recipe cooking. It'll change your life, or blow it clean up."

And she'd tipped a wink, leaving Goode in stitches.

"The Girl from the Bottom is no longer Zaun's rising star," Goode summed up, "but its symbol. In a world that has so often sought to diminish her, Jinx has grown larger than life, a shining example of the resolute spirit that has made Zaun, once a mere annex to Piltover, a nation to be reckoned with."

The edition was a smash hit. Nearly three-million copies flew off the press. The circulation numbers were stratospheric. The Bugle's editor was in raptures. So were the readers. Jinx had been Zaun's unofficial postergirl for ages. But the endorsement of a premium publisher elevated her to the status of a powerhouse. A flesh-and-blood icon.

Bonus: she looked super cute.

For Zaunite entrepreneurs eager to expand overseas, the next step was a no-brainer. Who better to carry the torch as a brand ambassador than the city's very own firebrand?

Jinx's likeness, once charmingly ubiquitous, was suddenly inescapable. It started with the storefronts in the Trade District of the Sumps. Then it spread across the billboards at Entresol and along the boulevards on the Promenade. Jinx's face, whether in caricature or cameo: emblazoned on the signboards of cafes or blown up big as life across skyscrapers. Zaun-themed cookbooks with her visage printed on their covers appeared on bookstores' front displays, as restaurants serving the latest "Fissure cuisine" boasted lines out the door. Luxury brands like the Vyx were keen to get a piece of the action: their new collections featured "J-Chic" couture inspired by Jinx's punky, gritty, carnivalesque aesthetic: ripped mesh leggings, studded belts, leather jackets, and—most importantly—lots of poppy neons. Even the music scene was jumping aboard. 'Get Jinxed' was enjoying a renaissance across the airwaves. On weekends, the nightlife was dominated by discotheques where 'Jinx-a-thons' kept Trencher teens grooving till dawn. And a brand-new club banger—a bawdy, upbeat remix called "Boom Boom"—began burning up the airwaves all the way to Topside.

Soon, even old blowhards like Councilor Hoskel, who couldn't tell a bass from his ass, knew all the lyrics.

The phenomenon transcended borders; Zaun shrank into the mere nucleus. Jinx, and her blues: a force of nature that could not be denied. A silhouette to embody the wild, ungovernable spirit of change that crossed Zaun's skyline, like a shooting star, and left fragments scattered all the way from Piltover's gilded skyline to Shurima's dusty plains.

A symbol whose reach was so broad, and whose potential for disruption so powerful, that not even the most cynical could deny its call.

A spark, igniting.

Naturally, her popularity had detractors. In Piltover, the conservatives had long deemed her a nuisance. The prospect of her becoming a global icon was alarming. As was the growing trend among the Piltovan youth to dye their hair blue, or wear t-shirts with her monkey-symbol on the front, or blast her song while riding the public transport. To counter the rebellious streak, The Sun & Tower begun publishing a series of starch-collared articles, all purportedly authored by an "insider", to paint Jinx as a threat to good-old-fashioned stability.

Anarchist, madwoman, agent of chaos—the epithets ran the gamut.

And yet, for the youth, it only lent Jinx a brighter luster. For so long, she'd been the villain of their bedtime stories. But as time passed, and Topside rubbed shoulders more and more with Zaunites, they began to see her through a different lens.

A story could have many sides, after all.

And isn't there always a ring of darkness, whenever a star burns brightest?

The feather in Jinx's cap, ironically, was her induction into Piltover's premiere publication: Astro.

The journal had a longstanding reputation as a trendsetter: a single mention could catapult a nobody into notoriety, or turn a fledgling business into a booming success. Jinx was the youngest—only—Zaunite to be considered for the front cover.

The publication had to seek Silco's permission; her Big Nineteenth was just around the corner, but she was technically a minor under Zaunite law. The proposed photospread would feature Jinx in a baby blue halter and matching blue aviators, with her hair coiffed in the victory-roll bob popularized by Zaun's restoration propaganda; flirtily windswept to evoke that free-wheeling whimsy.

The shoot would be themed around Zaun's rising generation of wunderkinds: a burst of fresh energy, with Jinx as its spearhead.

Their only caveat: her tattoos, and the tattoos only, would be airbrushed.

"We understand, in Zaun, body art is a rite of passage," the editor explained, after having done the impossible: secured a meeting with the Eye of Zaun. Dream-come-true or deathwish, that remained to be seen. "But we don't want our audience to associate Zaun with a gangland. It's not in line with the message of this shoot."

"Which is?"

"Youth. Vitality. Hope."

Silco, two-toned eyes piercing behind a steeple of fingers, took in each buzzword. Silence stretched between him and his guest: chokingly tight.

Finally, he cut to the chase.

"Surely," he drawled, "progress implies more than that? An appreciation, for instance, of what came before."

The editor, sweating bullets, mustered an appeasing smile.

"I don't mean it wouldn't be appreciated. But it could be, ah, misinterpreted."

"As?"

"Well—a history of conflict. Violence. Deviance."

Silco's smile widened to show razored teeth. It was charm without an iota of mercy: the shark that devoured whatever foolish fish wandered past its fangs.

"We are Zaun," he said. "Conflict, violence and deviance are the sum of our ethos."

"But..." The editor floundered, but forged on. "With respect, Your Excellency. The audience, if Jinx were to grace the cover, would not be confined to Zaun. Astro celebrates readership from far-flung shores, including Demacia and Noxus. Nations that may not share your...your..."

"Deviation?"

"...Quite." A delicate cough. "It's one thing, to say, feature Zaun's black-market trade, and the pride it takes in bringing people together in defiance of prejudice and societal expectation. That's a feel-good story. We'd happily run that, if only to thumb our own noses at the Council's conservative bloc."

Silco's lips ticked upward. Amused, not by the joke, but the fellow's chutzpah.

"But a culture that equates survival with the barrel of a gun?" Another cough. "That can easily become divisive. Even destructive. If readers who dislike Zaun, use Jinx to vilify the nation she represents—or worse, her father..." The editor bowed slightly, as if paying homage, "I fear it might have far-reaching consequences beyond Astro. And a polarizing outcome for international relations."

"Namely—" the drawl disarmed; the subtext disemboweled, "—you'll market Zaun's free spirit, but elide its context."

The editor flinched; a gutted man, clinging to his innards as they slopped across the carpet. But he was, whatever else, a professional.

"Astro is progressive," he emphasized, "but progress takes patience, Your Excellency. Jinx is an opportunity that deserves to be nurtured."

"How do you propose to 'nurture' a message nipped in the bud?"

"By understanding that this edition is not about yesterday, or today. It is about Tomorrow." The editor leaned in. "What birthed Zaun was a violent struggle. But that message will resonate with few except Zaunites. Instead of focusing on Zaun's bitter beginnings, it is wiser to concentrate on what we all share in common."

Silco's arched brow was the non-verbal equivalent of Go on, pull the other one.

"Respectfully, Excellency, you have said the same in your speeches! We bleed for the right to live. Don't we all? We breathe in spite of our shackles. Don't we all? We yearn to be free. Don't we all?" The editor clapped his hands together: an exhortation. "Zaun has suffered. I acknowledge that. So do many Piltovans. But we cannot fully appreciate how you have suffered. Not unless we meet each other halfway. When we do, compromise becomes nuance."

"Compromise." Silco's head canted to one side. "Through the death of my daughter's character?"

"Not—not necessarily!" The editor backtracked. "Our readers admire authenticity. But authenticity is raw; it cuts bone-deep. I'm asking if we can translate the past into something that... connects... rather than alienates. Rest assured! Our work would celebrate the Zaunite renaissance. Highlight luminaries like Jinx, born in Zaun's slums, who have now seen their dreams come true. Inventions given wings; homes given hearts. Startups rising sky-high. And best of all: children with no doors to walk through, promised new thresholds toward success." Another cough. "It'd be an inspiring narrative. One could even—" A flash of inspiration at metaphoric knifepoint, "—call it a renewal of Zaun's innocence!"

Silco's mismatched eyes held the editor in their crosshairs.

One: unnervingly cold. The other: unnaturally ablaze.

"A strange defense," the trademark tenor dipped lethally low, "given Zaun lost its innocence in the cradle."

The editor opened his mouth; reconsidered. His shoulders slumped.

"Be honest," Silco said. "This is censorship dressed up as conciliation."

"No." The editor shook his head. "Simply the opportunity to unite, rather than divide. And, let's be frank, seize control over Jinx's rising-star narrative before other papers do."

"Of course."

"With respect, Your Excellency. You've had a marvelous hand in sculpting her story thus far. But though you are the, ah, Eye of Zaun, you are also her father. Inevitably, there is bias. For you, she remains a girl-child. A cherished daughter. But to Runeterra, she is becoming a phenomenon. Not to mention: a woman. The combination holds appeal. Power. And others will want that power, badly enough to take it."

Silco, face darkening like the sky before an incursion, spoke slowly: "You're suggesting we preempt her exploitation."

"Yes! And—I realize the irony here!—preempt it by capitalizing on her allure." He broke off, cleared his throat. "Because better us—with Zaun's consent—showcasing her potential, than competitors motivated by more... base... incentives."

Silence hung. Broken only by the metronomic tick-tock.

Not of the clock, but Silco's slow-climbing temper.

"You're proposing," he said, and the steeple of fingers unfurled to separate into two deathly-white fists, "to exploit the very element that endangers her."

"No, your Excellency! To establish her, not as a victim, but a fully fledged sensation!"

"She is already a sensation."

"But with our platform, she'd be celebrated across Runeterra! No Zaunite has ever garnered such spotlight. An icon of unprecedented proportions, shaping discourse from politics to fashion."

"At the expense of her father's will."

"If the choice of clothing offends, we can work through alternatives—"

As abruptly as he'd agreed to the confab, Silco cut it short. "Good day. My blackguards will escort you out."

"But—"

"Your proposal, quite frankly, is above your pay-grade. Leave the diplomacy to the diplomats. And the flesh-peddling to the pimps. I trust Astro with neither. Especially involving my child. But—" He unfolded to his feet, silhouette framed in blood-red by the sunrays cutting through the window, "—if I'm in need of poisonous piffle to prop up my country's black market, you'll be first to know."

There was nothing left to argue.

The editor, with the silence of the condemned, withdrew.

It was only after Silco had returned to his desk, pouring a fifth of whiskey into his cut-crystal glass, that the eavesdropper in the rafters unfolded itself to pour in a shadowy slither across the carpet: soundless, as if weightless, or winged.

"Sheesh," Jinx drawled, hands laced behind her back as she prowled between the armchairs. "And I thought I had rage-issues."

Silco said nothing. The smolder didn't abate.

"Although," she went on, perching on the armrest on his empty chair, "calling him a pimp? Harsh, Daddy-o. Like flesh-peddling isn't a proud Zaunite tradition."

Silco, downing the shot of whiskey, made no comment. His anger—and Jinx had seen him plenty angry, plenty of times, usually with a blade brandished in one fist and a corpse congealing in the corner—was always explosive. A riot, too, given how quiet he was in other respects: suave, smooth, searingly understated. But so were flash-floods before they raged beyond control: insidious, imperceptible, then overwhelming.

This was different.

This was a wrath that manifested as ice: remote, silent, terrible. It set Jinx's teeth on edge the way nothing else could.

"What gives?" She spilled sideways into the empty chair, legs dangling over one armrest, arm slung over the other. "Sure, the guy's a bozo. And his rag makes a clown-show look classy. Plus: the no-ink policy? Total drag. But the bottom-line's what matters, right? A chance to pitch Zaun's brand-new beginning to the masses. Our star power gone interstellar!"

Silco poured himself a second measure. He wasn't really listening, and Jinx bristled. Where did he keep drifting off to? And why, when everything he—they—had worked for was on the cusp of glory?

Or was glory the problem?

(Too short of legacy? Too wide of perfection?)

"Anyway," she went on, determined to sell what couldn't be bought, " Astro's cookie-cutter as hell. But it's got major global juice. Just picture it: pageant spreads highlighting Zaun's greatest achievements. Kitchens stocked with pickled paradise; arc-lit street lamps that turn midnight into high noon; Shimmer-infused lip glosses for killer smooches on steamy summer nights. Everything Zaun prides itself on: making do, making bank, and making a little mischief on the side!"

The dark-spirited silence persisted. Tipping his glass, Silco downed the drink. Jinx mimed along, saluting with a non-existent glass of her own.

No dice. Not even a smile.

Gods, his moods were becoming a zigzag: up, down, left, right. It was disorienting. She'd once thought she knew Silco like the back of her hand—his pettiness, his ruthlessness, the razor-sharp intellect and the bone-dry humor, plus the deadly-soft underbelly that he bared just for her.

But these last few weeks were like wandering through a minefield. One wrong move, and: blam.

Sometimes, Jinx wondered if this was the natural course of things. If, as her ambitions soared, his own would stay tethered, down in the depths that'd birthed him.

In the darkness where he'd dwell alone: stubbornly solitary, killingly self-contained.

And grumpier by the day.

"So," he said at length, "you find their project worthwhile."

Jinx snagged her bottom-lip between her teeth. So he had been listening. More than that: he'd sussed out that Astro's editor would never have successfully navigated past Zaun's bureaucratic labyrinth without inside help.

"Well—yeah," she hedged, tipping a shoulder. "I might've pointed him in the right direction. Helped with the elevator ride up."

Silence, and another pour. Third shot, which meant dangerous territory lay ahead.

But Jinx was nothing if not a daredevil.

"I figured, y'know, it was time to broaden our horizons," she went on. "Reach beyond our comfort zones. Shake a few peaches before they rotted on the tree."

"Peaches?" Ice-cold, and bloody-bare: the glare cutting her way. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Oh, c'mon!" Jinx, playing footsie with the pile of trade edicts on his desktop, held firm. "You always say Zaun deserves international legitimacy. Well, here's our chance. Piltover's premiere press on our doorstep! Practically begging me to flaunt my ass—er, assets. Not to mention, boost your profile by proxy! Think of all Zaun'll gain—the trade, the tourists, the fat wallets jingling their coinage..."

"With our history stripped wholesale, and the rest sanitized beyond recognition." Silco swirled the dregs of whiskey. In the sunset, a scarlet wash filmed the glass like blood from a fresh-cut throat. "There are less tedious ways of selling Zaun's soul than by whoring yourself out, Jinx."

It was the first time he'd used anything remotely resembling vulgarity in her presence. A measure, perhaps, of just how deeply Topside's overture had bruised his ego.

Or was it something deeper, prickling the undercurrents of their bond?

Punishment, even if unmeant.

"Whore, s'more." Jinx sat up, hoping a little sass would break his funk. "My likeness is already stamped all across Zaun's backyard! So why blow your fuse 'cause some lame-o rag wants a few bits edited out? The guy's just doing his job: keeping his brand vanilla."

"You," Silco cut in, "are not a brand. You are the high Zaunite ideal. Topside has no say in your self-determinism."

But you do, Jinx thought, and felt oddly hollow.

She didn't say it. She didn't need to. Zaun owned her, top to toe, as a symbol. And Silco, her father, held exclusive rights to the rest. Since independence, she'd been serving both masters with boundless vigor, as if she'd been born to the role.

And maybe she was: the girl who'd kickstarted a revolution, and been crowned its queen.

But every shard of her life that Zaun swallowed was a chunk Jinx never had a chance to reclaim. Until, little by little, the resentment became a fierce bright itch under her skin. Until the wanderlust, the soul-deep disconnection, became a fuse fizzing its way to ignition.

Once, it would've ended in self-immolation. Not to mention, city-wide catastrophe. This time, it would be different. No cataclysm, but a comet's trajectory from rock-bottom straight into the stratosphere.

And comets always ate whatever got in their way.

"Maybe," she said, quieter, "it's not about self-determinism, but autonomy."

"Scant difference, if both require compromise."

"That depends."

"On?"

"Mine," she said, "versus ours."

Silco, glass halfway to his lips, stilled.

"Think about it. Five years ago, no Trench-wench would've dreamed of strutting her stuff in Astro's hoity-toity frontispiece. Now, they're here, hat in hand, at our door. And sure, they're fussposts. But change takes time, right? One baby step, then a sprint, and pretty soon it's running marathons!"

"You'd let Topside profit from your erasure to prove a point?"

"I'd prove to the Fissurefolk that nothing's outta bounds. They don't need to flaunt their suffering on their skins. Our ink ain't proof of principle: just our pride. And that pride runs deeper than any tattooist's needle. No matter how far we reach or how high we soar, nothing can take that away." Her chin tipped. "And if Topside's calling the shots on what's acceptable today? Tomorrow it'll be us. Because once a movement like this gains momentum, there's no going backward."

"Can't put the genie back in her bottle, hm?"

"Exactly!" She dropped the playful pretense. Her eyes locked on his. "The tipping point doesn't come easy, Silco. But when it does? It's a critical hit. The kinda stuff they'll write about in the schoolbooks. The kinda stuff every starry-eyed, scabby-kneed, snot-nosed little sumpsnipe will read about, and realize, hell. I could make that leap too. And if ol Jinx can get the ball rollin,' well. Ain't that worth a little sacrifice?"

"A little sacrifice," Silco repeated, witheringly neutral. "Until the next. And the next. Until we're back to square one, with no boundaries left to claim."

Jinx refused to be cowed. "Until one article becomes ten. Then fifty. Then a hundred! Until talk of Zaun's as commonplace as a handshake. Until the dialogue's shifted from, Wow, that terrorist sure looks hot, to Wow, what drove this girl to go war? And if they don't want the same war spreading to their streets, what can they do to help us help ourselves?"

"We didn't fight for help. We fought to be free."

"And maybe it's the talking," she countered, "that'll make it happen."

"Utopian drivel."

"Nope!" Jinx popped the syllable. "Pure chess. You say it yourself: the Council's terrified of losing face. And once Zaun's gained clout on the global stage, we'll be a threat to their pride instead of a dirty open secret. They'll have to widen the embrace—not as partners-in-crime, but as in-laws. Even siblings. Once they do? The average Piltie starts asking questions. Important questions! Questions like, hey, maybe reparations aren't enough? Maybe restitution's the way to go? Maybe re-establishing bonds is the path to salvation—not to mention the influx of sweet-ass Zaunite tech! All this in exchange for—"

"—for selling yourself like a sweetmeat to the highest bidder?"

"They're asking me to pose for a magazine," Jinx snapped, temper flaring at the condescension. "Not suck their dicks!"

A vulgarism for a vulgarism: fair trade in a city founded upon theft.

Silco's jaw tightened. The infamous temper held. Only his face spoke: a subtle shift from simple anger to a more complex emotion. And Jinx, with a sudden arrowing to the heart of the target—a smoothness that, like in firefights, verged on Zen-like—understood precisely why he hated the idea of her starring in Astro.

A refusal to play by their rules, yes. But also the refusal to relinquish what lay deepest at stake.

Her choice versus his own.

"What're you so afraid of?" she challenged, more slowly. "That I'll kickstart a new epoch for Zaun, but forget to pay my dues?"

"Forget how many they butchered us for daring to stand tall?" Silco retorted, silken as a silver garrote. "Forget that your wages of acceptance equate to surrendering their lifeblood: brutalized, subjugated, buried wholesale? Forget the murder that marks our very foundation?"

His vehemence brooked zero room for disagreement; no latitude for compromise. Because it wasn't just Jinx's choice that was the crux of the issue. It was the principle he'd built the city upon. Forward but never forget. An article of faith that underlined everything they'd suffered together. The root cause that'd led them, hand-in-hand, down the road to revolution.

And left thousands of bodies in their wake.

But Jinx refused to be browbeaten. She'd had her fill of ghosts: theirs, hers. All those decades, with nothing but bitterness to nurse their dreams. Surely, now that they'd made it, it was time for brighter beginnings? Time to write a chapter for those yet to come; something to wash the aftertaste of blood away?

Time to build bridges, if it meant stopping someone else from burning them down.

Or drowning in their shadow.

"No one's denying where we come from," she said flatly. "No one's forgetting why we fight. But I want Zaun to endure beyond the past, Silco. We're gonna change the world. And all of us—every single one, no matter what our past or future—will stand stronger if we go out there as whole. Not shattered to shit."

"Progress," Silco intoned, "at any price."

"Weighed up and worth it. Isn't that what you taught me?"

Silco set his glass back on the desk: cut-crystal met mahogany with a brittle clink.

Something changed, imperceptibly, in his stance. Still frigid as death; still simmering below the surface. But now an undercurrent ran through. Sorrow, perhaps. Scorn.

Or a subspecies of both: tender to the last, like a wound that never healed.

"Such grand justifications," he said, softly, "for a little girl's plea."

Jinx didn't flinch; the insinuation hurt too much.

"What do you think?" he went on, fingertip idly tracing the rim of the glass. "That selling out will win your sister over? That her side—their side—will forget your sins if you're willing to forgive their own?"

The sting of that rebuke—succinct, searing—sent tears pricking at the corners of Jinx's eyes. Because of course he knew. He knew, same way he knew her. Because they were both so fucking alike: born of a common flame that would not be doused.

Both clinging to a conviction that somehow, someday, the razing of their past would give way to a bloodless future.

And leaving, always, ashes behind.

"Maybe we could forgive," Jinx said, refusing to bleed. "Even if we never forget. Or maybe it's pointless, and instead of burying the hatchet, it's better to bury the bodies and burn all bridges forever. But if the dead can't let the past go, how can the living rebuild, Silco? If we stop trying, we'll stagnate. And then, everything we fought for—everything we deserve—it's all gone. A monument to our own hubris."

Something shifted again: the coldness yielding. But his eyes stayed hard.

"So," he murmured, "you would offer yourself up? A lamb at the slaughter."

"Call it whatever you want," Jinx retorted. "But every moment we spend in Zaun's past, is another moment our future's forfeit."

"And this forfeiture? Will it earn you the vindication you seek?"

Jinx shook her head. In a single fluid motion, she'd slid off the chair, skirting the desk with a dancer's grace. They came face-to-face: two shadows poised in a pool of bloody light.

"This," she said, "is nothing more—nothing less—than what Zaun deserves."

"That being?"

"The chance to move forward."

And, she tipped forward to drop a kiss to Silco's scarred cheekbone.

The sun sank scarlet: arterial-rich, slow and deep. In the glow, Silco's eyes were two black mirrors. Reflecting the incandescence of his daughter's dreams, even as his pale hands tangled in the tassels of her blue hair.

Twisting, ever-so-slightly, tighter.

[the-ellia-west]

Hello and Welcome!

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About me:

I am a Christian, and a Devoted one!

I am a Minor (High School) So DON'T BE WEIRD

I am a Woman

I am Straight and a Hopeless Romantic, but I'm not looking for a Relationship currently

I am an Author/Writer

Amateur artist, (Started drawing August 2024)

I am a Plotter, and I just recently figured that out!

I love to ramble and listen to rambles!

My MBTI is INFP-T

I live in the USA Midwest but I spell grey with an e

✦ I promise I don't bite! Please interact with me! ✦ Feel free to ask me anything about Writing or my WIPs, I love to help!

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Favorites: Book: John Carter, A Princess of Mars (By Edgar Rice Burroughs) Movie: Narnia, Voyage of the Dawn Treader Artist: Tobymac Song: Sleep in the Storm (Unspoken) Colors: Blood Red, Gold, Lilac Purple, Forest Green Hobbies: Writing, Doodling, Rambling Food: Eggs, Grapes, Noodles, Specifically Spaghetti, and Pork lo-mein Drink: Taro Milk tea & Cherry Italian Soda Characters: Haymitch, Zuko, Knuckles, Eustace, Darth Maul, Gummigoo, Hunter, Doey, Yarnaby Tropes: Magnificent Bastards, True Kings, Romantic Subplots, Grumpy Mentors, Darkest Hours, Redemption arcs, & Happy Endings Current Interests: Sonic, The Owl House, TADC, ATLA, Fool's Gold, PPT ch4

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I Post about:

Any of my Interests

Talking with and Supporting Friends

My Life and Feelings

My WIPS! (Usually Characters but sometimes Plot & Actual Writing) -[See Below]

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My Wips!

Just Click on the Titles for more info! (Masterposts Coming soon) QNA OPEN - PLEASE ASK ABOUT MY OCS

Jest of Royalty -JoR- Genre - High Fantasy Action Drama Type - Webcomic Theme - Anyone can be redeemed if They have the Remorse and are willing to put in the work Description - A Young Farm boy named Ronan Breaks the Magical Staff of a god, and embarks on a Vengeful quest to get them back, Finding a new family along the way and learning the true meaning of mercy and love

Fallen Genre - Romance Fantasy Type - Written Theme - Nothing said, done, or changed, Can Make a Person unworthy of love Description - In a World where name means everything, a Noblewoman named Adémiah runs away from home and meets a Criminal called Dyn who saves her life several times, and through a dangerous journey they learn to love one another, with the help of a Traveller called Bard

Chomik Genre - High-Fantasy Comedy Type - Comic Theme - None Description - Young Hero, Kaezal, is yoinked into a quest for knowledge by a researcher, Akea, and they come across a variety of different Foes and Reoccurring Villains

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Tags:

#Ellia scribbles - My Drawings, doodles, & art practice

#Ellia's rambling - My incoherent Ramblings about the stuff I love

#Ghost-stories - My Actual Writing

#Tea and trinkets - Yapping with my Friends

#Quill-and-ink - My Poetry

#Haunting box - Any asks

#Ellia's dollhouse - My Real Life

#Ellia's dolls - My Hyperfixations/interests

#Fallen wip - Anything important Fallen-related

#Chomik work - Anything Chomik-related

#Ellia's jor - Anything JoR-related

#JoR memes - Memes and random funny stuff

#JoR family - Character info, Team Dynamics, conversations, ect.

#JoR psychology - We dive into the minds of the Characters

#JoR characters - Stuff about individual characters

#JoR vital - Things I may need for later/important stuff

#JoR building - Worldbuilding

#JoR story - The Plot

#JoR snippets - Scenes, Writing, ect.

#JoR thoughts - My ramblings about the WIP

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My Moots:

@thewritingautisticat @yolbert @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @lunaeuphternal @an-indecisive-nerd

@homelessnerd @thebookishkiwi @write-with-will @pastellbg @i-do-anything-but-write

@darkandstormydolls @supercimi @blargh-500 @sunflowerrosy @corinneglass

@carb0n-m0n0xid3 @tiredpapergirl @vesanal @fourwingedsnake @ellowynthenotking

@busybussinbee @the-letterbox-archives @harleyacoincidence @cosmolumine @urnumber1star

@thecrazyalchemist @i-hate-happy-endings @stars-forever @fantastictrashpolice @blue-kyber

@artsandstoriesandstuff @rivenantiqnerd @cybercelestian @aalinaaaaaa @agirlandherquill

@smudged-red-ink @clever-naming-convention @carb0n-m0n0xide @theweirdbox123 @seastarblue

Farewell, and have a good day Loves!

[vintageunknown]

The reason why critical analysis in this fandom is Like That is precisely the problem with most adaptations. An adaptation is an interpretation of the source material, not a 1 to 1 expression. Even the most faithful adaptations still make changes or take liberties but they stand on their own. Film and books are vastly different art forms and require different techniques for coherent storytelling.

Any hint of trying to take the show at what it says is always inhbited by book readers eager to affirm or dismiss everything based on past or present books. It can be quite frustrating extrapolating information based on what is given on the show when people chime in with book spoilers to reach a conclusion the show viewers aren't even allowed to anticipate.

You can't talk about Louis and Armand's developing relationship without someone chiming in about how it doesn't matter because loustat are endgame.

You can't talk about how the Marius in the show is portrayed as an abuser without someone saying he apologizes in Blood and Gold so it's all good.

You can't talk about how Daniel and Armand's relationship so far is strictly adversarial with Armand cleary not happy about Daniel's presence without someone saying they're secretly past lovers based on what is meant to happen in the books.

You can't even talk about Claudia’s many complicated beats without someone saying she called Louis naive or something in book 1,200 so she's an evil manipulator all along. Or that Lestat says something different in TVL so the Louis we see now is a liar.

It's as if no one is simply allowed to like the show without having a PhD in Anne Rice's works first. Very frustrating considering the showrunners have expressed very clearly that for all their adherence to the books, they are taking plenty of liberties. I haven't read the VC apart from some snippets here and there, but plenty of people who did have stated how incoherent the books get later on and how serial retconning ruined them so I'll take their word at face value for now.

Running to the books to invalidate what is on screen ruins the experience for everyone, including book fans. Your books have existed since the 70s and will continue to. Don't you want to open your mind to a different perspective and see something fresh? Obviously not all book fans are like this, but I've seen enough to make this post.

Let the show be what is wants to be please.

[tinytalkingtina]

If anyone wants a tutorial on how to make stuff in canva I recommend thecutestgrotto's very helpful guide

Rules: Send me an emoji in an ask, and I'll write 3-5 sentences and/or paragraphs from that WIP. No limits to the amount of emojis you can request, please feel free to send multiple!

Thanks for the tags @turinspeachjam @hbyrde36 @cloudsurfing42 and @madaboutmunson!

✨ My steddie BB "Cursed Prince Steve and Bard Eddie" fairytale AU is at 12k now! working on the task of strength this weekend, so having fun making familiar faces pop up

🏴‍☠️ Eddierotica: "Eddie writes the world's worst erotica about characters who are just poorly disguised versions of himself and Steve. They're not dating" now features plot and an actual set up outside of the erotica! Going to aim to have the first two chapters done for the Switch Eddie week event, so be ready for pirates and vampires!

👽 Back this week to actively working on my Star Trek AU Enemies to Lovers! Gonna do my usual hopping around writing chapters concurrently, so you may get various stages as Eddie and S'tevan's relationship evolves

Tags and a SFW snippet of ✨ under the cut:

Shockingly, the prince didn’t call for the guard as he expected. Instead, he gestured for Eddie to come closer, beckoning with a gloved hand clad in fine leather.

As he drew near, Eddie raised an eyebrow. The prince had a chessboard set up halfway through a game. A quick glance around showed no one else around to play against.

Maybe he was trying to figure out how the pieces moved in private?

“If you’re looking for a job at the palace you’ve come to the wrong person. Try the kitchens instead.” With that, the prince turned his attention back to the board.

Eddie clutched at his makeshift disguise.

“I uh, have no need for a job, I am of noble blood!”

“No you’re not.”

Curses.

“I beg your pardon, of course I am!”

“No, you’re not.” The prince finally moved a white pawn. He then got up and sat down on the black side of the board while pointing towards Eddie’s feet.

“Putting aside how worn your boots are, your footsteps are light and quick. The only nobles who walk with the same pattern are either away from the capitol for the season or taller than you. Except Sir Brenner, but Sir Brenner walks with a limp. Besides, your clothes do not bear the colors of any noble house in the region.”

“I...I could be visiting!” Eddie retorted, grasping at any thread he could to get out of this alive. The prince tilted his head. Eddie could have sworn the mask had taken on a smug expression in the last thirty seconds.

“Hmm, a visitor who was not present at this afternoon’s royal luncheon for the king and queen to interrogate? Or did you mysteriously fall ill during those exact hours.”

Eddie blinked. Was the prince mocking him? Before he could reply, Stephen moved quickly to ensnare his hand. Eddie’s heart beat out a wild staccato as the prince proceeded to slide his glove off and trace the calluses on his palm.

“No one of noble blood would work with their hands uncovered enough to grow these, would they stranger,” the prince said smoothly. His tone, so self-assured and full of himself, grated on Eddie’s nerves.

Stephen then lifted the edges of Eddie’s mask and pressed a finger into the space where his neck met his shoulder.

“Odd how your skin is burnt here too.” Eddie didn’t dare breath. This close, he could see the prince’s eyes peeking out from his mask. The last few rays of the setting sun caught shimmering flecks of gold and green as they crinkled in amusement.

“Let’s see. We’ve proven you’re not a noble. And the fact that you tried to continue with this honestly terrible disguise means you’re not in search of a job. Which just leaves the obvious: you want something from the Crown Fool. So tell me stranger, what do you wish for me to do for you?”

Tagging a few folks to join in and work on their own WIPs!

@queenofshenanigans @queenie-ofthe-void @runninriot @apomaro-mellow @augustjustice

@vthx @pearynice @lingeringmirth @kikidoesfanfic @sunflowerharrington

@bellandora @wynnyfryd @zombiethingy @fkinkindagauche @scoops-aboy86

@little-annie @just-my-latest-hyperfixation @onirislanding @strangerthingswritersguild

[crazy-ache]

WIP Snippet - Elucien Body Swap

Thank you @olenvasynyt for making this graphic for me! ₊₊₊₊ Lucien’s mechanical eye whirred more frantically and erratically at the emerald jeweled necklace than he could ever recall in his long, immortal lifespan. It was thrumming and covered in a spiderweb of spells, though through his russet eye, he could see it sit plainly as any other piece of jewelry would in Elain’s small hand. 

“Who could throw such a thing away?” 

He wasn’t used to her asking questions of him. He wasn’t used to the pleasantry of conversations with his mate. Yet it wasn’t nerves churning in his stomach. 

“Lady, you really shouldn’t touch that,” Lucien cleared his throat, nervously stepping toward her. “I have a bad feeling about—“

He watched as Elain looked into the hallway mirror and held the strange necklace up in the air as if to place it upon her perfect neck. 

“No!” He couldn’t restrain himself. It reeked of curses and ancient spells. To hell with manners and their long-standing history of stilted, distant propriety.

Instinct had him lurch forward, reaching for her shoulder to prevent her from putting it on. 

When his hand found her skin, the last thing he saw was her reflection in the mirror—wide, surprised brown eyes staring right at him and her gaping mouth parted as if to shout his name. 

He never did hear her shout it. 

The buzz of unfamiliar, tingling magic encapsulated them both, starting from the necklace itself, then traveled up her delicate arm to the place his fingertips joined her shoulder. A gold dusting spread all along their bodies. As it happened, it seemed to grip them both in place from where they stood and breathed—not a single hair on their heads even moved. A single heartbeat later and the magic released them. 

Lucien went tumbling back, careening into a coatrack. From the loud crash he heard, the force must have also sent Elain falling backward. The necklace clattered on the spot where they had just stood, its magic no longer emanating, leaving it seemingly ordinary and lifeless. 

“What just happened?” 

Lucien heard his shaky voice ask. 

Only he had not spoken. He had not even opened his mouth. 

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he snapped his head up. Wide, mismatched orbs met his gaze from across the floor. His eyes met him. That was his molten red hair spilling on the floor as his body pushed itself up to a sitting position. Panic surged through him, extinguishing his inner fire like a bucket of ice cold water. Lucien nearly broke his neck to look down at himself because what the actual fuck—

Those were definitely Elain’s breasts where his chest was supposed to be located. He wasn’t proud to admit he did in fact know what they looked like even if they barely made eye contact in the past few years. Her long locks of curled hair came into his view and her thin hands trembled as he tried to breathe. 

He clumsily jumped to his feet, not used to the lightness of her petite frame. Elain followed and they both peered into the hanging mirror at the same time. His mate’s face was staring back at him. He touched her smooth face with the hesitant pad of his fingertips. Next to him, Elain did the same, her now large, broad hands slapping his cheeks, like this was just a bad dream and she simply needed to wake up.

He was inside Elain’s body. 

And not in a good way. 

Which meant Elain was inside him—

He cringed as the loudest, most blood-curdling scream pierced the hallway. Lucien had never heard himself sound so terrified before, and he certainly hadn’t known his voice could reach such a high octave in range. Which meant Elain had figured it out as well.

Elain held his hair in her hands as if it were the most offensive creature to ever touch her. His own heart was thundering in his chest. Well, technically it was Elain’s chest. It felt as if he couldn’t find the air because these lungs did not belong to him. The unsettling realization made the room spin. 

Oh, Cauldron boil him.

They had switched bodies. 

[smoosey]

Snippet Sunday

Fussing around in the Hanahaki fic this weekend:

The next morning, Cody wakes with a petal on his pillow. It's small and soft and orange-gold, and barely larger than his thumbnail. But in the gray sterility of the barracks, the cramped solitude of his officer quarters, it's out of place. It's unmistakable. He stares at it, his body rattling to the beat of his heart like he's under the thunder of canonfire. With shaking hands, he tucks it into the collar of his blacks, and holds himself empty inside, and doesn't think of it, won't think of what it means — what it's meant, what it will mean, the blood on the mats, or the blank and strange manner of the reconditioned, the resected. He holds himself empty, shakes out his hands until they settle, and forgets.

Absolutely no pressure tags to @raphaerolo @aquaticflames @picktheonesthatlast @eightbitpale @frostbitebakery @snowywinterevenings (if you feel like it!) and also to anyone else who'd like to play :) I would love to see what everyone is working on!