#dagger of shadows and crows

[evermore-crow]

i’m sitting here in my bed, knitting a hat, watching a live stream of the Eras Tour but so so soooo SAD over Freddy Carter’s character in The Dagger and The Flame. Like i’m SO FUCKING sad rn wtf 😭😭 (pls i need more of Freddy Carter, pls pls plsssss)

[amethystmoonart]

Inej Ghafa, treasure of my heart

[jasper-the-crow]

Some sword/dagger sketches for my boy Callum (oc). Anybody here know designs for a useful but extravagant looking sword? love to draw some more of these bad boys + get some color suggestions

[inseobts]

Busted! (Secret Relationship)

what if the two of you are in a secret relantionship and suddenly everyone start to realize something is going on?

characters: zoro, sanji, law, koby, ace

(luffy, sabo, kid, shanks, bartolomeo)

words count: around 0.8k - 1.3k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Zoro:

The Thousand Sunny is quiet most days, but today feels especially peaceful. The crew’s scattered across the deck sunbathing, napping, playing cards, and you? You’re on a mission.

Zoro’s disappeared again.

“Where did he go this time?” you mutter, padding softly down the hallway. You’ve checked the deck, the crow’s nest, even behind the kitchen. Nothing. Then you think... of course! The training room.

Sure enough, you step inside and spot him, dead asleep on the floor, his swords lying beside him like loyal dogs. He looks peaceful, his breathing deep and even. You smile. He really can sleep anywhere.

You don’t mean to sit down next to him, but somehow, you do.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to rest your head against his shoulder.

Next thing you know, it’s dark. The room’s dipped in shadow, the ship creaking gently. You jolt upright, a little dazed.

“Zoro—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But he just grunts, shifting a little. His shoulder doesn’t move from under your cheek.

It becomes a pattern after that.

You find him again a few days later, this time slumped in a corner of the dining room. You lie down nearby. Sleep drags you under before you can think twice. When you wake, your head is in his lap.

“You’re fine�� he murmurs, when you apologize again. Like it’s no big deal. Like he’s used to you being there.

And you start to think… maybe he is.

The naps become frequent. Easy. Comfortable. You stop trying to come up with excuses. You sit beside him on the deck while the others chatter. You lean against him while he sharpens his swords. He never pulls away.

One night, you find him leaning against the wall of the storage room, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed. The moment you walk in, he straightens, just barely, but enough for you to know he was waiting.

He pulls you in without a word. A kiss. Slow, familiar. His hands are warm on your back.

“I missed you” you whisper against his collarbone.

Zoro exhales through his nose “You saw me four hours ago.”

“Still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans his forehead against yours.

It’s sweet. Undisturbed. Until you hear footsteps and both of you freeze.

“Shhhit” you whisper, slipping away as quiet as you can.

Neither of you sees Chopper peeking from behind a barrel.

The next day, the crew is watching. Not subtly.

You notice Nami watching you with a knowing smirk. Robin sips her tea, but there’s amusement in her gaze. Sanji is glaring daggers at Zoro (okay, that’s normal), but Usopp is squinting at you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

You clear your throat “What?”

Usopp narrows his eyes further “You and Zoro have been acting weird.”

Your heart nearly stops.

You glance at Zoro, who doesn’t even flinch as he takes another bite of his rice “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That you two are obviously acting weird lately...” Nami finally says.

Zoro doesn’t even blink “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re eating your vegetables...” she points out.

Zoro shrugs “Coincidence.”

“You showed up early to dinner” Usopp adds, suspicious.

“Must’ve been a fluke.”

Brook, not missing a beat, says, “I saw you napping with her head on your lap again. Yohohoho~”

You wish you could melt into your chair. But Zoro? Calm as ever.

“She was tired,” he says flatly “What’s the problem?”

Luffy gasps dramatically “You’re dating!!”

Zoro sighs “We were resting.”

You stare at your plate, but a warm touch to your hand under the table grounds you.

Zoro, looking at you like the whole world could wait.

Days pass. You try to be extra careful. Less glances. Less sneaky meetings. Less…everything.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because one night, the crew catches you.

It happens so fast. One moment, you’re on watch duty, and the next, Zoro is there, dragging you into a kiss. It’s heated, his hands gripping your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, completely lost in each other.

Then “AH-HA!!”

You jolt apart.

Usopp is pointing at you both, eyes wide with betrayal “I knew it!!”

The entire crew is gathered behind him, staring.

Luffy tilts his head “Wait, were we not supposed to know?”

Sanji is fuming “Why him?! You could do so much better, Y/N-chan!”

Robin chuckles “It was quite obvious, honestly.”

Chopper bounces excitedly “I saw them sneaking around weeks ago!”

You cover your face in embarrassment “Oh my god, it was you!”

Zoro groans, rubbing the back of his neck “Tch. Should’ve known you idiots would figure it out. You never mind your own business.”

Luffy grins “Well, at least you don’t have to sneak around anymore!”

Zoro pauses, then shrugs “Guess that’s true.” He turns to you, smirking “Means I can kiss you whenever I want now.”

Your face burns “Zoro!!”

The crew erupts in laughter (except for Sanji, he cries louder).

Secret’s out.

Now you nap by his side without hiding. You lean against him on long afternoons. You sit close at meals. Luffy teases you both constantly. Sanji mutters curses under his breath. But it’s fine.

It’s more than fine. It’s peaceful.

That night, after dinner, you find yourself heading below deck. The ship rocks gently with the sea, moonlight shining through the portholes.

You already know where you’ll find him.

He’s sitting in the training room, back against the wall, swords neatly stacked beside him. When you walk in, he glances up, but he doesn’t say anything.

You sit beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“I thought I might find you here” you say.

Zoro grunts, not disagreeing.

Silence settles in. Comfortable. You shift slightly, laying your head in his lap. He doesn’t move, just lets his fingers find their way into your hair, slow and soothing.

It’s a simple thing. The kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

His hand runs gently over your scalp. You feel your eyes drifting shut again.

“I like this” Zoro says, voice low, almost a rumble.

You blink sleepily, your cheek still pressed to his thigh “Hm?”

“You. Sleeping like this.” He pauses “On my lap.”

Your heart flutters at the quiet honesty. You glance up at him, but he’s not looking down, he’s staring straight ahead, the barest hint of pink on his cheeks.

“I like it too” you murmur.

Zoro’s thumb brushes just behind your ear, then down the back of your neck, repeating the motion. A steady rhythm. Grounding. Careful.

His fingers slip into your hair again, and he continues tracing lazy circles on your scalp. His other hand rests lightly on your arm, as if to say, I’ve got you.

You drift off to the sound of his breathing, calm and slow.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the windows.

You wake slowly, still curled up in Zoro’s lap. His fingers are tangled gently in your hair, and his thumb brushes your temple in slow, steady passes.

You tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

“How long have you been awake?” you whisper.

Zoro smirks, eyes warm “Long enough.”

You stretch, reluctant to move.

“I’m comfortable” you mumble.

He doesn’t stop touching your hair “Good.”

“Zoro?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m getting used to this.”

He finally looks down at you, something quiet in his expression, softness, maybe. Peace.

“Yeah,” he says “Me too.”

And you smile, because in this floating world full of chaos, monsters, and adventure… it’s the quietest moments like this that feel the most real.

── .✦ Sanji:

Sanji is always everywhere. In the kitchen. On the deck. Serving drinks. Flirting with Nami and Robin. Spinning around like the lovestruck idiot he is.

Which is exactly why no one suspects a damn thing.

No one notices how his hand brushes against yours just a little longer when he passes you a plate. No one questions why he always makes extra of your favorite dish. And no one, not even Usopp, the self-proclaimed detective, realizes that when Sanji disappears from the kitchen at night, it’s to be with you.

Like right now.

It’s past midnight, and the kitchen is dimly lit. The scent of fresh tea and something sweet lingers in the air as you lean against the counter, watching Sanji work. His sleeves are rolled up, his vest discarded, and the soft glow of the lantern makes his golden hair look even more unruly.

“You’re spoiling me” you murmur as he places a small plate in front of you a delicate pastry, still warm.

Sanji grins, wiping his hands on a towel “Of course, mon amour. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”

You take a bite, humming in satisfaction “Mmm. Amazing.”

His eyes soften as he leans in, resting his palms on the counter on either side of you “I can think of something even sweeter.”

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. You melt into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as his fingers gently tilt your chin up. His lips taste like mint and a hint of the dessert he just made, and you lose yourself in the warmth of him.

Then a loud BANG from outside the door.

Both of you freeze.

Sanji pulls back, glancing at the entrance “Shit—”

You practically shove him away, wiping your lips as the door swings open.

“Oi, I swear, I'm not here to see your ugly face, I need—”

Zoro stops mid-sentence, looking between the two of you. His eyes narrow.

Your heart stops.

Sanji, ever the smooth talker, immediately turns to glare at him “Moss-head, do you have no manners? Barging into my kitchen?”

Zoro scowls “Tch. Like I wanna be here. Luffy’s whining about meat, and I—” His gaze shifts back to you. Suspicious.

You force a casual smile “Uh… late-night snack?”

Zoro doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick between the two of you once more before he grunts “Whatever. Just bring food before Luffy eats Chopper.”

He turns and leaves.

You don’t breathe until the door clicks shut. Then you glare at Sanji “We almost got caught.”

Sanji just smirks, brushing his fingers over your wrist “But we didn’t.”

You always try to act normal. You really do. But Sanji makes it so damn difficult.

He’s always sneaking glances at you across the table. Always brushing against you when he walks by. Always bringing you your favorite snacks, acting like it’s nothing.

And apparently, the crew is starting to catch on.

“You guys ever notice that Sanji doesn’t flirt with Y/N as much as he does with Nami and Robin?” Usopp suddenly asks one day.

Your spoon nearly slips from your hand.

Franky strokes his chin “Huh. Now that you mention it…”

Brook chuckles “Ohhh, that is unusual.”

Luffy, mouth full, tilts his head “But Sanji flirts with everyone.”

Zoro scoffs “Yeah. Except Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

Sanji, who had been stirring a pot at the stove, doesn’t even flinch “I’m just being a gentleman.”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Are you, though?”

Sanji turns, flashing his usual charming smile “Of course, my dear! Why would I treat Y/N-chan any different?”

You force a nervous laugh “Right! That would be weird, huh?”

They don’t look convinced.

Robin simply sips her tea, giving you both a knowing look.

In the end, it’s Luffy who ruins everything.

One day you and Sanji are in the storage room, tucked away between crates of supplies, wrapped up in each other. His hands are in your hair, his lips teasing against yours, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist... at least until the door slams open.

“SANJI, ARE YOU IN HE—oh.”

Luffy stops. Blinks. Tilts his head.

You and Sanji are frozen in place, practically tangled together.

Luffy’s face slowly lights up “OOOOHHHH!!!”

You scramble back “L-Luffy, it’s not what it looks like—”

“YOU GUYS WERE KISSING!!”

Sanji sighs, rubbing his temples “Goddammit.”

Before you can even try to shut him up, Luffy sprints out of the room.

You stare at the door in horror “Oh no.”

“OH YES” Sanji groans, already dreading what’s about to happen.

“GUYS!!” Luffy yells at the top of his lungs “SANJI AND Y/N ARE KISSING!!”

A beat of silence. Then an explosion of multiple “WHAT?!”

Usopp “I knew something was up!!”

Franky “That’s SUPER unexpected!”

Brook “OHOHO, young love~!”

Chopper “How long has this been going on?!”

Nami “You guys really thought you were being secretive?”

Robin chuckles knowingly “Adorable.”

Zoro grinning smugly “Called it.”

Sanji groans, burying his face in his hands “Kill me now.”

You sigh, crossing your arms “Well. Secret’s out.”

Sanji straightens, huffing dramatically before flashing you a smirk “At least now I don’t have to hold back anymore, mon amour~”

He dips you backward, kissing you full on the mouth right in front of the crew.

Cue, another round of screaming.

── .✦ Law:

Dinner on the Polar Tang is always loud. Jokes, clinks of silverware, and Bepo’s laugh echo off the metal walls.

You sit between Shachi and Penguin, pretending to listen to their story about a giant sea bass they swear was “this big”, but your eyes keep drifting across the table to Law.

Your secret boyfriend. Your captain. The man who never smiles in public, but melts when you’re alone.

No one knows. Not even Bepo. You’ve kept it quiet for months. Private looks, quick touches in dark halls, and soft kisses in his room late at night.

Today, before dinner, you stopped by his quarters. Things got… heated.

“Hold still” you say, laughing as you straddle his lap, pressing kiss after kiss on his jaw, his cheek, his neck.

“You’re gonna leave marks” Law murmurs, but his hands stay firm on your hips.

“Good,” you whisper against his throat, lips painted with your favourite lipstick “Let everyone wonder who’s bold enough to kiss the Surgeon of Death.”

He smirks, but you clean him up after. Or so you think.

Now, mid-dinner, you notice it.

Right on the collar of his white shirt, just above the neck, there's a soft red smudge. Lipstick. Your lipstick.

Your eyes widen.

Shachi nudges you “Hey, is that… is there something on Captain’s shirt?”

Penguin leans forward “Yo, Captain. You spill something?”

Law blinks. Looks down “What?”

Bepo tilts his head “No, that looks like lipstick.”

Silence falls over the table. Everyone stares.

You try to act innocent, chewing your food and glancing around like you’re just as confused.

“Lipstick?” you say, blinking “Who around here even wears lipstick?”

They all look at Ikkaku.

She doesn’t even look up from her bowl “Not me,” she mutters “That's not even my color.”

Penguin raises an eyebrow “So… that means…” He turns his head slowly toward you “You’re the only one who does.”

Shachi points between you and Law “Wait… Are you two…?”

Law doesn’t say a word. He just sips his tea like nothing’s happened.

You smile, wide and unapologetic “Guess I missed a spot.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“WHAT?!” Shachi practically jumps over the table “YOU AND THE CAPTAIN?!”

“How long?!” Penguin shouts, eyes wide “Since when?! HOW DID WE NOT NOTICE?!”

Bepo stands up so fast he knocks over his stool “You’re dating the captain?!”

You raise an eyebrow “You guys okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“Don’t play innocent!” Penguin waves his spoon “You’ve been sneaking around with him! That’s our captain!”

Shachi gasps dramatically “All those times you disappeared after dinner… And that one time you came back with messy hair! I thought it was just wind!”

“Eheh, I am the wind” you say with a smirk.

Law sighs “You’re all loud.”

Bepo stares “So it’s true? You and Y/N?”

Law glances at you, then shrugs “Yeah.”

Another wave of panic.

“THE WAY HE SAID THAT!” Penguin screams.

“SO CALM—SO COOL—WHAT THE HELL!” Shachi is holding his head like it might explode.

Ikkaku finally looks up, deadpan “You’re all idiots.”

You lean into Law’s side, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Told you they’d freak.”

“Mm,” Law mutters “Still worth it.”

Bepo sniffles “I feel so betrayed… I thought we were a family.”

“We are,” you say “Just… a family with a very attractive captain who’s taken.”

“STOP,” Shachi yells “I CAN’T UNSEE IT.”

Law smirks just a little. And you can’t help it, you kiss his cheek in front of everyone, just to drive them a little more insane.

It’s been two days since The Lipstick Incident.

Two days of nonstop teasing.

“Morning, Y/N.”

“Or should we say Mrs. Surgeon of Death?”

You roll your eyes as Shachi and Penguin trail behind you like annoying seagulls.

“Captain! Can Y/N still go on missions or is she on girlfriend duty today?”

“Should we start knocking before entering the medbay now?”

Law mostly ignores them. Mostly. Except that time he dead-eyed Penguin and said, “Keep talking and I’ll switch your arms.”

The jokes died down for a few hours after that. But Bepo has become the most dramatic.

“I still can’t believe I found out at dinner like that,” he says, curled in a blanket like he’s mourning “I needed time to process.”

You plop down next to him on the couch “We didn’t mean to keep it from you. It was just… easier that way.”

He looks at you “Are you happy with him?”

You pause, then smile “Yeah. He makes me feel safe. And seen. Even if he doesn’t say much.”

Behind you, Law’s voice chimes in “I say plenty.”

You turn, surprised “You were eavesdropping?”

“It’s my ship.”

He walks over, drops a kiss on your forehead right in front of everyone. You expect chaos again, but the room is quiet.

Then Bepo grins “Okay. I approve.”

Shachi sighs “Fine. But if we ever hear weird noises from the engine room again—”

“—I will personally sedate you” Law cuts in.

The crew bursts into laughter.

Penguin raises his cup “To our captain and his secret weapon—Y/N!”

Everyone cheers. Even Ikkaku raises an eyebrow and gives you a subtle nod.

You look up at Law. He doesn’t smile much. But you see softness around the eyes, just for you.

Secret’s out. And honestly? It feels kind of nice.

── .✦ Koby:

The marine base is quiet at night, almost peaceful. You walk along the edge of the courtyard, your boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. The moon is high, casting soft light over the base. You pause near the training field and look around. No one’s there.

Good.

“Koby?” you whisper, stepping behind a storage shed.

A soft rustle comes from the shadows. Then he steps out. His hair is a little messy, his uniform jacket open.

“You’re late” he says, but he smiles.

You roll your eyes “Only by five minutes.”

Koby glances around. He takes your hand and pulls you closer into the shadow of the wall. His hand is warm. You lean into him, your heartbeat fast.

“If anyone sees us…” he says, his voice low.

“No one will,” you say quickly “They never do.”

He chuckles “We’re getting good at this.”

“You mean I’m getting good at it,” you tease “You still get nervous when someone says my name.”

“That’s because Garp keeps watching me like he knows something” Koby says, eyes wide.

You laugh “Maybe he does.”

Koby groans “Don’t say that.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek “Relax. We’re always careful.”

He smiles at you, that soft look he only gives when it’s just the two of you “I missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“That doesn’t count. You were in uniform. You called me Sir.”

You smirk “Would you prefer Captain Sweetheart?”

Koby covers his face, laughing quietly “Please don’t.”

The sound of footsteps suddenly cuts the moment short.

You both freeze.

“Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Koby nods, already pulling away. You both hide behind the shed just as two lower-ranked marines walk by, talking about some drill tomorrow. They don’t see you.

Your heart pounds. When the footsteps fade, you let out a breath.

Koby looks at you, serious now “We can’t keep doing this forever.”

You know what he means. But you don’t want to think about it. Not tonight.

“Let’s just have this,” you say “Right now.”

He nods slowly, fingers brushing against yours again “Right now.”

Neither of you say the words out loud, but they’re there, floating in the silence.

This is dangerous but it’s totally worth it.

The sky looks angry today.

Wind whips through the courtyard, and the clouds hang low like they’re ready to fight someone. Fitting, considering your brain’s in a brawl with itself after what Helmeppo said the day before.

"Koby, huh?"

You can’t stop hearing it. His smirk. That I-know-something-you-don’t-want-me-to-know tone.

You march past the barracks, straight toward the supply shed, your usual spot. You pace in tight circles. The door creaks. Koby walks in, drenched from the rain already starting.

“I heard Helmeppo” he says.

You nod “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“I know. But he knows. He’s probably telling his pillow right now.”

You snort, even though your chest feels tight.

“What do we do?” you ask.

Koby looks out the cracked window “I don't think anyone would even care about what Helmeppo says, but I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

You wait.

“…What if we stop hiding?”

You blink “Just like that?”

He shrugs “We tell the truth. If we get in trouble, we get in trouble. At least it’s not lying anymore.”

You walk up to him, water dripping from the edge of the window onto your boots “You’re serious?”

He nods “You’re worth the risk.”

Before you can answer—BOOM! The door BURSTS open like it owes someone money.

There stands Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, holding a giant sack of snacks.

“I KNEW IT!” he bellows, pointing a meat bun at both of you like it’s a pistol “I KNEW YOU TWO WERE SWAPPING LOVE NOTES INSTEAD OF LOGBOOKS!”

Your soul nearly leaves your body. Koby jumps like he just got hit by lightning.

Garp stomps inside, water puddling under his boots “You think I’m old and blind?! I see everything! The glances! The disappearing acts! The suspiciously timed bathroom breaks!”

You and Koby look at each other, stunned.

“I—uh—we weren’t—” you stammer.

Garp holds up a finger “Don’t lie! I’ve seen more romance in your sneaky hallway nods than in a whole damn soap opera!”

Koby finally finds his voice “Vice Admiral Garp, we—”

Garp grabs two rice balls from his bag and tosses them at your heads.

“About time! I was betting with Sengoku you two would crack by this month!” He slaps Koby on the back so hard he almost falls over “Make it work, kiddo. Or I’ll make you regret everything.”

He stomps back into the storm, yelling at the sky.

“I WANT A WEDDING INVITE WHEN THIS BLOOMS INTO MARINE-SANCTIONED LOVE!”

Then he’s gone.

The silence is unreal.

“…Did he just bless our relationship and threaten us at the same time?” you ask.

Koby looks dazed “I think he also gave us lunch.”

You both stare at the rice balls on the ground.

You reach for one “So… no more hiding?”

Koby grins “No more hiding.”

You nod “Good. But that wasn’t romantic. That was a jump scare.”

By the next morning, everyone knows.

You’re not sure how.

Maybe it was Garp yelling across the courtyard. Maybe it was the rice ball slap. Maybe it was the way Koby smiled at you in front of a full squad meeting like it was no big deal. But now, it’s official.

You’re walking through the halls and two marines actually wink at you.

One gives you a thumbs-up. Another whispers, “Cute couple” like this is high school.

And then there’s Helmeppo, waiting by the stairs like he’s been practicing his lines all night.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls “Look who finally stopped sneaking off like a pair of guilty raccoons.”

You roll your eyes “Don’t you have training or something?”

“Oh, I do. But this is more fun,” he says, grinning “You two really had me fooled. All those ‘Yes, sir’s and ‘Permission to speak freely’s. Cute. Very professional. Very fake.”

“I will tape your mouth shut” you say calmly.

“Spicy,” Helmeppo whistles “No wonder Koby’s in love.”

You expect Koby to stammer. To panic. To turn bright red and pretend none of this is happening.

Instead, he wraps his arm around your waist and says “Yeah. I am.”

What.

You turn to him “Who are you and what did you do with the shy marine I was dating in secret?”

He grins, a little pink in the cheeks, but steady “I’m done hiding. I like holding your hand. I like saying it.”

Helmeppo looks personally attacked “You’re gonna make me throw up.”

Koby shrugs “Go drink some water.”

You’re still trying to recover from the whiplash when Koby turns to you again, softer this time. No audience, no drama, just him.

“I missed being close to you,” he says “Even just walking next to you without pretending it means nothing. I hated pretending.”

Your heart tugs.

“I know,” you say “I did too.”

He leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours “Now I can do this.”

He kisses you. Just a short, sweet kiss. Right there in the hallway.

Someone behind you gasps. Someone else claps. It’s probably Garp. Or Helmeppo. Or both.

You laugh into Koby’s shoulder “We’re never gonna hear the end of this.”

“Good,” he says “Let them talk.”

── .✦ Ace:

It starts small.

Ace, lover of chaos and borderline inedible food, begins pushing onions off his plate.

At first, nobody says anything. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood. Maybe he’s just not feeling it today.

Then it happens again.

And again.

.........And again.

By the fourth time, Thatch is watching him like he’s trying to solve a murder.

“You good, man?”

Ace blinks, mid-push “Huh?”

“You keep banishing onions like they stole your ship or something.”

Ace shrugs “They just taste weird lately.”

Thatch narrows his eyes “You used to eat them raw.”

“Tastes change.”

“You once drank onion juice.”

“I was bored.”

“You said it ‘cleared the sinuses.’”

Ace looks up at him with a done expression “…And it did.”

Thatch is unconvinced. He stares at the sad pile of abandoned onions like they hold answers.

A few days later, Marco walks across the deck and almost trips over you.

You’re napping.

Not unusual. But you’re napping exactly like Ace. Flat on your back. Arm flopped over your face. One boot still on, one off. Dead to the world.

Marco leans down “You good?”

You snore lightly and mumble something about “I hate onions... mh”.

Marco’s eye twitches.

He walks off slowly and finds Thatch.

“We have a situation.”

Izou, Marco, Thatch, and Jozu sit in a huddle like they’re planning a heist.

Thatch slaps down a napkin with dramatic flair.

“Exhibit A: Ace has stopped eating onions.”

“Exhibit B,” Marco adds, “she naps like a dead log in the middle of the deck. Just like him.”

“Exhibit C,” Izou says, adjusting his coat, “he brushed his teeth twice in one day.”

Silence.

Jozu blinks “…What does that mean?”

Izou sighs “He’s trying not to taste bad, obviously.”

Marco nods slowly “Only one reason for all this.”

Everyone says it at once “He’s kissing someone.”

They all lean back like they’ve cracked the code.

Thatch grins wide “And we all know someone who always hated onions.”

Back on deck, you yawn and stretch, bumping into Ace as he leans on the rail.

“Morning” he says, smiling softly.

“You smell like mint” you mutter, surprised.

He leans in slightly “That a bad thing?”

You shake your head, trying not to grin “Nah. Kinda hot, actually.”

What you don’t notice is the small army of Whitebeard pirates across the deck, hiding behind barrels, crates, and a suspiciously placed sail, watching you both with the intensity of trained spies.

Thatch whispers, “Look at him. He’s glowing.”

Marco squints “Is that a love glow?”

Jozu nods “He’s never glowed before.”

Izou fans himself “My heart can’t take this.”

Thatch whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary “Observe: the rare, emotionally available Ace, brushing his teeth and avoiding onions for the sake of romance.”

Marco chuckles “Should we say something?”

Thatch shakes his head, evil smile creeping in “Not yet. Let’s have a little fun first.”

The crew knows. You just don’t know that they know. Which is why things get weird really fast.

First, Thatch starts offering you food. All the time. Which wouldn’t be strange except “Here, Y/N, extra meat, no onions. Just how you like it” he says sweetly, placing it in front of you with a wink.

You blink “Thanks…?”

He beams “Y’know. For important stuff. Like kissing for example.”

You choke “What?”

“Kissing your enemies goodbye in battle, of course. Wouldn't be cool if you smell like onions.” he says innocently “What else would I mean?”

You narrow your eyes. He walks off humming the wedding march.

Weird.

Later that day, Marco corners Ace.

“You ever think about switching toothpaste brands?”

Ace looks up from his nap spot, squinting “What?”

“I heard mint’s nice” Marco says, deadly casual.

Ace raises a brow “I already switched. Why?”

“No reason,” Marco shrugs “Just figured you’d want to impress… someone.”

“…Like who?”

Marco just walks off.

Ace stares after him, confused.

Then there’s Izou.

He appears next to you while you’re doing your hair, watching like a hawk.

“Hmm” he says thoughtfully.

“What?”

“You’ve got a new little strand tucked behind your ear. That’s new.”

You frown “So? My hair just got a bit too long.”

“Just reminds me of how Ace tucks his hair sometimes. Cute. Subtle. Copying your crush is a classic move.”

You freeze “Wh-What crush?”

He smiles slowly “Oh, I didn’t say you had one.”

You almost trip over the comb.

And don’t even get started on Jozu. He starts playing “matchmaker” out of nowhere.

“Hey Y/N, what do you think of guys with freckles?”

You pause “I mean, freckles are nice... why?”

“No reason.” He grins “You like fire powers too?”

“…You’re literally describing Ace.”

“Am I?” he says, like he’s shocked at himself.

You walk away suspicious. The crew snickers behind your back.

By the end of the week, you’re starting to get twitchy. Ace too.

“Are they acting weird?” you whisper one night as you sit beside him on deck.

“Definitely,” he says, arms behind his head “Thatch winked at me when I refused onions at dinner.”

“Marco suggested I take a nap ‘in a more open, sunny place.’” You glance at him “Sound familiar?”

Ace groans “They’re onto something.”

You whisper, “Do you think they know?”

He shrugs “They’re dumb. I think we’re safe.”

The crew, literally hiding, listening in with cups pressed to the wood.

Thatch whispers, “They think we’re dumb.”

Marco snorts “They’re in love and hiding it like toddlers under a table.”

Izou fans himself “Give it another day. Then we strike.”

It starts over breakfast.

Again, totally normal day. Birds chirping. Sun’s out. Pirates being loud. You stroll in beside Ace, acting casual. Like you didn’t kiss him good morning five minutes ago behind the barrels.

You sit down.

He sits next to you.

Everything is fine. Until Thatch slams his fork on the table and stands up dramatically.

“Okay, this has gone on long enough.”

You and Ace both freeze.

Marco leans in lazily, sipping his coffee “So. You two are dating, right?”

Your eyes go wide.

Ace doesn’t even blink.

And at the exact same time:

You: “No! Who would even date him?”

Ace: “Yeah, we’re obviously dating.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Jozu chokes on his juice. Thatch drops his spoon. Izou wheezes like he’s been punched.

Marco just blinks “Well. That answers that.”

You turn to Ace in slow motion “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY??”

He frowns slightly “That we’re dating? What—why did you say that so disgusted?”

You hiss “Because you weren’t supposed to just admit it!”

“Why not? We’ve been caught.”

“I was trying to lie!”

Thatch is howling “Oh my god—‘Who would even date him??’ Babe, the man LITERALLY has your name carved into his pillow.”

You whip around “He WHAT?!”

Ace shrugs “Just the initials. It’s cute.”

Izou fans himself “I’m going to die. This is the best breakfast of my life.”

Marco grins “This is better than I expected”

Jozu “It’s like watching a romance novel crash into a comedy sketch.”

You bury your face in your hands “I hate this. I hate ALL of you.”

Ace pats your back gently “I think it’s going great.”

You glare at him “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course. I don’t have to sneak around anymore. I get to call you mine out loud now.”

That… makes your face heat up. You try not to smile. You fail.

Thatch yells, “THEY’RE BLUSHING. IT’S REAL.”

Ace slings his arm around your shoulders, smug and unbothered “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll survive the embarrassment.”

Izou smirks “Barely.”

Marco raises his cup “To the worst cover-up attempt in Whitebeard history.”

Everyone cheers.

You groan and slump against Ace, who kisses your temple like the traitor he is.

Soft. Smiling. Loud and proud.

And now you’re never living this down.

[sky-scribbles]

I'm going to say something controversial. I think there's something Veilguard does better than any other Dragon Age game. Namely: incorporating the companions into the plot.

Look, I love Origins as much as everyone. But to be frank: you could cut every companion except Alistair, Morrigan and Loghain and the plot could still work. Once you've finished the mission where you recruit a companion, there aren't other main quests that involve them in any way.

Oghren and Wynne could have stayed home after their recruitment missions for all the difference it would make to the main plot. Sten, Leliana and Zevran could vanish and nothing would change, because once they're on your team, they don't interact with the main plot at all. (There's the Temple of Sacred Ashes, I suppose - but even then, you'd be going on that quest whether Leliana and Wynne were there or not, and it's very telling that they can both die here and next to nothing in the rest of the game is impacted.)

Again: I love Origins. This doesn't detract from any of these characters being great, or from the story being great. It just means there's a layer of separation between the two. They're involved in the story, but they're not driving it, and you seldom get to see them have strong feelings about it.

DA2 is a huge step up. Your companions' personal stories are integral parts of the main plot. You can't do the Deep Roads expedition without witnessing Karl's death and its impact on Anders. You can't enter Act 2 without seeing Varric's brother betray him, or watching your sibling either die or begin a new path in life. Act 2's climax happens because of choices Isabela and Aveline have made. Act 3's endgame is all about Anders making one enormous decision. Even Fenris and Merrill, who have the fewest ties to the plot, have strong reasons to be invested in the Mage/Templar conflict.

And then Inquisition just... backslides. There are multiple companions you don't need to recruit at all, or can send away with zero alteration to the main plot. Your companions don't like Corypheus because he's bad, but no one - except maybe Varric - has any strong personal feelings about him. They have no personal stake in defeating him, not like Alistair has a personal stake in opposing Loghain, or Anders in opposing Meredith.

We go to the Winter Palace, and Vivienne is not made a part of that story. We have a whole subplot about the Wardens, and Blackwall only gets a couple of extra lines, if you even bring him. Their personal arcs could have been somehow impacted by these missions, and they're just... not. Sera is packed with internalised self-hatred that manifests as trying to distance herself from elven culture, to the point of sometimes lashing out at other elves. And despite all the missions you do where elven history features... Sera's growth past that flaw happens entirely offscreen between the base game and Trespasser?????

IMO, this is one of the biggest reasons why Corypheus is such a bland villain. He doesn't make anyone grow, except by starting a plot for them to be part of. He doesn't challenge them emotionally. No one is invested in him. Because no one interacts with the darn plot.

Veilguard, though? Veilguard keeps your companions interacting with the story the whole way through. The Treviso/Minrathous choice affects both Lucanis and Neve heavily, and impacts who they become for the rest of the game. These cities are personal to you, even if you're not a Crow or Shadow Dragon, because your companions love them.

The Siege of Weisshaupt is beyond personal to Davrin and Lucanis, both of whom are entrusted with major parts of the quest: trying to kill the archdemon and Ghilan'nain. Lucanis is affected by his failure to kill Ghilan'nain for ages afterward. Davrin is haunted by survivor's guilt; he should have died when he struck down the archdemon. He's alive. How can he live with that?

Whenever killing the gods becomes a possibility, Rook hands the lyrium dagger to Lucanis. When the squad go to fight the gods' dragons with the Wardens, Taash is the one to flush the first dragon out. When you infiltrate the Venatori, Neve tricks your way in, and everything that happens is especially weighty to Bellara, whose people have been abducted. On Tearstone Island, because of how Lucanis and Spite have grown, they strikes true.

Did you not hate Elgar'nan before that mission? Because you probably will after you watch him capture Bellara or Neve, and see his fellow god kill Harding or Davrin.

You know what's a great piece of writing? There's no reason Emmrich shouldn't have been an option to deal with the wards on Tearstone Island; he's one of the ideal options to take out more wards with the Veil Jumpers in the final mission. But you can't select him to do it. Because Emmrich has far less personal investment in the Elgar'nan battle than the other two. This is Neve's city. This is the monster who tries to call himself Bellara's god. The game makes sure the characters who take control of the Blight at the end are the ones with the greatest stakes in doing so.

One of your companions, not you, wrests command of the Blight from Elgar'nan. The final mission depends on how well you've come to know each companion's skills. They're just... always involved.

And they're invested, too. The companions all have serious personal reasons to hate the antagonists by the end. Lucanis and Neve have either seen their city burn, or know it happened at the cost of their friend's (and potential partner's) hometown. Davrin has seen his order devastated. These are Bellara's and Davrin's supposed gods, and instead of helping the elves reclaim their history and culture, they're trying to enslave the world. Harding learns that the Evanuris maimed and destroyed her Titan ancestors.

Emmrich and Taash have perhaps the smallest emotional tie - and sadly I do think Emmrich especially gets underutilized in the plot. But heck, Taash is still hella motivated by the way the gods are abusing dragons. And Emmrich is tied thematically to the main conflict. He's facing the question of immortality, while nigh-immortal beings are right in front of him, proving how that gift can be abused. The final choice of his personal arc is whether he's willing to embrace his personal, mortal attachments, at the cost of consequences that terrify him... you know, the same question that Solas faces at the end.

And don't even get me started on how everyone is emotionally tied to Solas. Harding and Neve watched him kill Varric in front of them. Everyone not dead or captured has to watch him drag Rook into the Fade. Just about every companion faces some kind of huge regret or failure at some point, in constant foreshadowing for Solas's prison of regret: both the literal one he sticks Rook in, and the mental one of his own making.

Veilguard has its problems, but it absolutely shines at keeping its characters involved and invested in the main story. It gives them things to do, it gives them reasons to care. For all the flaws this game has, this part is good writing.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓋𝒶𝓂𝓅𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑜𝒾𝒸𝑒! 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Oh my goodness! Would you look at that—planning to infiltrate not one, but two of the finest, deadliest, and absurdly attractive vampires this side of gothic tragedy?

Vampire!Sol x Reader? and Vampire!Crowe x Reader

You really woke up and chose morally questionable romance and danger kink, huh? Honestly, I can’t even blame you. It’s practically encoded in your family’s bloodline. Truly, a noble tradition.

Sure, there’s a slim chance you’ll end up draped dramatically across a velvet chaise with a love bite that doubles as a blood loss issue. But hey—knowledge requires sacrifice. And if that sacrifice just so happens to involve two devastatingly handsome vampires? Then honestly? You’re just doing your research.

Maybe with a little bit of neck involved~

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

So after stumbling across Waza (aka @alyysahh)'s vampire doodles of Sol and Crowe on Twitter—whew. They’re both fine in ways that should honestly be illegal in most supernatural jurisdictions. Anyway, now my brain won't shut up, and my keyboard is demanding a full-on vampire fic with them. So… thanks, Waza!

You’ve unlocked a new level of thirst-laced inspiration.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: vampire x gn reader! hunter, fluff to smut, predator/prey dynamics, power imbalance, intense emotional bond, dangerous attraction, touch-starved monster, obsession, blood drinking intimacy, feeding scene (vampire), possessive behavior, biting & bruising, “Am I okay for finding this hot?” type of vibes.

You sit alone in the farthest corner of the train car, where the oil lamps flicker just a shade too dimly, and the smell of smoke and old leather hangs thick in the air. The bench beneath you groans with age, as though it resents your presence—one more shadow among many. 

Outside, the window is glazed with frost, blurring the wild landscape into smears of grey and white, a watercolor of forgotten hills and bramble-choked trees. This place, this stretch of land veiled in mist and silence, is a ghost’s graveyard—untamed, unwelcoming. The kind of place where old things go to sleep, and where fools like you go to wake them.

The train chugs deeper into the unknown, each rhythmic pulse of the engine echoing like a heartbeat in your throat. Doverhollow. A name scribbled in the margins of your grandfather’s journal, circled twice in a trembling hand. The last known haunt of something that does not die, does not age, does not forgive. 

You read those pages as a child, huddled beneath wool blankets with a candle burning low, and you told yourself it was only a story. But the scent of iron has lingered in your lungs ever since.

You wear your deception well. 

A traveling scholar, perhaps. A quiet tradesperson seeking land. But every thread of your clothing has been chosen with care—wool dyed in muted tones to avoid reflection, gloves sewn with silver thread along the palms, the stitching fine enough to be overlooked. Beneath your coat lies a reinforced vest lined with ashwood slats, thin as bone. 

You carry no obvious weapon, but your boots are weighted, and your left cuff conceals a needle-thin dagger dipped in dried wolfsbane and holy water. Around your neck, a crucifix, tarnished with age. 

You are not here to fantasize.

You are here to finish what your bloodline began.

You are not merely a hunter. You are the last heir to a dying archive—a bloodline of seekers, scribes, slayers. Their stories—your stories—fill a satchel at your side, bursting with brittle parchment and ink-blotted pages. 

Your family never chased glory. 

Only truth. 

Every jolt of the rail draws your mind back to the present, to the task at hand—not romance, not curiosity. Execution. And before that? Extraction. The family doctrine is etched into your very marrow: learn everything, then kill. There is no honor in ignorance, no valor in mercy. Vampires are not to be pitied. They are to be understood, documented, and destroyed. Anything less is a failure of legacy.

You’ve spent the last five years living among corpses and folklore, chasing ash trails through forests, interviewing trembling survivors who speak of shadowed lovers and cursed bloodlines. And every page you add to the journal brings you closer to something complete. Something final.

Doverhollow lies just past the next rise. 

The last stop on the line. 

A village swallowed by trees and time, where light doesn’t linger and roads change when you're not looking. The locals know something ancient lives there. They never say thier names aloud—but your family’s records do.

Two names dominate the text now. 

Two figures who could not be more different—and yet, they are woven into the same mythic thread, a duality of horror.

Let’s start with Jericho Ichabod. 

The Shadowed Aristocrat. Too elegant to be real. Too calculating to be human. He is not a vampire in the way most are. He does not hunt; he orchestrates. To him, humans are not prey. They are players in a game only he understands.

Some accounts say he was once mortal royalty, undone by vanity. Others insist he is older than the written word. Regardless, his reputation is consistent: he feeds with permission. He seduces with restraint. And when he kills, it’s clinical. Almost kind. 

As though death were a favor.

And then there is Solivan Brugmansia.

The Feral Outcast. The other side of the coin. Not elegance, but entropy. Where Jericho whispers, Solivan howls. Born of rot and ruin, Sol is the reason villages go silent. The reason fences go up and prayers return to pagan shapes.

He does not charm. He consumes. A failure, some say—a cursed experiment, abandoned by his kin and left to fester in the woods. But your family knew better. Solivan chooses to be monstrous. He does not hide what he is. He forces you to look. 

And then he tears it from you.

They are both here. Somewhere in the dark veins of Doverhollow. And you are not here to flirt with shadows or wax poetic about teeth in your neck. You are here to learn everything—habits, powers, weaknesses, patterns.

Your goal is not just to write their ending in ink. You were never taught to fear vampires.

You were raised to despise them.

Again, the pages of your family’s journals are inked in hatred—centuries of catalogued atrocities, of names struck through with blood and fire, of faces that once wept at altars now worn smooth with time and grief. 

Every story your mother whispered into your ear, every scar carved into your kin, was a thread in the tapestry of vengeance. These creatures are not romantic. They are not misunderstood. They are not beautiful. They are disease wearing human skin. They charm to distract, to weaken. And when they feed, they do so with pleasure. 

Vampires are parasites, every last one of them. And you’ve made it your life’s work to see them extinct.

That’s the mission. The burden. The vow.

Your goal is to end them.

You’ve sacrificed everything for it. Joy, comfort, safety—gone. You don’t remember what a normal life feels like. You sleep with one eye open, you eat in silence, and you walk through the world like a blade sheathed in flesh. 

You’ve crushed your own bones under carriages just to lure a vampire into feeding from what it thought was a dying man. 

You’ve buried your heartbeat, learned to still your breath, learned what blood smells like just before the fangs pierce skin. You know how to smile through cracked ribs. You know how to keep screaming when your throat is raw. 

Pain is a tool. A language. One you’ve mastered.

And yet, some nights—quiet ones like this, when you’re alone with the rhythm of a train car and the frost creeps across the window—you catch yourself wondering.

Not about death. That doesn’t frighten you.

But about the moment before. The bite...

That liminal instant when your body goes still, the air turns thick, and something monstrous draws near—not as predator, but as executioner. Is it agony? Does it feel like drowning in flame, nerves burning beneath the skin? Or is it worse—is it gentle? Cold lips. A hush. The world dimming like a candle in rain. Some survivors speak of ecstasy, of surrender, of being seen. 

You’d rather die a thousand brutal deaths than admit that part of you wants to know. But the thought remains, like a splinter in your mind. You grind your teeth and crush it beneath your heel. That kind of sentiment is what kills hunters.

Curiosity. Temptation. Weakness.

And you are not weak. Because soon, the train will stop. And when your boots strike the frost-bitten earth of Doverhollow, there will be no turning back. No poetry. No mercy. Only war. This cursed village—the last known haunt of two legendary monsters—has been carved into your family’s records for over a hundred years. 

Two names. Two beasts.

So ask yourself, hunter—

Will it be Jericho, stepping out of the mist in silk and shadow, his voice like lullabies and knives? Or will it be Solivan, teeth bared, crawling from the forest like a nightmare come to devour you whole?

You may believe you will decide.

However… They always choose you. And when they do?

Make them regret it. Good Luck.

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’d heard the whispers in Doverhollow—slurred from wine-loosened tongues at the tavern, murmured with trembling lips at the chapel’s altar, always trailing off just before they reached the name. 

The Ichabod Crane.

Most villagers wouldn’t say it aloud, as though the very syllables might summon death through the floorboards. You asked gently, and when that failed, you asked firmly. But fear made them quiet. 

You had to find the manor yourself, piecing together overheard conversations and reading the terrain like scripture: the fork in the moss-eaten road, the circle of trees that never swayed with the wind, the subtle hush that fell over the birdsong when you passed a certain stretch of forest.

Apparently, there's a legend the townsfolk like to toss around like an old coin—something about a man named Crane. Ichabod Crane, a schoolmaster by trade, and a coward by nature, if the tale is to be believed. He was said to be deeply superstitious, a man who clung to ghost stories the way some cling to scripture. 

Among his obsessions was the tale of the Headless Horseman—a vengeful spirit of a Hessian soldier who lost his head to a cannonball and now wanders the night seeking a replacement.

As the story goes, one evening Crane was making his way home alone, nerves already frayed from some shadow he likely imagined in the trees. And then, there it was—the Headless Horseman.

Cloaked in black, mounted on a jet-black steed, silent but swift. A chase ensued through the woods, wild and terrifying… and then, just as Crane thought he’d reached safety, the Horseman hurled his "head"—a hollowed-out pumpkin—straight at him.

The next morning, all that remained was the shattered gourd and the faint imprint of hooves in the dirt. Crane had vanished, as though the night had simply swallowed him.

Charming. Ridiculous.

You’d heard the story whispered with wide eyes and held breath, as though it carried weight. As though it had teeth. But to you, it was little more than child's theater. A bedtime scare dressed up as folklore. A coward disappears and the town decides he was spirited away by some galloping ghost? 

Please.

They mistook you, of course. The villagers. Mistook your silence for naivety, your polite questions for innocent curiosity. They called you a traveler, a scholar maybe, some city person writing books about old superstitions. 

You let them believe that. 

It was safer—for them and for you. What they didn’t know was how deep the discipline ran in your bloodline. That you were trained by hands calloused from decades of weaponry and ink, that you had studied the anatomy of a vampire before you learned to tie your own shoes. 

You were not here to chase myths.

You were here to record them. And, if necessary, end them.

The night of the ball, you dressed with deliberate care. Not too lavish—never enough to draw the eye—but tailored finely enough to pass as nobility from some obscure coastal province. 

A beautiful midnight blue outfit, matte to avoid catching too much light, with a neckline modest enough to hide the scar at your collarbone. A delicate silver chain with a charm that looked decorative, however, was in fact sharpened holy steel. You wore your hair pinned, not flowing. Vampires remembered faces; you made sure yours was one among many.

Your scent had been a concern. Human aroma—warmth, blood, sweat—was a siren’s call to their kind. So you masked it. A concoction brewed from dried vervain, crushed rosemary, and elderflower, burned into your clothes with candle smoke. It didn’t erase your humanity. But it made you difficult to place. 

To them, you might’ve smelled foreign. 

Interesting, but not edible.

The manor loomed exactly as the stories promised: veiled in perpetual moonlight. Its windows did not flicker, despite the presence of flame. The candles within had never melted. The whole structure felt suspended in time, like a dream sustained by will alone. Every stone too clean. Every corner too precise. 

There was no dust. No breeze. Only music.

Inside, it was a ballroom carved from shadow and wealth. Gilded mirrors reflected candlelight from chandeliers shaped like inverted spires. The floor—black marble veined with silver—hummed faintly beneath your boots, as if reacting to your pulse. 

The guests were exquisite, yes, but strangely subdued. Less than a hundred, each draped in fashion centuries out of place. Their eyes flicked over one another like knives behind lace. Some had fangs bared in mirthless smiles. Others tilted their heads too far to the side when they laughed, as though they had forgotten the gesture had once been human.

You took a drink from one of the passing servers—tall, androgynous, eyes blank with compulsion. The glass was cool in your hand. 

Its contents were… strange. 

Not wine. Not pure blood either. Diluted. Thick with something metallic but laced with berries, perhaps. Something meant to imitate luxury and sustain, not overwhelm. A vampire's version of a cocktail, perhaps. It made your stomach clench.

You kept to the perimeter, one hand resting lightly on your waist as you feigned indifference. You nodded when nodded to. Tilted your head as the others did. Studied the language of the room. And though your heart kept rhythm with your training, your eyes scanned for him.

It wasn’t long before the music paused. 

The hush was immediate, reverent. Every pale face turned toward the grand staircase that wound up from the ballroom floor. And there he was, above them all, dressed in a suit of dark velvet and satin that shimmered like oil in candlelight.

His navy coat buttoned to the neck, that same familiar bow holding his long brown hair in a low tail. His pale brown skin glowed softly under the chandeliers, and his deep blue eyes scanned the crowd as though already bored by it.

“Welcome, all,” he said, voice a quiet blade of silk through the silence. “You may know me as Jericho Ichabod.”

A ripple. A tension. Reverence and dread mingled in the air.

“Welcome,” he continued, smiling faintly, “to my mother’s party.”

A lie, perhaps? Or a fiction he enjoyed.

But the way they responded—bowing ever so slightly, some without even realizing it—you knew this was his court. His gameboard. And you had stepped onto it willingly.

Your pulse ticked once behind your ears.

You never expected your first sighting of Jericho Ichabod to come so… quietly. No dramatic lightning strikes splitting the sky. No chandeliers crashing to the floor. No bat swarm swirling into the shape of a man. 

Honestly, a little disappointing, considering the reputation. After all the myths, the journal entries etched in urgency, the dire warnings passed through bloodlines like cursed heirlooms, you envisioned something apocalyptic. You thought you'd meet him mid-hunt or mid-massacre, with your blade drawn and your heartbeat loud enough to attract notice.

Instead, it came like velvet. Like someone folding time into silence.

So a polite vampire, huh. A cordial bloodsucker. 

Honestly? What a letdown.

The moment he finished his welcome—“Thank you all for attending my mother’s party,” spoken with the elegance of a man who definitely sounds like him and his mother aren’t close, the last time they possibly saw each other was three centuries ago—you noted the time. 

Well past midnight. Time was thinning. 

The music had shifted to something strange and ancient, a waltz from a dead language. The ballroom glittered with vampires dressed like rejected Parisian operetta cast members. You? You were wedged into a noble person’s gown stitched from lies and herb-paste. 

Definitely not here to tango.

So you slipped out. Graceful as a mouse. Quiet as guilt.

The manor breathed a different air beyond the party walls. No perfume and powdered guests here—just amber, cedar, and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. Not the messy, butcher-shop kind. No, this was aged. Distilled. Vintaged. Artisanal vampire juice. The halls were maintained with the kind of neurotic precision that suggested either Jericho was a control freak or had an entire staff of undead interior decorators.

The carpets were immaculate. The candles—white, beeswax, hand-poured—trimmed to the same level, like soldiers ready for parade. The mirrors were all veiled in thin lace, suggesting vanity or maybe just an aesthetic choice from someone who doesn’t like seeing himself mid-bite. 

Every corner screamed curated. The place didn’t feel lived in—it felt preserved. Like walking into a memory that refused to fade.

A mausoleum.

For someone too elegant to die.

You crept like a thief, journal pressed to your side, senses sharp, each step a prayer. The floor groaned beneath your foot just once and you froze, as though sound itself might betray you. And that silence—sharp, stretched silence—wrapped around you like a noose. The manor listened.

Then a voice. Smooth, amused, inevitable. “And who do we have here? It’s always a pleasure to see a new face.”

Your blood froze. You turned. And there he was. Jericho Ichabod.

In the flesh. And oh, what flesh. He didn’t look at you at first—rude, honestly—but his presence filled the hall like cold perfume. He held a wineglass in one hand, of course, and within it? Not wine. Again, definitely not. The red was too thick, too alive. Like a heartbeat in glass. His skin was pale brown, immaculate, ageless. 

And those eyes—when they finally turned toward you—were so deep a blue you nearly stepped back. Eyes like drowned gods. Or like they’d seen gods, and decided they were unimpressive.

He didn’t smile to welcome you. 

He smiled because he already knew what you were.

You. Human. Intruder. Target. “Ah,” he said smoothly, as if narrating a thought he’d already memorized, “a human came to visit me, after all.”

Your heart skipped. He figured it out?! That fast?! You were about to move, hands inching toward the concealed weapons stitched into your outfit—dagger in your sleeve, crucifix at your collar, stake tucked along your spine.

However, he didn’t attack. 

He didn’t grow fangs or sprout wings or go full feral. Instead…

“I’m so happy to finally meet a human!” he said brightly. Genuinely. With a tone you might use when finding a long-lost cousin at a family reunion.

You blinked. “…What?”

He looked at you like you were a birthday present he wasn’t expecting but was thrilled to receive. You, dumbfounded, slowly lowered your hand from your crucifix. He took a sip from his bloodglass, utterly unbothered.

Oh no. You were not prepared for this level of social horror.

You froze. Not out of sheer terror—though, to be fair, your stomach had performed a flawless somersault—but out of something far stranger: awe.

This was not the slavering, clawed monstrosity that haunted the edges of your family's hunting journals. Not the shadow that gnawed on the edges of childhood bedtime stories, the one your mother always described in tones usually reserved for war crimes and taxes. This was not the thing your grandfather chased across swamps with bloodhounds and a blessed musket.

This was… Jericho Ichabod???

The Shadowed Aristocrat. The End of the Line.

The man who made three generations of your bloodline spontaneously develop trauma-based ulcers.

And he was… sipping. Just sipping. Like a man in a very fancy wine commercial. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t leer or hiss or unravel into bats. He just stood there, like some final boss who had been politely waiting for you to stop monologuing. The red in his glass—thicker than wine, lighter than tar—kissed his lips for a moment, then disappeared like a lie told twice.

He blinked, clueless, lashes long enough to cause emotional damage, and asked in a voice as soft as scandal, “Are you a researcher?”

You barely stopped yourself from blurting, "Researcher-slash-hunter-slash-maybe-kind-of-here-to-kill-you-but-not-yet-thanks!" Instead, you nodded. Smiled. Lied through your very noble teeth.

“Yes,” you said smoothly, adjusting your sleeve to hide the silver knife tucked beneath. “I study… um. Culture.”

The moment the words left your lips, Jericho’s entire demeanor shifted—like the sun breaking through storm clouds, like a candle flaring to life in a darkened room.

His pale brown skin, aristocratic features brightened with an almost childlike wonder, his dark eyes sparkling with genuine, unfiltered joy. It was so startlingly pure that for a heartbeat, you forgot he was supposed to be a monster.

"How fascinating," he breathed, the words soft with reverence. His gaze held yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous: the unsettling realization that he was happy to see you. Truly happy.

A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him as he glanced away, as if mentally rifling through centuries of memories. "You’re the first human to visit willingly in… goodness. At least a century." His smile turned wry, tinged with something almost melancholy.

"They usually just run. Or burn things." Then, abruptly, he snapped his attention back to you, tilting his head with sudden, playful suspicion. "You didn’t bring any fire, did you?"

The question was so absurd, so earnest, that a startled laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You hoped it didn’t sound unhinged.

"Nope. All good. Very fireless," you assured him, waving your hands in what you hoped was a convincingly harmless gesture.

His answering grin was radiant—the kind of smile that made you instinctively want to smile back, despite the silver blade hidden against your wrist.

And then he said the thing that sent your mind reeling:

"You’re welcome to stay here. Ask what you like. Learn. I rather enjoy conversation."

The offer hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications. Declining would be suspicious. Possibly fatal. Definitely stupid. But accepting?

Accepting meant access.

It meant prowling the halls of his ancient estate, rifling through his private notes, learning his weaknesses. It meant proximity—close enough to study him, to watch for the right moment. It was hunter’s gold, wrapped in a pretty, bloodstained bow.

Your stomach twisted. You smiled.

"Yes," you said.

And just like that, the game began.

And, objectively, saying yes might have been the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Because Jericho led you down the hallway like a host in a vampire-themed bed and breakfast, gesturing at portraits with gory backstories and candelabras that may or may not hiss when passed.

The manor around you breathed gothic luxury: velvet drapes the color of drowned roses, hallways that twisted like sentences in old novels, and chandeliers that definitely cost more than your entire village. There were carpets so soft you thought you might vanish in them if you stepped too hard. The walls whispered. The doors murmured. And at least two statues definitely moved when you weren’t looking.

But Jericho was all charm. Eerily enthusiastic about your presence, as though you were not a threat in disguise, but a rare bird that wandered in from the forest and started speaking Latin.

So yes, you were a “researcher.” 

And yes, you were staying in a manor with a creature known for turning entire ballrooms into beautifully preserved crime scenes.

But damn it, learning about him was simply amazing!!

You told yourself this was for the mission—for the hunt, for the legacy, for the solemn duty passed down by blood. But honestly? After only a few days under Jericho’s gilded roof, surrounded by velvet-curtained windows, echoing marble halls, and enough ambient mood lighting to make a ghost weep, you’d caught yourself doing the unthinkable.

Smiling. Shocking.

Maybe it was the food. Actual, real food, served on silver platters by ghost-pale servants who never blinked. Jericho made certain you had everything: tea that tasted like sunshine through glass, meals seasoned exactly to your preference, and not a single drop of blood in sight—at least not in your courses, unless it was red meat.

You suspected he had someone researching you, which was a mildly horrifying but honestly flattering thought.

You learned that Jericho’s second-in-command, or perhaps co-equal depending on the day. The leader of the Council of Vampires—though you were starting to think that was a title he wore more like a mildly irritating hat than a responsibility. 

He held effortless elegance only centuries of boredom and tailored waistcoats could bestow. His long hair was always immaculately tied back with a silver clasp, and his voice could have convinced you to sign a contract in crayon and blood.

He was also, somehow, the most precious thing you’d ever met.

Jericho, despite ruling a cabal of the undead, was almost... carefree. Not quite clueless—he was far too intelligent for that—but curious. Genuinely fascinated by humans, especially you. He asked you questions like a child dissecting their first frog, except instead of tweezers he used charm, and instead of a scalpel he used smolder.

“I bet you’ve brought your journal,” he murmured one evening, leaning over your shoulder. You could feel the heat of him, somehow, though he ran cold. His breath was like the scent of parchment and dusk. 

“Do make sure to write this part down.”

You didn’t remember inhaling. You only remembered the way the air curled in your lungs—sweet, lilac, and faintly like rust. And you remembered thinking: I will absolutely write this part down, even if I have to stitch it into my bones.

“Call me Crowe,” he added, voice low enough to lace itself into your spine.

You blinked. Unsure why that felt so intimate. Maybe it was the dropping of formality. Maybe it was the trust implied. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because no one had ever said your name like that before, not like it was a secret worth guarding.

And so you did.

He was noble-blooded, yes, but in a way that almost mocked the idea of aristocracy. He ruled a manor and village below as far as you could tell, bore no crown, and signed no decrees—unless, of course, you counted the blood-pacts he drafted at his desk in a chamber lit by only a dozen blue-flamed candles and what might’ve been moonlight.

But here's the thing: for someone with such a prestigious title, he didn’t… do very much.

Or so you thought.

Until you saw him one night in the war chamber, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sharpening a blade etched with runes so old they hummed in your teeth. His expression was dead calm, focused, and the air in the room pulsed with something that could only be described as violence politely waiting its turn.

Then another time—just yesterday—you caught him reading an entire report upside down while a councilman prattled on. He didn’t even blink. Just nodded thoughtfully, flipped a page, and signed off on something with a flourish so confident you questioned your grasp of gravity.

“Do you even read those?” you asked later, half-joking.

“Of course,” he said. “I read all of them… eventually.”

And he winked. WINKED. Your knees nearly filed for independence.

Despite your better judgment, you were enjoying this—a lot. The manor, the mystery, the intoxicating absurdity of being a human researcher undercover as a guest of the most powerful vampires in known existence. You should have been terrified. You were terrified. But in that way a moth might be, fluttering closer to the flame, knowing it will burn and still daring to dance anyway.

You were here for knowledge. 

For duty. For your family’s legacy. That’s your mission.

A sacred duty. A vendetta. A legacy wrapped in silver and regret. 

You repeat this every night like a prayer, gripping your journal as if it could anchor your soul. You are not here for flirtation. You are not here for indulgence. And you are absolutely not here for Crowe.

And yet—

He treats immortality like chess, and the world is his ever-expanding board. A bishop move here, a pawn sacrificed there, and every outcome dances right into the palm of his gloved hand. Crowe doesn’t need to win with force. He wins with timing, with elegance, with inevitability.

He’s not gaudy. His presence is refined, curated like a library of forbidden texts. He speaks in sentences you want to underline and annotate. He’ll smile at you like a prince offering a waltz, then say something so cutting your bones will feel it a week later. And somehow? You’ll say thank you.

He manipulates like it’s foreplay. And worse: you like it.

You once asked him about his turning—because, of course, you did. It was late, the air was full of violet smoke from candles that should not have been burning indoors, and he was lounging in that ridiculous armchair like some baroque painting come to life.

“I was born into immortality. At birth, I had no option to accept,” he said coolly, swirling his wineglass of very-much-not-wine. “Anything else is sentiment.”

You had nothing to say to that. Partly because the answer was hollow. Partly because the firelight caught the edge of his profile at the perfect angle and you nearly forgot your own name.

Still, there are cracks. You’ve seen the edge fray. 

Just once. One moment. Burned into your memory like scorch marks.

A visiting vampire lord insulted you—openly, for being human, for being weak, for daring to write in your little notebook during a Council session. You didn’t even flinch. But Crowe did.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn’t bare fangs. He just leaned forward and whispered something too quiet for even you to hear. And the lord—an ancient, ivory-eyed monster—apologized. To you. Twice. And then left the room.

You never found out what Crowe said.

And you’re not sure you want to.

He calls you by your name now. Not “human,” not “guest.” And somehow, every time he says it, it sounds like the beginning of a promise you’re not sure he intends to keep.

Crowe’s fashion is a study in danger. Velvet, silk, deep colors layered like smoke. Rings that serve as both decoration and a weapon. Embroidered cuffs laced with language no living tongue speaks anymore. He looks like someone who could sign peace treaties and poison you in the same breath—and you’d thank him for the experience.

Always clean. Always perfect. Always Crowe.

Oh well. That night, everything smelled like lavender and poor decisions.

The manor was unusually quiet. Even the portraits on the wall seemed to be holding their breath as you crept down the candlelit hallway in your nightgown, dagger strapped beneath the folds like some kind of homicidal sleep fairy. Your footsteps made no sound against the plush carpet—Crowe wouldn’t have dared install anything less than absolute silence beneath one’s treacherous feet. 

Aesthetic and practical.

You should’ve waited until morning. That’s what the scrolls said. Strike when the vampire sleeps, when the sun hovers just behind the mountains, and his power wanes.

Of course Crowe didn’t sleep. Sleep was for creatures who hadn’t spent the last three centuries buried under an avalanche of immortal bureaucracy.

Instead, he hunched over his desk—a massive, obsidian-carved monstrosity littered with parchment, wax seals, and the faint, lingering scent of ink and old blood. His fingers, usually so elegant and precise, were smudged with the evidence of his toil—dark streaks staining his knuckles where the fountain pen had leaked. Again.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d heard him groan this week alone—not in pain, not in pleasure, but in the kind of bone-deep exasperation only immortal paperwork could inspire.

"Feral outcast," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Always that feral outcast."

Apparently, some rogue vampire—exiled for reasons Crowe had deemed "so egregiously idiotic I refuse to dignify them with explanation"—had decided to make the nearby human village his personal hunting ground. And now, as the de facto—and deeply unwilling—arbiter of vampire law in the region, Crowe was stuck cleaning up the mess.

You observed with mingled amusement and sympathy as he drove his quill into the inkwell with positively uncivilized vigor, splattering droplets of blackest ink across several carefully penned documents. The poor implement trembled from the violence of its employment, as though protesting such ungentlemanly treatment.

"By all the infernal realms," he hissed through clenched fangs, "should I be compelled to compose yet another dispatch concerning territorial demarcations, I cannot be held accountable for my actions." 

His aristocratic features contorted into an expression of such profound vexation that one might think he'd been presented with a bottle of inferior claret rather than yet another bureaucratic imposition.

Clearing your throat delicately, you ventured: "Might not the situation be more... efficiently resolved through direct intervention?"

The glare he leveled upon you possessed such withering potency that it would have reduced a mortal of weaker constitution to a fine ash upon the spot. "And abandon this veritable Alp of unattended treaties? The previous instance in which I absented myself for such 'hands-on resolution' resulted in the Eastern Court attempting to renegotiate the Sanguine Tithe Agreements with the most egregious typographical liberties imaginable."

Your eyebrows ascended toward your hairline. "The Sanguine Tithe Agreements?" you echoed, rather stupidly.

"Precisely so," he snapped, his pallid fingers tightening about the unfortunate quill until it threatened to snap. "They resort to such vulgar provocations precisely because they know it vexes me beyond endurance."

With a most theatrical sigh, he seized another parchment from the teetering pile, his crimson eyes scanning the document with increasing horror before emitting a noise that defied proper classification—something between a gentleman's exasperated sigh and a wolf's snarl of frustration.

"This one," he declared with sepulchral solemnity, "has been rendered in some manner of encrypted hieroglyphics that would shame even the most illiterate medieval scribe."

You pressed your lips together with Herculean effort, recognizing that laughter at this juncture might well constitute a fatal error in judgment.

You, however, need sleep. Because you’re human, dammit. And if you had to stay up one more night pretending not to be charmed by a vampire with better penmanship than your thesis advisor, you were going to scream.

This was your ticket out. Your final act. 

The dagger at your side gleamed faintly in the dim light, silver chased with runes only you and three monks in Romania could read. You’d spent weeks collecting notes, sketching his habits, charting weaknesses. The final entry in your journal had been written with shaking hands.

Tonight: End this.

You reached his office door and hesitated. For drama’s sake. The moment was meant to feel weighty and final. But instead, the smell hit you first—ink, parchment, burning candle wax, and exhaustion.

The door creaked upon its ancient hinges, groaning as though in protest of what you intended to do. Candlelight spilled from within, soft and amber, casting long skeletal shadows that twisted across the corridor’s velvet-lined walls. The scent of old ink, scorched wax, and ironed parchment curled out like a ghost, welcoming—or warning—you.

Crowe lay slumped at his desk, an exquisite ruin draped in crushed velvet and weariness. His arms were sprawled across a battalion of unopened ledgers, his noble brow pressed against some particularly offensive document. 

An ink pot trembled dangerously close to his sleeve, black blood of bureaucracy threatening to stain the centuries-old fabric. One of his rings—onyx, with a crest you’d once sketched in your journal—had rolled from his finger and lay glinting on the floor like a fallen crown.

He did not rise. He did not stir.

He muttered, hoarsely, in flawless but dispassionate, something along the lines of “Fiscalus damnatio.” Which sounded like a curse, if your translation was correct. Something about tax reforms?

You faltered in the doorway.

The dagger beneath your nightgown weighed heavily at your thigh, its runes humming softly with purpose. This was not the tableau you had imagined—not the dark crescendo of betrayal and blade you had rehearsed in fevered dreams. He did not look monstrous. 

He looked... exhausted?

And yet, even in his dishevelment, Crowe was beautiful in that dreadful, unearthly way the dead sometimes are. Hair unbound, curling against his pale collarbone, ink staining one wrist where his sleeve had slipped up.

His skin had the pallor of marble left in moonlight, but his cheeks were faintly flushed—perhaps from effort, or perhaps from the flicker of candle flame that danced across him like a lover’s touch. Shadows gathered at his lashes, too dark, too long, like ink drawn with intent.

He opened one eye, slow as a sunrise over a ruined kingdom. That eye, sharp and violet-black, fixed upon you with neither alarm nor amusement—merely a tired, aristocratic acknowledgment.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice like rust over silk. “A midnight visitation. Should I be flattered... or concerned?”

“...Concerned,” you replied stiffly, caught between dread and incredulity.

Crowe let out a sound that might once have been a laugh, then gestured lazily toward the chair across from him without lifting his head. “So long as you’ve brought either blood or death, I’ll not protest.”

You stared.

The infamous Shadowed Aristocrat of the Undying Court, the terror of southern citadels and warden of bloodbound laws, looked like a burnt-out academic choking on paperwork.

You almost pitied him. Almost.

Then he moved. Slowly—so slowly—he pulled himself upright, spine straightening with the grace of something regal and long accustomed to pain. As he did, the folds of his robe shifted, revealing a palish brown throat marbled with faint silver scars. Veins ran beneath like smoke trails beneath porcelain, fragile and unreal. Your gaze caught on them before you could stop yourself.

Your heart—faithless thing��betrayed you with a lurch.

Crowe noticed. Of course he did. His lips quirked into a wry, half-smile. Not cruel. Not mocking. Merely aware. Infuriatingly aware “You’ve come to kill me,” he said. It was not a question.

You swallowed. “What gave it away?”

He inclined his head slightly. “The dagger under your nightgown. Subtle, but predictable.” His eyes flicked lower for the briefest of seconds—then returned, glinting. “That, and the indecision gnawing behind your eyes.”

You stiffened. Gripped the hilt tighter. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Have you?” His voice was quiet now, intimate, like velvet drawn over sharpened steel. “Then strike.”

He was not mocking you. He was not afraid. He simply... was. A figure carved from patience and poise. You could smell him now—paper, dust, clove smoke, and something fainter beneath, like the inside of an old cathedral or dried blood sealed behind glass. The scent of memory. Of ritual. Of endings.

You should have done it. Gods help you, you could have.

But you didn’t.

You simply stood, framed in the doorway like a ghost. And Crowe—damn him—reached for the teapot. He poured with the elegance of a centuries-old host, as though your betrayal was merely another diplomatic footnote in his endless schedule. He pushed the cup toward you across the desk with the disinterest of someone who had once shared tea with kings and assassins alike.

Then he sighed.

“If you’re to murder me,” he murmured, brushing parchment aside, “kindly wait until I finish drafting this blood clause. The Southern Clan has no grasp of proper semicolon usage, and I refuse to die with such incompetence unresolved.”

You stared.

Because of course he said that.

And somehow—Gods help you—he was even more devastating like this: untouchable, unshaken, drowning in ink and elegance. The moment unravelled not with the grandeur of vengeance, but with the absurdity of theatre gone wrong.

“Enough of this,” you hissed beneath your breath.

You stormed across the chamber like a tempest in slippers, seizing the back of Crowe’s grand, high-backed chair with enough force to rattle its gilded frame. It scraped against the stone floor in protest as you yanked it backwards, and he—calm, wretched Crowe—merely tilted his head, one brow arching in dry curiosity, as if you were a mildly interesting opera he hadn’t yet decided to walk out of.

You raised the dagger—your silver blade, etched with runes and soaked in resolve—aiming it directly for his unbeating heart.

But he caught your wrist mid-air.

His grip was iron beneath silk. Elegant fingers wrapped around yours like a cage of manners and strength, firm enough to hold, gentle enough to patronize. His expression was maddeningly composed—infuriatingly indulgent—as though you had offered him a biscuit rather than attempted his murder.

“My dear,” he drawled, low and amused, “you are hardly the first human to attempt my demise.”

His gaze searched yours, that dark blue shimmer behind his eyes catching the candlelight. “Though I must say… You might be the first to stay in my manor this long before doing so. Rather devastating, truly. I had such hopes for our rapport.”

He leaned back, still holding your wrist, speaking with the weary grace of someone who’d once debated philosophy with Aristotle and found the experience a bore.

“Now tell me—are you truly a researcher? Or is this all to satisfy some dreary family destiny? A vendetta, perhaps?” He smiled, slow and knowing. “You have the look of someone trying to finish someone else's story.”

That did it.

“Damn your manor. And your infernal questions.” The words left your lips like thunder preceding a storm, and with a final flicker of resolve, you let the dagger fall from your grip. The silver clattered against the marble floor, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like the sound of a chapel bell tolling at an unholy hour.

Then—before he could say anything clever, before his aristocratic smirk could form fully—you lunged forward. Your hands gripped the rich velvet of his coat, and with the impulsive defiance of someone long past their limit, you bit him.

Right on the shoulder.

Through fine brocade and centuries of cultivated detachment, your teeth sank in—not deeply, but with intent. A petty rebellion. A scholar’s fury in its most absurd form.

Crowe stilled… then—laughed.

A melodic, honey-warm laugh, rolling from his chest with unguarded amusement. It wasn’t the laugh of a vampire lord. It was something wickedly human. His whole body shuddered with it as he clutched at your waist, entirely too delighted.

“Oh, heavens above,” he gasped between chuckles, “are you truly biting me?”

“You’re damn right I am,” you growled, tightening your grip on his collar.

“Stop—please—it tickles,” he wheezed, head falling back, utterly unbothered. His laughter echoed off the stone like wind through crypts, playful and maddening.

You fixed him with a gaze that burned with righteous indignation, your cheeks aflame with a mortification that curled hot in your chest. How dare he restrain you thus—his hands firm about your waist as though you were some wayward creature in need of correction! 

The very insolence of it set your teeth on edge, his grip at once unyielding and... disturbingly tender, as if he feared harming you even as you sought to wound him. The contradiction made your pulse thunder in your ears, a traitorous heat rising beneath your skin.

And so you struck again.

This time, your teeth found the elegant column of his throat—that pale, unguarded expanse where the veneer of his immortal composure lay vulnerable. The skin was warm against your lips, deceptively human save for the ancient blood that flowed beneath. 

You bit down with deliberate intent, no half-hearted nip of petulance, but a claiming pressure that spoke of primal challenge. A growl rose unbidden from your chest, something raw and feral that cared nothing for propriety or the centuries of cultivated restraint that separated your kind from his.

Crowe went utterly still.

Not in shock. Not in protest. But in perfect, breathless silence.

Then—slow as honey dripping from a spoon—he released a shuddering exhale. A sound escaped him then, low and velvet-dark, trembling through the scant space between your bodies to resonate along your very bones.

It was neither gasp nor moan, but something far more revealing—a crack in his usual polished demeanor that laid bare a truth more intimate than any touch. The sound hung between you like opium smoke in lamplight, thick with unspoken meaning.

His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at your waist. A silent concession. A wordless surrender. Then his grasp upon your wrist slackened, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as though overcome by some unseen force. 

His eyelids grew heavy, those dark brown lashes—like strokes of charcoal upon alabaster casting delicate shadows across his pallid cheeks. For but a fleeting moment, the carefully cultivated veneer of centuries slipped away, revealing something startlingly vulnerable beneath.

You beheld him then—not as the ancient predator, nor the aristocratic puppeteer of shadows, but simply as a man undone by the fire you had so recklessly kindled within him. A most satisfying revelation, you thought. Let him know the disquiet of being cornered. Let him savor the chaos he so often orchestrated from the shadows.

As you withdrew but a fraction, your gaze meeting his with defiant triumph, he moved with the languid grace of smoke curling about a candle's flame. His hand, no longer restraining, but guiding, slid from your wrist to cradle your palm with unexpected tenderness. You felt the whisper of his breath first, then the dreadful, exquisite pressure of his fangs.

"Allow me to demonstrate," he murmured, his voice thick as honeyed sin, "what constitutes a proper bite."

The penetration was sharp yet elegant, a violation executed with such precision it bordered on artistry. Your breath caught most indecorously as warmth blossomed from the wound, spilling into his waiting mouth. 

Your knees threatened to betray you as the sensation—at once foreign and strangely intimate—coursed through your veins. The initial sting melted into something far more dangerous, as though he were unraveling your very being thread by silken thread.

Crowe hummed against your flesh—actually hummed—as he drank, the vibration sending peculiar tremors along your nerves.

"How curious," he mused, his lips brushing your skin with each syllable, "that so natural a human would dare bite a creature such as I." His voice, dipped in velvet darkness, curled about you like the finest smoke.

With deliberate slowness, he withdrew, a single crimson droplet glistening at the corner of his mouth. His tongue—that wicked, knowing instrument—captured it with unhurried relish. He regarded you then, his gaze burning with an intensity that set your very soul aquiver—at once fierce and tender, terrifying and wondrous.

"Your blood," he confessed, the words a dark benediction, "is nothing short of extraordinary."

The admission hung between you, thick as the scent of copper and desire in the air, and you realized with startling clarity that this was no longer about retribution, but something far more perilous. A game had been begun from which neither of you could now withdraw.

You found yourself, still astride him, your knees pressing into the damask upholstery on either side of his thighs, your body cradled in his grasp—not with the savage possession of a predator claiming prey, but with the reverent delicacy of an antiquarian handling some precious artifact. 

His hand cupped the slender column of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, worshipful circles over the frantic flutter of your pulse. The other ascended the delicate architecture of your spine before stilling, as if overcome by the sacrilege of his own touch.

His face—that alabaster mask of aristocratic composure—dipped forward to rest against the swell of your bosom, just above the pounding rhythm of your heart. 

No feral pounce came, no bestial snarl as in the gothic tales of your youth. Instead, a shudder wracked his frame, his breath catching like silk snared on brambles. Those elegant hands—cool as marble and just as finely wrought—settled at your waist once more, drawing you down into his lap with the solemn care of a priest elevating a sacred chalice.

For a suspended moment, he remained thus—his ear pressed to your breast, listening to the vital drumbeat of your mortality as though it might cleanse him of some ancient stain.

"I..." The word emerged ragged, scraped raw from some deep well of restraint. "I must beg your forgiveness. To have taken even that meager taste without your explicit blessing... it was unconscionable." His fingers trembled against your flesh with a vulnerability no artifice could feign. This was no carefully constructed seduction, but raw hunger swaddled in centuries of forced civility.

"You smelled..." He paused, the words a whisper against your décolletage, "like ambrosia given form. Like honeyed histories and sun-warmed sea salt. Like some long-lost vintage meant to be savored across eternity."

You remained silent, the embers of your earlier fury still glowing hot beneath your ribs.

Crowe lifted his gaze then, those blue eyes—usually so composed—blazing with naked yearning. "Might I..." The words seemed to pain him, each syllable a confession. "Might I partake properly?"

There it was—supplication from a creature who had not knelt in centuries. He phrased it as one might a sacred invocation, as though the act of tasting you were not some carnal indulgence, but a holy rite. The very air between you seemed to thicken with the weight of his plea, heavy with the promise of both sacrilege and salvation.

"It has been... decades," he admitted, the admission seeming to pain him, "since I last tasted pure human vitae. What passes for sustenance now is but a pale imitation—diluted with fear and political necessity." His aristocratic nose wrinkled in distaste. "Many of my kind have turned to animal blood, yet..." 

A pause, then the quiet blasphemy: "I would sooner drink ink."

Your throat constricted at the revelation, the implications coiling like smoke in your chest.

"My court survives on scraps," he continued, his voice taking on the weary cadence of a ruler bearing ancient burdens, "ever since that wretched exile destroyed our carefully laid plans for coexistence. The system we envisioned—protection exchanged for willing sustenance, a civilized accord between our kinds—lies in ruins." 

His fingers at your neck remained gentle, their pressure never crossing into cruelty. "The humans demand peace, and we comply - not for harmony's sake, but survival's. And so we starve... with dignity."

A revelation dawned, sudden and cold. "I have kept them from you," he confessed. "Some of my subjects... they have attempted to approach. Several came dangerously near."

The pieces aligned—the cold receptions, the hissed imprecations, the predatory gazes in shadowed corridors.

"They despise you," Crowe stated plainly, his breath cool against your skin as he rested his brow against your collarbone. "Because they have been forbidden from touching what they most desire." His voice dropped to its softest register yet, the words vibrating through your very bones. 

"And I... I detest them for coveting what I myself crave."

Then—with a vulnerability that would have been unthinkable mere moments before—he repeated his plea, the words a velvet-wrapped supplication:

"I entreat you..."

It unmoored something in you. You’d never heard a vampire beg. You’d never heard a man beg for you. Not like this. Not trembling. Not wrapped in centuries of self-control, only to come undone in your lap.

Your family would call this betrayal. A disgrace.

You were supposed to uncover his secrets, not offer your blood like an oath. But… weren’t you already lost? You’d stepped into this manor with a purpose. And now…

You reached up, slowly. Deliberately. 

Hands finding the tie at the top of your nightgown. And in the silence between heartbeats, you began to undo it. The fabric slipped from your shoulders with a whisper, baring skin bathed in candlelight. You tilted your head just slightly—exposing the fragile line of your throat and shoulder.

Then you met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Go ahead,” you said.

Crowe inhaled sharply. Almost reverently.

His hands moved again, but now—gently. One arm curled around your waist, the other resting on your bare back, pulling you closer as if he feared you might vanish.

Then, he pulled back—not to bite, but to look.

His hands, cool and deliberate, slid upward from your waist, fingertips brushing over the soft curve of your ribs, past the dip beneath your sternum, toward the hollow just below your collarbone. He touched as if reading braille on a sacred text—curious, but careful. Possessive, but polite.

His dark blue eyes, like ink dropped into moonlit water, roamed your exposed skin not with hunger, but fascination. He paused at your neckline, his thumb grazing the thudding pulse there, and smiled—not smugly, but with quiet delight. As if you were something rare and delicate. Not prey. Not even a gift. A discovery.

"Every vampire," he murmured, his voice like crushed velvet drawn across polished alabaster, "develops certain... predilections." The words curled about your ear with deliberate slowness. 

"The neck, naturally, remains the popular choice. Dramatic. Visceral. Poetic in its vulgarity." His lips brushed the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, the barest suggestion of contact. "But I have always found it rather... gauche. Like shouting one's desires in a cathedral."

His hand rose with the grace of a conductor preparing his orchestra, cradling your cheek with unexpected tenderness as he guided your head to expose that secret place where jaw meets throat.

"I prefer more... discreet geography," he confessed, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your nape. "Places that whisper rather than scream. Places known only to me."

You felt the whisper-soft drag of his nose along that exquisite hidden curve behind your ear—that delicate junction where vulnerability and pleasure intertwine. "Here," he breathed, the word a benediction, "is where the music lies."

Then he struck.

The penetration came not as pain, but as gradual surrender—a firm, insistent pressure yielding to warmth, then to the most extraordinary sensation of being gently unraveled. And oh, the sound he made—that choked, reverent moan vibrating against your skin like a cello's lowest register. 

The arm about your waist tightened possessively, while his free hand wandered your contours with astonishing care, kneading the tension from your lower back, tracing idle patterns along the flare of your hip—as if every touch were both apology and worship.

"You taste," he gasped between draws, his usually polished voice fraying at the edges, "like ambrosia undiluted by terror or artifice. Like life itself distilled to its purest essence."

The wound tingled rather than ached, his mouth—warmed now by your vitality—sealing the small breach with surprising tenderness. A final kiss, feather-light, was pressed to the offended flesh—a silent benediction for the gift you'd granted.

"Should you wish me to cease," he murmured against your skin, his fingers interlacing with yours in silent covenant, "you need but squeeze my hand. This privilege is yours to grant or withdraw as you see fit." The words held the weight of sacred vow, his entire being poised in perfect stillness—a predator willingly leashed by your consent.

You nodded slowly. Then, he moved again. Slow. Searching.

His lips traced a slow, deliberate path along the delicate arch of your collarbone, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through centuries. 

"I shall be most judicious in my indulgence," he vowed, the words a velvet caress against your skin. "Small drinks, taken from varied founts - this is the way to preserve your strength, your clarity." The promise hung between you, weighted with unspoken devotion.

Before you could summon a response, he descended further, his mouth finding that tender juncture where bodice meets flesh. 

Not yet claiming, merely... worshiping. His lips brushed the spot with reverence, as though committing every contour to memory, tracing invisible cartography across your being.

"This place," he murmured against your flushed skin, his breath cool as moonlit silk, "might next receive my devotion, should you permit it?"

You found yourself adrift in sensation, your arms wound about his neck as if he were the only anchor in a sea of dizzying pleasure. Your very blood seemed to sing beneath his attentions, and in that moment, you comprehended the exquisite paradox of being undone—not violently shattered, but tenderly unraveled, like some precious tapestry yielding its golden threads one by one.

Between each lingering kiss, between every measured draw of his lips, he whispered praises that coiled about your soul like incense smoke—words that made you question whether this was mere seduction or some ancient rite; whether it constituted sacrament or something far more perilous than either of you dared acknowledge.

Crowe paused, his dark eyes searching yours with unsettling perception. "You tremble still, my dear," he observed, his thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath your eye with heartbreaking gentleness. That aristocratic mouth curved into a knowing smile, faintly wicked at the edges. 

"I do so hope it isn't fear that moves you thus."

You parted your lips to respond, but your normally assured voice—that sharp, commanding instrument—failed you utterly. The words lodged in your throat like forgotten verses in some arcane tome. 

"I..." A breath, then the quiet confession: "It isn't fear." Your voice wavered, yet held an undeniable strength. "I fear you not, Crowe."

His gaze didn’t waver. His hand rested gently on your cheek now, thumb brushing the warmth there as if trying to soothe something deeper than nerves. “I’m…” You bit your lip, then exhaled, eyes fluttering closed for just a breath. “I’m enjoying it. What you’re doing. More than I should.”

The confession dropped between you like a shattered relic from the altar of your family’s expectations. Generations of warnings and doctrine—of bloodlines and destinies and solemn purpose—faded like old ink in the lamplight.

Crowe’s expression softened into something unreadable, eyes still dark and endless. And you?

You leaned forward—because something in you had shattered, some last fragile thread of resistance snapping under the weight of his presence. The air between you was charged, thick with the scent of him—old books, ink, and something darker, something primal. 

Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but the magnetic pull of his body, his lips, his hunger.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision—a desperate, bruising press of lips that tasted of salt and copper, your own blood still staining his mouth, now smeared between you like a vow.

His response was immediate, a growl vibrating against your lips as he kissed you back with a ferocity that stole your breath. The careful control he’d shown before was gone, replaced by something raw, something more starving.

His hands, once reverent, now gripped you with possessive urgency, fingers digging into your hips as if he could fuse your body to his. You felt him everywhere—the hard line of his chest against yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing you, the unmistakable press of his arousal against your ass as he pinned you to the desk. 

The polished wood was cold beneath your fevered skin, a sharp contrast to the fire licking through your veins. The scent of parchment and ink rose around you, mingling with the heady musk of desire, of sweat, of him.

And then—his teeth.

A sharp, delicious sting as he bit your lip, just hard enough to draw blood. You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming, devouring. The pain melted into pleasure, a dark thrill racing down your spine. His fangs grazed you again, a teasing threat, a promise of more.

One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other slid down your spine, pressing you flush against him.

And oh, you could feel him—the hard, insistent ridge of his arousal pressing against your stomach, the way his hips rolled forward just slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips curved into a smirk against yours, pleased at the reaction he drew from you.

"You feel that?" he murmured, voice rough, each word a slow drag of sound against your kiss-swollen mouth. 

"That’s what you do to me, dearset.”

Your fingers clutched at his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the fabric, and he groaned, low and deep, before capturing your lips again. This time, his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to tease—a silent promise of what he could do if he wanted to. His tongue soothed the sting, then plunged back in, claiming your mouth with a hunger that left you dizzy.

You could feel the hard line of his body against yours, the way his hips pressed into you with deliberate, tantalizing friction. Every roll of his pelvis sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and before you could stop yourself, you were grinding against him, shameless, desperate for more.

A low, rough laugh escaped him as he felt your need, his hands tightening on your waist. "Impatient, darling?" he murmured against your lips, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous. 

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not when his tongue swept into your mouth with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. Instead, your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, trembling as you worked them open one by one, revealing the smooth, heated skin beneath.

His hair, usually tied back with that infuriatingly perfect ribbon, was your next target. You tugged it loose, letting the silken strands slip through your fingers before giving it a gentle, teasing pull. 

He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a moment, you revelled in the power of it—the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened almost painfully. "Cheeky," he growled, but there was no real reprimand in it, only heat. Only hunger.

In one fluid motion, he had you turned, your back pressed against the cool, polished surface of his desk. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, the scent of aged parchment and ink wrapping around you like an intoxicating haze. His body followed, caging you in, one knee nudging between your thighs as he leaned down, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse.

"So sweet," he murmured, teeth scraping lightly over your throat. "So fucking perfect for me."

You arched into him, a whimper escaping your lips as his hands slid down your sides, his touch searing even through the thin fabric of your nightgown. And then—

The sharp, unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Your nightgown split beneath his hands, the delicate material giving way as he bared you to his gaze, to his touch. A gasp tore from your lips, not in protest, but in stunned pleasure at the way his fingers followed the ruin of silk, skimming over newly exposed skin with agonizing slowness.

His palm settled between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the desk—not with force, but with an unshakable certainty that made your body arch instinctively toward his.

"You don’t know what you’ve started," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "But I’m going to show you."

And as his mouth traced the curve of your spine, each kiss a slow, worshipful brand, you realized—you didn’t just want him to.

You needed him to.

His hands turned you with effortless dominance, flipping you onto your back so you could see him—really see him. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark hunger in his eyes as he drank in the sight of you sprawled across his desk, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. His lips curved into a smirk, slow and knowing, as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.

Then, with deliberate intent, he hooked his hands beneath your knees and spread you open, baring you completely to his gaze. The air was cool against your heated skin, making you shiver—or maybe it was the way his eyes darkened, the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he studied the slick evidence of your desire. 

He exhaled, slow and controlled, his breath ghosting over your most intimate flesh, teasing before he’d even touched you.

"This," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, "is my favorite place to drink from the bold ones. But you—" His fingers traced idle patterns along your inner thighs, his touch feather-light yet searing.

"You’re the first who’s ever dared to let me." And then his mouth was on you—not where you ached for him most, but close enough to make your hips jerk in helpless anticipation.

His lips brushed the delicate skin of your thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat before his fangs sank in, just deep enough to draw a single, crimson bead to the surface. The sharp sting melted into pleasure as he lapped at the wound, his groan vibrating against your flesh.

You whimpered, fingers twisting in his long hair beneath you, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Patience," he chided, blowing softly over the wet trail his tongue had left behind. The contrast of cool air against your fevered skin made you gasp, your legs trembling around his shoulders.

His fingers slid between your thighs then, parting you further, and the sound he made—low, almost feral—sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your core. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and desire.

"You’re dripping for me."

You arched off the desk with a desperate moan, but he pressed you back down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm but not unkind. "No, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb circling your hipbone in slow, maddening strokes. "Not yet."

His lips returned to your thigh, kissing, nipping, licking—each touch a brand, each flick, each suck of his tongue a promise. He took his time, savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

When he finally, finally closed his mouth over your aching core, it was with a groan of pure indulgence, his tongue sweeping through your folds in one long, luxurious stroke.

"I need more of you first," he murmured against your flesh, his words muffled but no less potent. "Trade for a trade. I’ll give you what you want—let me have this, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of." His teeth grazed your clit, just enough to make you cry out. 

"I’ll make you scream my name as you come from my mouth alone."

And then he was true to his word, his tongue circling, flicking, devouring you with a precision that bordered on sinful. 

Every stroke was calculated, every suck deliberate, until your back was bowing off the desk, your thighs clamping around his head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you.

He took his time with you—not because he lacked hunger, but because he savored the way your body yielded beneath his touch, the way every gasp and whimper spilled from your lips like a prayer meant only for him. His mouth was a slow, deliberate torment, tracing paths of fire across your skin before finally—finally—settling between your thighs with the reverence of a man kneeling at an altar.

And then his tongue was on you, in you, a wicked, knowing thing that laved and teased and ruined you with unbearable precision. He knew exactly how to draw out every sensation, every trembling plea—when to flick lightly over that aching bundle of nerves, when to press deep inside you with a groan that vibrated against your flesh. 

Your fingers twisted in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor yourself as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were shaking apart beneath him, your breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.

"Please—" you begged, the word fracturing into a moan as he sucked gently, his tongue circling in relentless, devastating strokes.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t hurry. He drew out every second of your unraveling, his grip tightening on your hips as your back arched, as your thighs trembled around his head. 

And when your climax finally crashed over you, violent and sweet, his name tore from your lips in a broken sob—a sound he swallowed greedily, his mouth never leaving you, drinking down every pulse, every shudder as if you were the only thing that could sate him.

Only when you lay boneless, your body still quivering with aftershocks, did he finally lift his head. His lips glistened with the evidence of your pleasure, his dark eyes burning with possessive satisfaction as he gazed down at you.

"Mine," He whispered, the word a rough.

His tender claim against your fevered skin. And in that moment, you were his—completely, irrevocably. The scholar, the avenger, a hunter who had walked into this room with a plan—she was gone, melted away under the heat of his touch, the weight of his desire. 

There was only this: the way his lips traced the curve of your spine in slow, worshipful kisses, the way his hands gentled over your trembling flesh, as if memorizing every inch of you.

You didn’t want to be anything else.

You didn’t need to be.

My godddddd. Writing this? Crowe as a vampire is devastatingly beautiful—not in a cruel way, but in that aching, slow-burn kind of charm that ruins you politely. He carries himself like a gentleman carved from dusk and candlelight, voice dipped in honeyed silk, eyes warm enough to forget they’ve watched centuries pass.

There’s a sweetness to him—dangerous, deliberate, the kind that lures you in with kindness before you even realize you're falling.

He doesn’t need to seduce; he simply exists, and suddenly you’re wondering what it would be like to taste forever at his side. Like, He’s such temptation wrapped in good manners.

Such lethalness, yes, but oh so soft when he smiles.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The train clattered along the aging rails like a dying heartbeat, steady but strained, echoing through the hollow hills that ushered in the edge of forgotten lands. 

You sat still as stone, shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat, the brim of your hat tilted just enough to veil your face from any inquisitive glances. 

Your gaze was fixed upon the fog-brushed window, watching as the world turned slowly grey. Trees blurred by like sentinels in mourning, each one older than the rails that cut through them.

You were bound for Doverhollow.

A name that settled in the bones like cold iron. Not many spoke of it with ease. And those who did, whispered—as if the village itself had ears buried in the soil. You had heard of the sickness running through it: not of body, but of spirit. 

A corruption that threaded through the bloodline of monsters too old to rot. Vampires. But not just the usual breed of noble parasites. No, among them was said to be one worse. A fallen one. An outcast even among predators. And you had come to see him for yourself.

Not out of curiosity.

But judgment.

Still, there was one place in particular that drew your thoughts more than the looming specter of the manor you were fated to infiltrate. A place not carved of stone and candlelight, but of wild soil and whispers. The forest.

They called it Brugmansia Grove, though the villagers themselves seemed reluctant to speak the name aloud. Foreign on their tongues, as if borrowed from a language meant only for medical texts and old botanical poison books. It lacked the softness of folk speech—it was not something they named, but something they endured.

But you knew the name.

You knew it in ink and pressed leaves, in the brittle pages of your family's hunting manuals. Brugmansia—the Angel’s Trumpet. A flower shaped like a bell tolling for the dead. Beautiful, pendulous, and gleaming with quiet threat. A plant of dreams, hallucinations, and gentle deaths that mimicked sleep. Its scent alone, in the right concentration, could lull the lungs into forgetting to breathe.

You were not frightened.

Hardly.

The world of plants had always been a thing of logic and precision to you. The nightshade family was like a roster of old friends and deadlier enemies—Belladonna, with her ink-dark berries; Datura, that bold-flowered liar; Mandragora, moaning beneath the soil like a buried sin. You knew where to touch, what to taste, when to retreat. You respected poison—but you did not fear it.

And yet the forest itself…

It called to you.

Not merely as a hunter, not even as a scholar, but as something more primal. The way ruin calls to fire. There was a challenge in its quietude, in the layered silences between rustling branches and ghost stories. They said the trees remembered what men forgot. That spirits lingered long after the screams faded. Some said it was cursed. Others claimed those who entered the Grove came out changed. If they came out at all.

You leaned into your thoughts with a wry smile.

If you were to carry the burden of your family’s legacy—these endless hunts, the bloodlines measured in stakes and sorrow—then you would at least choose your path within it. Not all duties had to be dreary.

Killing the outcast would be your offering.

Your reckoning. Your intellectual pursuit. A necessary violence, perhaps—but one you intended to savour.

Where your ancestors treated monsters as mere blots on family honor, you found them…fascinating. Terrifying, yes. But fascinating. The old men of your bloodline sat in ancestral manors and counted their victories by fangs preserved in jars and journals scrawled in the margins with trembling ink. You had read them all—by candlelight, beside glass cases of faded relics and ruined bones. 

And in all those pages, the words bled the same: Kill. Contain. Cleanse.

But not you.

You would do this your way.

There was a seduction in danger. And if you were going to be burdened with a legacy written in silver and blood, you might as well carve your own legend from it. No prayers. No permission.

If the rumors held even a grain of truth, then the creature that now skulked in the shadows was no ordinary vampire. He was something worse. An exile. A deviation. Even among the nightkind—who bowed to no mortal order, he was whispered of with contempt. Not merely a rogue, but an error. A mistake they had tried to forget.

Which made him all the more perfect.

For your research. For your reputation. For your amusement.

You imagined his death as something intimate. Surgical. Not a frenzied stake through the heart, but a dissection of the soul. You would learn what made him different—what made even his own kind cast him out—and then you would end him. Precisely. Methodically. Beautifully.

And if you had to walk into a cursed forest to do it, so be it.

The Gove, A name the villagers spoke with bitten tongues and lowered eyes. A place swathed in poison and perfume, where the Angel’s Trumpets drooped from twisted branches like a thousand listening ears. They warned you that people vanished there. That the trees hummed with voices not quite human. Those who entered the Grove either lost their way or, worse, forgot they ever had one.

But you were not afraid.

The Grove would not break you. It would reveal him to you.

And when it did, you would watch the fear rise in his inhuman eyes as he realized: he was being hunted. Not by torch-bearing villagers. Not by trembling priests. But by someone colder. Smarter. Hungrier.

You laced your gloves tighter, checked the weight of your blade once more, and turned your face toward the trees ahead.

Let him be as strange as they claimed. Let him be strong. Twisted. Terrifying. You only smiled at the thought. 

It would make the kill worth remembering.

The path began as little more than a suggestion. A deer trail, perhaps. Or the outline of something older—something man-made long ago, now half-swallowed by moss and memory. You followed it with your coat drawn close and your senses keening, your boots whispering across roots and damp leaves as the forest narrowed in on you like the mouth of a beast.

The deeper you walked, the stranger the world became.

Every tree here leaned at odd angles, as though ashamed of their own growth. The air was heavy with the ghost-sweet scent of Angel’s Trumpets, blooming from twisted boughs in reckless abandon. Their pale, drooping bells swayed like warning signs, like a thousand little nooses. You knew the poison well—tropane alkaloids, delirium-inducing, deathly—and yet here they were, growing wild, unchecked, an entire forest intoxicated.

And then the decay began.

Old fences emerged from the brush like skeletons, half-swallowed by ivy. Rusted iron gates hung crookedly from hinges that no longer served their purpose. Further in, you passed what might have once been cottages—stone husks choked in vines, their windows glassless, their doors bowed inward. No life stirred here. Not animal, not bird. Even the insects seemed to avoid the place.

And there it was.

The manor.

Or something attempting to be one. It rose before you in the clearing like a half-finished thought—less a house, more a ruin that had been forced to keep breathing. The stone was weather-stained, the structure leaning slightly, like it was tired of pretending. It wasn’t large. Smaller than the average manor, if such a thing could exist.

Still, there was something deliberate in its lines. The shutters, though broken, had once been elegant. The façade had detail beneath the grime. A past life. A forgotten purpose.

So this is where the outcasts dwell, you thought. In haunted groves and collapsing dreamscapes.

Not castles. Not crypts. Not even homes. Just… remnants.

You circled it, scanning for entry. The front door was warped and bolted from the inside, clearly unused. But the eastern wing was thinner, slighter, and a gnarled birch tree had grown up close to its flank. Closer inspection revealed a second-story window, just above the overgrown eaves. Unlocked, if you were lucky.

You climbed.

The bark bit your palms. The branches creaked under your weight. But you moved with quiet precision, and luck—for once—was kind. The window gave with a groan, and you slipped inside like breath into a crypt. And landed… not in a bedroom. Not a hallway. 

But a gallery?? 

You stilled, crouched, heart thudding not in fear—but in confusion. The room was long, narrow, wood-paneled. Dust-laden beams curved like ribs above your head. And all around you—on the walls, from floor to ceiling—were paintings.

Not the sort you’d expect in a decrepit manor. These weren’t portraits of sullen ancestors or landscape studies from the surrounding village. No, these were... strange. Familiar in style, unfamiliar in subject.

One painting showed a woman with no eyes, her face serene, surrounded by white moths in a black void. Another depicted a cathedral submerged in water, fish swimming through its shattered stained glass. Another—a skeletal figure cradling a sleeping child, their heads identical.

You stepped forward slowly, awe overtaking calculation. The brushwork was stunning. Meticulous. There was pain in it. Love. Obsession. This was no random collection—this was a compulsion, a gallery curated by something ancient and deeply lonely.

You exhaled.

Was this the outcast’s doing? Or his madness made manifest?

Either way… You had found something precious. And you were inside it now.

You moved deeper into the gallery, each step muffled by a thick layer of dust that blanketed the wooden floorboards. The air was heavy with the scent of aged oil paint and something more elusive—a metallic tang that stirred memories of old wounds and forgotten battles. The paintings on the walls grew increasingly surreal, depicting scenes that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of your vision.

A narrow hallway beckoned, its walls lined with more of the unsettling artwork. You proceeded cautiously, the silence pressing in around you like a shroud. Then, from a partially open door at the end of the corridor, a soft, rhythmic sound reached your ears—the gentle swish of a brush against canvas.

Peering through the doorway, you saw him.

You had nearly forgotten how to breathe.

There, hunched high on a ladder, man—slight and pale, absorbed utterly in the art blooming beneath his fingers. His back was to you, focused intently on a large canvas. But the moonlight from the tall, grime-smeared window cast his silhouette in ghostly silver. It clung to his edges like frost. 

His black hair, streaked with green, cascaded over his shoulders, partially obscuring his face. He wore a white tunic and black trousers, the simplicity of his attire contrasting sharply with the vivid chaos of the paintings that surrounded him. 

The painting he worked on was unlike any you had seen before—a swirling maelstrom of color and form that seemed to defy logic and perspective. It drew you in, compelling you to step closer, your earlier caution momentarily forgotten.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just… painted. In long, obsessive strokes that held a devotion so intense, it bordered on sacramental.

You tilted your head. 

The scene on the canvas was striking—an unfinished portrait, awash in muted tones. The subject: a man sinking underwater, mouth open in a silent scream. Red ribbons of blood curled from his fingers like ink in water. And within the water? Reflections of faces. Watching.

Jesus.

You’d read vampire profiles that were less disturbing than this.

And just as you debated whether to interrupt or let him continue to paint his existential crisis in peace, the brush slipped. “Ah—shit,” he muttered, snapping from his trance and nearly toppling backward on the ladder.

You barely had time to blink before he lost balance completely. The ladder tipped. His coat flared like wings. And the elegant, tortured artist came crashing down in an undignified tangle of limbs and groaned curses.

Reflexes kicked in. You stepped aside, and he hit the ground with a thud that echoed through the gallery.

You peered down at him, blinking slowly.

“...Are you a vampire?”

He groaned, flopping like a dying spider on the hardwood. “Depends who’s asking.” 

Without waiting for a proper answer, you dropped a knee onto his chest and pinned him in place. He wasn’t exactly fighting back. In fact, he looked more annoyed than alarmed, and maybe a little embarrassed—though it was hard to tell with his mess of paint-streaked black hair covering half his face.

That’s when your eyes met. And stopped.

Central heterochromia.

The kind of rare detail most people would miss. But you didn’t miss much. His eyes were rings within rings—burnt orange at the center, bright and crackling like fire behind glass, ringed in a deeper crimson that caught the light like blood in water. A predator’s eyes. And yet...

They blinked up at you with the distinct expression of someone who’d just been caught napping during a lecture and now regretted all life choices.

“I was going to offer you tea,” he said eventually, voice dry. “But now I’m reconsidering.”

You arched a brow. “I climb through a second-story window like a thief and your first instinct is to make tea?”

“Well, I didn’t know you were a thief,” he said, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. “Could’ve been a hallucination. Wouldn’t be the first time the fumes from oil paint brought me visitors.”

You narrowed your eyes, trying very hard not to be charmed. It wasn’t working. “Name,” you demanded, pressing just a little more of your weight down.

“Solivan Brugmansia,” he said, with the dramatic flair of someone announcing a stage name. “Please call me Sol, like Solitude, possibly Sorrow. Not Solidarity—I’m a terrible conversationalist.”

You stared at him.

He blinked back. “You’re not one of the guards from the fancy manor, are you? Because if you are, tell them leave me be.”

“I’m here to kill you.”

He grinned. “That’s fair. Want to do it before or after I finish this painting?”

And God’s help you, you actually hesitated. This wasn’t how hunts were supposed to go. Sol looked very comfortable for a man pinned to the floor.

“Before you kill me,” he said, voice airy as he lay there like a martyr in a painting, “could I request not to be smothered? I have delicate lungs.”

You squinted. “Shame. I was thinking of crushing your ribs next.”

“Oof. Also, that’s fair.” 

You didn’t budge. Instead, you narrowed your eyes, letting silence drag like a blade across the room. Moonlight spilled through the cracked glass, pooling in silver puddles over the dusty floorboards. Paint-scent and turpentine hung thick in the air, mingling with something fainter. Not rot. Not blood. But something old. Animal. Forgotten.

Slowly, reluctantly, you eased off of him.

He sat up with a groan and a flourish, brushing dust from his coat and checking his limbs like a man who’d done this before. Too many times. “So,” he said, peering up at you with that maddening half-smile, “what’s your name, mysterious window invader?”

“I ask the questions.”

“Oh, of course you do,” he said, sighing with theatrical sadness. “The dynamic is very clear. You: strong, silent, and scowly. Me: misunderstood artist who may or may not eat people.”

You crossed your arms. “So you admit it.”

He blinked. “Eat people? I didn’t say that.”

“But you might?”

“Well, you might kill people for sport.”

You stared.

He smiled wider. “See? It’s rude when someone jumps to conclusions.”

You took a slow breath, knuckles itching around the dagger still strapped at your thigh. “Are you the outcast I’ve been hearing about?”

His head tilted. Just slightly. The way a fox tilts its head at the rustling in the brush—half amusement, half assessment. “Depends who’s asking,” he said again, but quieter this time.

You stepped forward. “Don’t play riddles. Vampires aren’t supposed to be here. You’re off the map. And yet you’ve got a whole forest, a half-rotten gallery, and a painting habit that looks like a journal entry from a madman.”

Sol stood slowly, the light catching again in his strange fire-and-wine eyes. He was taller than you expected. Lean. Pale as bone, and barefoot—because of course he was. One of his sleeves had ripped in the fall, and he didn’t seem to care.

“Is that what they call me now?” he asked softly. “The Outcast?”

“It fits,” you replied coldly. “You’re alone. You’re eccentric. And according to a few surviving locals, something in the woods likes to rip the memories out of people’s heads and leave them wandering blind.”

“Oh, that,” he said, waving a hand. “Those were accidents.”

You raised a brow.

“...Mostly.”

You took a step closer. “So it was you.”

He looked at you. Really looked. Eyes narrowed, but not cruelly. He was reading something behind your face. Most people didn’t even try.

“No,” he said at last, voice too calm. “It wasn’t me. But I know what it was.”

“And?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said, smiling with all the misplaced confidence of a man holding a teacup in a burning house. “But only if you stop looming like a tax auditor. Or at least have the decency to pretend you’re here for something romantic.”

You stared at him. You’d come to the Grove expecting to find a monster. A real one. Claws, blood-stained mouth, maybe a shrine made of bones and teeth. Something that looked like it crawled out of the kind of story children weren’t supposed to hear.

Instead, you got him.

Sol. The so-called Feral Outcast.

The creature feared by villagers and whispered about by candlelight.

And he looked like the kind of man who could barely win a fistfight with a clothesline.

When he fell from the ladder after spotting you—a dramatic crash of limbs, paintbrush, and what appeared to be an entire apron covered in dried acrylic—you had your knife at his throat before he could even finish a sentence. But the moment he blinked up at you with mismatched eyes—amber inside, red on the rim—you found yourself hesitating. Not from fear. From confusion. Because honestly… this? This was the guy?

You stared. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or maybe a decade. His hair was mussed like he’d rolled out of bed and into an explosion of linen and dust. His shirt was inside out. His socks didn’t match.

This was your monster?

“Are you the outcast?” you asked him, still looming with calculated menace.

He gave you a half-hearted shrug from the floor, still blinking. “Depends. Am I in trouble?”

“I came to kill you.”

“People say that to me a lot.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, voice painfully dry. “You’ve got the glare of a person with trust issues and a sharp object. And I love that for you.”

You stared at him, expression flat as slate. 

Sol blinked. “Fine. No jokes. Just... one thing first.”

Your muscles coiled as he reached slowly behind a canvas, one hand raised in some mockery of peace. You were ready for a blade. A blood vial. A wand, even. Anything remotely threatening.

What you got was… A fucking teacup.

Porcelain. Chipped. Painted with tiny roses like something out of a grandmother’s estate sale. Still warm.

“I did make tea,” he said, tone far too smug for a man currently at the mercy of someone considering various methods of decapitation. “You’re welcome.”

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or sigh. Maybe both. 

Honestly, probably both.

Still, out of sheer anthropological curiosity—and perhaps a dash of disbelief—you allowed him to shuffle awkwardly into what appeared to be a lopsided sitting room. If one could call it that. It looked like an opium den and an antique shop had been dropped into the middle of a tornado. Broken mirrors, misshapen chairs, a couch that was more spring than cushion. And in the middle of it all, a dainty porcelain set… with actual tea.

You sat.

Reluctantly.

Across from a vampire who looked like he once considered macaroni art a legitimate career path.

He poured you a cup with the solemnity of a priest offering confession. You didn’t drink it at first. You just watched him, silently, taking note of his posture, his tone, the strange calm that blanketed his every movement.

No madness. No fangs. No snarling.

Just tired. Slightly twitchy. And weirdly polite.

“Well?” he asked eventually, sipping his own cup with pinky raised, the sheer audacity of it nearly causing an aneurysm. “Aren’t you going to interrogate me? Judge me? Accuse me of crimes I probably committed in a fugue state?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a pathetic-looking vampire for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast.”

He looked genuinely offended. “Rude.”

“It’s not an insult,” you said. “It’s an observation. You look like you sleep in your own grave for fashion reasons.”

“I do! It’s very grounding.”

Your fingers twitched. “You’re seriously not going to try to kill me?”

He tilted his head. “Are you serious about killing me?”

You said nothing.

“Fair,” he said. “In the spirit of transparency, I’ve had worse dates.”

“This isn’t a date.”

“You’re in my house. Drinking my tea. With a weapon between your thighs. It feels like a date.”

You slammed your teacup down. He didn’t flinch. “You’re insane.”

“I am an artist.”

You didn’t know whether he was faking the eccentricity or if it was somehow real—and if it was, what kind of creature survived the wrath of both man and vampire by being this absurd?

Still, you decided to remain.

Not because he wasn’t a threat.

But because you weren’t convinced either way. 

And frankly, if you were going to kill someone, you might as well know what flavor of strange you were erasing from the world. Plus, the tea really wasn’t bad. Disturbingly floral. Lightly sweet. With a hint of something you suspected was stolen from the herb garden outside. (Sol insisted it was “just a touch of dried angelica” and not, as you originally accused, powdered grave moss.)

So again—reluctantly—you stayed.

The manor, if you could even call it that, wasn’t exactly in peak condition. Most rooms looked like they'd been furnished during a single, half-hearted attempt at being civilised… then promptly forgotten. Mismatched chairs, moth-bitten curtains, walls with peeling paint and suspicious claw marks. The plumbing made unsettling noises that resembled moaning whales or distant death rattles. You learned not to question it.

But you didn’t want to risk leaving either. Doverhollow’s villagers were already side-eyeing you like a walking plague, and checking in and out of an inn would only invite more attention. Not to mention, Sol had made it oddly comfortable.

He’d offered you a room without a hint of hesitation. It smelled faintly of turpentine and something… nostalgic, like old paper and lavender. There were books stacked on the floor, some still bookmarked mid-paragraph. A forgotten shawl hanging from a chair. And a closet full of clothes that didn’t match Sol’s aesthetic at all.

Which, of course, led you to wonder: who the hell had lived here before?

Old owners? Guests? Ghosts?

You didn’t ask. Yet.

Sol had wandered off after tea that night, muttering something about “needing to finish a piece before it lost its teeth,” which sounded either deeply poetic or mildly concerning.

You’d given up trying to parse his metaphors. He was one of those people who probably journaled in riddles and cried while watching candle flames.

Still, when you found him later—alone in what he referred to as his “studio of emotional decomposition”—you caught him perched on a stool, brush in hand, face slack with serene focus. His usual energy, that chaotic whirl of eccentric quips and inappropriate tea etiquette, was replaced by something quieter. He painted like he was unraveling something buried in his chest.

You didn’t disturb him. Much.

“So…” you began, leaning against the dusty doorframe. “You actually do art. I thought it was a performance thing.”

He didn’t glance up. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Honestly, I haven’t decided yet.”

His brush moved in slow, purposeful strokes. “Give it five more minutes. It gets impressive right before I ruin it.”

You stepped closer. “You're quiet when you're alone.”

“I am alone,” he said dryly, though there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his lips.

You stood there watching, arms crossed. “You paint a lot of ruined churches.”

“They’re metaphorical.”

“For what?”

“My soul.”

You snorted. “God, you’re insufferable.”

“Only in the mornings and when someone’s judging my symbolism.”

Still, you kept studying him, filing observations away like puzzle pieces. He was colder when alone, not cruel, but clearly the kind of person who lived more in his own head than in the world around him. But when he talked to you—when he let himself talk—he became almost… alive. Animated. 

Smart. Sharper than expected. The kind of clever that didn't just answer questions, but quietly twisted them back on you.

“You read, don’t you?” you asked.

“Religiously,” he replied, wiping his brush on a paint-stained rag. “Mostly Poe. The man understood the importance of emotional mess.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: you cry to The Raven and pretend it's about your tax situation.”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Briefly. Silently. You hated it. Then, because you were still a hunter, and still you, you stepped closer and asked more questions. Quiet ones. Calculated ones. You watched how he reacted to every inquiry—about his past, his exile, the rumors surrounding him. You studied the twitch of his fingers, the flick of his eyes.

Not because you trusted him.

But because you were researching him.

This was fieldwork. Observation. Dissection of personality through shared air and shadowed silences. And you had to admit: for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast, he was... surprisingly tolerable. Weird. But tolerable.

Later that night, you found yourself lying in bed with a notebook on your stomach and a half-sharpened pencil tucked between your fingers. The room was dimly lit—just enough moonlight leaking through the warped window to give everything a pale silver wash. The walls creaked as if the manor itself was muttering to you. Or sighing. Or dying slowly.

You didn’t care.

Your boots were off. The sword was still in reach. The tea, long gone cold.

And on the page in front of you?

Sol’s face. Well—most of it.

You weren’t a professional artist, but you weren’t completely without skill either. You’d spent enough time studying people from behind books and barrels to know how to render a decent likeness. And yet... his features were proving annoyingly complicated.

You’d only drawn one of his eyes so far. The other you left blank, almost intentionally. Central heterochromia was a pain in the ass to get right. The orange inner ring was easy enough to sketch. It was the outer ring—the deep, blood-crimson red—that made you pause. It looked like it should be threatening. But on him? It just looked… exhausted. And slightly irritated. Like a tired cat that hadn’t slept in eighty years.

You sighed.

Added some under-eye lines. Then added more. The man had the kind of eye bags that could carry groceries. Or guilt. Or both.

You sketched the line of his mouth next. Slightly too wide for his face. Subtle downturn when he wasn’t smirking. And, of course, you didn’t forget the lip rings—two small, black metal hoops resting at the corner of his lower lip like punctuation marks on a particularly smug sentence. You stared at the drawing for a long moment.

Then scribbled “why is he like this” in the corner.

Still, you’d learned more about him over the last couple days than you expected. Sol, as it turned out, was only turned a few decades ago—young, by vampire standards. Barely out of the coffin, metaphorically speaking. His turning had been messy, quiet, and unsanctioned. He was, as he said, “an artistic casualty of someone else's immortality crisis.”

That sounded like nonsense until you realized it probably wasn’t.

He'd shown you the gallery again in daylight. Well, daylight filtered through thick curtains and dust-choked air. Each painting he walked you through like a docent in a museum made for the clinically unstable. But it was fascinating, hearing the stories from his perspective.

One canvas was a swirl of reds and blacks—unintelligible from a distance, but up close it showed a woman screaming in silence. “That one,” Sol had said, pointing with a brush, “was about my first heartbreak. Or maybe a plumbing issue. Honestly, could be either.”

Another showed a forest burning in reverse—flames curling back into trees, ash turning green again. “That one’s just for drama. Gets me attention. Real crowd-pleaser.”

You'd expected all of it to be melodramatic.

You hadn’t expected it to be so… beautiful.

Still, you noted something darker, quieter, beneath all the color and flair. Most of his pieces—gorgeous as they were—had some unsettling, gruesome undertone. Like beauty and horror were two threads sewn from the same needle. You got the impression he wasn’t painting what he wanted to see—but what he couldn’t stop seeing.

You also discovered that holy relics actually burn him. You'd confirmed this during a brief “oops I dropped this conveniently near your hand” test with a silver cross. He’d yelped like a kicked cat and then tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, brushing it off with a scoff and a mutter of “how very traditional.”

You watched him later, rubbing the burn through his sleeve when he thought you weren’t looking.

He said he didn’t care. But you had the suspicion he missed warmth—sunlight, fire, the casual, unthinking kind of touch humans exchanged without flinching. You never saw him reach for a blanket or bask in the sun. He simply... sat. As if comfort was something remembered, not expected.

And then there were the horses.

Oh, the damn horses.

You had not expected that. It started when Sol insisted—insisted—on taking you to the village edge. Said it was for “an extremely serious errand.” You’d prepared for anything: blood rituals, secret meetings, maybe a hidden cache of weapons.

Instead, you found yourself standing at a rickety fence, watching Sol practically vibrate with joy at the sight of a large, mildly confused brown mare. 

He pressed his cheek against the post like a love-struck teenager. “Look at her. Just look at her. Do you see that mane? That’s a mane of dignity.”

You stared. Then stared harder. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious about horses,” he said, eyes wide with religious devotion. “They are majestic, noble creatures. Unlike people. Or Crowes. Crowes are little shits.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

Still, you documented the whole thing in your notes that night, right under “possible weaknesses: holy relics, sunlight, excessive emotional damage… also, equine fixation?”

You underlined that part twice. Then, as you stared at the page, at the half-finished sketch of his face, you found yourself wondering:

Was he a threat? Maybe. Was he dangerous? Possibly. Was he, at the very least, absolutely out of his mind? Unquestionably. And yet—somewhere between the tea, the burnt skin, and the rambling monologues about Gothic literature and “emotional rot”—you’d stopped seeing him as a target. And started seeing him as a question you wanted to solve.

With maybe just a little affection.

…Or an exorcism. You hadn’t decided. 

Understand, from two weeks ago, give or take a dramatic moment or two, you had seen another side of Sol.

You’d just returned from the village, arms full of human necessities—bread, salt, soap, and tea boxes. You were exhausted, sore, and slightly damp from a freak drizzle that smelled like mold and regret.

You only wanted to drop the bags, maybe nap, and not have to remind yourself for the fiftieth time that you were technically cohabiting with a literal vampire.

But, as was becoming alarmingly common, peace had a tendency to trip over itself and die on the porch steps. You heard the shouting before you reached the path back to the manor. 

It was coming from the outer edge of the manor grounds—angry, fearful voices flung into the wind like rocks through glass. Villagers. You ducked low, instinctively going quiet, your pack rustling like a traitor with every movement. You made your way forward with caution, slipping between brush and shadow.

And there he was. Sol.

Standing at the edge of the rotting garden path, teeth bared, hands twitching like claws, looking positively feral in the twilight glow. His shirt rumpled, hair a windswept mess of midnight tangles.

The villagers had come in a group—pitchforks and torches included, because apparently clichés were alive and well—and they were yelling about you. Your name. Your disappearance. Your proximity to the “monster in the woods.”

One of them actually screamed, “You’re under his spell!”

Which would have been flattering if it wasn’t so stupid.

And Sol? Sol was not amused. 

His voice had dipped into something low and horrible, rolling like thunder under his skin. His fangs were longer than usual—exaggerated, beastly, like some instinct had slipped free of its leash. And the sound—a growl, wet and sharp—came from deep in his throat. You swore you saw the foam.

Realization clicked into place like a lock snapping shut.

He was starving.

You’d never thought about it before. He didn’t eat around you. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even mention hunger. You’d assumed he fed on animals or—worse—wanderers. But now that you were looking, really looking, you realized how pale his skin had grown. How his hands trembled sometimes. How his eyes lingered just a moment too long when you rubbed your neck or rolled up your sleeves.

So, of course, you did what any sensible, level-headed hunter would do in the face of a semi-rabid, half-starved vampire glaring down a mob.

You yelled at him. “Hey! Sol!”

He twitched.

You stomped forward like an irate cat owner confronting their pet about the shredded curtains. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

The grove had gone silent in the aftermath, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. The scent of smoke and damp leaves clung to the air, mingling with something older—ash, rot, maybe a hint of regret. The villagers stood frozen along the winding dirt path, torches sputtering uncertainly in their trembling hands. 

Their eyes were still wide, caught between the horror they thought they were prepared for and the reality they’d just witnessed: a vampire foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog... and you, very calmly, yelling at him like an overworked babysitter at the end of their rope.

Sol blinked, visibly disoriented, the snarl frozen on his face as if even he wasn’t sure how it got there. His hands trembled—not from rage anymore, but like a man surfacing too quickly from drowning. The wild look in his mismatched eyes faltered the moment your voice cut through the fog.

"Am I going to have to throw holy water at you?" you snapped, stepping forward with the unmistakable energy of someone done.

Sol recoiled slightly, as though the words themselves had the power of exorcism. He let out a wheezing noise that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so strangled, caught somewhere between mortified and mildly offended. He stumbled a step back, shoulders sagging under the weight of self-awareness.

Meanwhile, the villagers—armed with their shaky pitchforks, crooked lanterns, and far too many accusations—suddenly looked like schoolchildren caught misbehaving in front of a substitute teacher. 

They glanced from you to Sol, and back again, slowly lowering their torches as the scene rapidly devolved from horror movie to uncomfortable farce. No one really knew what to do when the monster got scolded like a misbehaving cat.

They began to shuffle away, awkward and whispering, their righteous fury unraveling with each reluctant step. One of them actually muttered, “Well, they seems fine,” as though that made any of this normal.

You watched them disappear down the path with narrowed eyes, arms folded across your chest, radiating the kind of exasperated authority that could scare a demon into doing the dishes. 

Once they were gone, you turned back to Sol.

He was still standing there, arms limp at his sides, looking like someone who had just realized they’d screamed at a houseplant for three hours straight. His hair was a wild mess, and there were faint smears of dried paint on his sleeves. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and hanging off one shoulder like he’d either gotten into a fight or simply forgot how clothes work halfway through an artistic spiral.

“You okay?” you asked, deadpan.

“Define ‘okay,’” he replied, scrubbing both hands over his face like he could physically wipe the embarrassment away. “Because I am emotionally compromised and mildly ashamed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You were foaming.”

“I was not—” He paused mid-protest, poked the corner of his mouth with a finger, then sighed. “Okay. A little. Maybe. Minor foaming. Barely noticeable. Artistic foaming.”

“Sol.”

“I’m trying to have dignity, please.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When’s the last time you fed?”

He grumbled something low and vaguely ominous in a language you strongly suspected was dead and buried for good reason. Probably Latin. 

He sighed again, with all the melodrama of a poet being told to get a job. 

“It’s been... a while.”

“You don’t say.” You crossed your arms tighter. “Sol, you absolute cryptid. You have to eat. Preferably not me.”

He gave you a look that was far too amused for someone who had just been publicly humiliated. “That’s very considerate of you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious. This isn’t some tragic vampire novella where I hold your hand and cry about your internal conflict while you starve. I’m not going to nurse you back to health.”

“That’s a shame,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with mischief even through the lingering haze of bloodlust.

You were already grabbing him by the arm, dragging him away from the scene before he said something even more ridiculous. “Come on. Before you start biting rocks.”

He let himself be led without resistance, mumbling something about how “biting rocks” used to be a metaphor until now. His steps were unsteady, like the adrenaline hadn’t fully faded yet, but the feral glint in his eyes had dulled—for now.

You couldn’t believe this was your life.

You—descendant of a renowned lineage of vampire hunters, trained in the art of elimination since you could walk, raised on tomes thicker than your wrists and lessons whispered over the clink of silver blades—were here. Living in a haunted fixer-upper with warped floorboards, faded wallpaper, a suspiciously squeaky third stair, and one artistically foaming vampire who once nearly bit a villager for yelling at a goose.

What had your ancestors died for again?

You flopped back on the creaky mattress, exhaling a sigh sharp enough to cut glass. The ceiling above you bore faint water stains shaped vaguely like screaming faces, which felt a little too symbolic. You tried not to read into it.

This wasn’t what you’d come here for. You were supposed to find the vampire outcast. Kill him. Study the corpse. Write down notes. Collect samples. Behead something for science.

And yet... here you were. Journaling at midnight. Drinking lukewarm tea. Drawing the outcast’s stupid pretty face because you claimed it was “for documentation purposes” even though you shaded his lips a little too carefully.

You told yourself it was still a mission. That maybe Sol was a threat, hiding behind sarcasm and horse trivia. That you were still gathering intel. But when you closed your eyes and let your mind wander...

You wondered. Was this mercy? Or was it just madness?

Maybe Sol was a project. A weird, semi-feral, poetry-quoting, eyeliner-smudged art cryptid of a project. A riddle in oil paint and broken windows. And the longer you stayed, the more the lines blurred between hunter and... something else. Confessor. Companion. Confused housemate.

Gods help you, but you weren’t entirely mad about it.

Then—tap.

Your thoughts snapped like a twig underfoot. You froze. 

There it was again—faint, deliberate. A sound so soft most would miss it. But you were a hunter, trained to hear a needle drop through blood-soaked snow. Your senses sharpened instantly, a slow burn of tension sliding down your spine.

You slipped from bed in silence, sock-covered feet brushing across the dusty floorboards like a shadow. The manor was sleeping. Or at least, Sol was. Probably.

The hallway stretched before you like a throat waiting to swallow. Moonlight filtered through cracked windows in thin, bony beams. The wallpaper here was peeling, revealing older patterns beneath like a fossilized second skin. You kept to the edges of the walls as you moved, slow and steady.

The noise had come from below.

The wine cellar.

Of course it was the wine cellar. Because that was the obvious choice for mysterious noises in an already-cursed house.

You descended the steps without a sound, each one creaking like a guilty conscience. The air grew colder as you moved downward, damp and still and clinging to your skin like a warning. The scent of old cork and earth hit your nose, mingled faintly with something else—sharper. Iron.

Nothing.

The door creaked open only slightly—just enough to let you peek through the narrow sliver into the cold, stone-lined wine cellar. And what you saw next, well...

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the smell of dust or the stale, metallic tang of spilled blood on old stone. No. It was him—Sol—standing under the flickering light of a hanging bulb, shoulders drawn taut, his back to you like a statue carved in fury. His silhouette looked larger than usual, haloed by the faint fog of his breath in the cold cellar air. And in front of him—

Another vampire.

But not like Sol.

The creature slumped against a support pillar, long brown hair matted with blood, one eye swelling shut. Blue eyes glared out with defiance even as his body sagged, beaten, twitching. Blood pooled beneath him—thick, dark, and glistening like tar. You could see broken wine bottles on the ground, their contents mixing with gore. The place reeked of it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Sol’s hand was dripping red, knuckles split and raw from repeated contact with bone. You watched as he stepped forward again—slow, deliberate. His boots crunched on shards of glass. Every movement screamed violence restrained by the thinnest leash.

You had never seen Sol like this.

You didn’t have to guess what had happened. The scene was a painting in brutality, and Sol had signed it in blood. And the way Sol looked at the other vampire… it wasn’t just anger. 

It was disappointment. Loathing. Familiarity. He tilted his head, like he pitied him. “Don’t go out like this now… Jericho.”

His voice was low, nearly gentle. The softness made it worse.

You barely breathed. Jericho. The name had appeared once in your journal—scrawled in a rushed script beside a faded quote about vampire reformers. If you recalled correctly, he was one of the loudest voices pushing to rebuild relations between vampires and humans. A public figure among the remaining nobility.

And he had just called Sol the one who ruined it all.

Sol took a slow step forward, wiping his bloody knuckles against his shirt without urgency. “You always did like pretending you were some holy messenger,” he said, voice flat, not even amused.

“All bark. No bite.”

Jericho let out an ugly, wet cough and spat blood on the floor between them. “You’ve broken the laws, Sol. Again,” he hissed, trying and failing to straighten up. “You have a human here. I heard it from the villagers.”

He bared his fangs with weak defiance, eyes glinting through the bruises. “They say the Outcast took a human for himself. Keeping them like some sick little pet. Do you even hear yourself?”

That’s when Sol moved—fast, sharp, with a snarl that barely made it past his teeth. His hand shot out, grabbing Jericho by the collar and slamming him back into the support beam hard enough to crack the stone. You flinched despite yourself, pulse thudding in your ears. His voice changed—lower, guttural, something wild pushed too long into the dark.

“They’re not a pet,” he snarled. “They’re smarter than you. Stronger than you. And ten times more valuable than the entire dusty little cabal you suck up to.”

You stared, frozen behind the door.

He was defending you.

But there was something else in his voice—familiarity. Regret. Resentment. The rhythm of old wounds being reopened. Old friends? Perhaps worse… That thought churned your stomach.

Jericho let out a wheeze that could’ve been laughter if it wasn’t soaked in pain. “You killed a human who used to own this manor, didn’t you?” he rasped, voice like broken glass. “Lost control. It’s what we do.”

Sol went still. Deadly still.

His eyes darkened, and when he spoke again, there was no humanity in his voice. Just a quiet kind of ruin. “Yes,” he whispered. “I lost control. Once. And I’ve paid for it every second since.” 

His posture shifted slightly, like a weight pressed into his spine. “But I didn’t lure them here. I didn’t hunt them. I didn’t lie. I gave them a choice. Shockingly, they stayed.”

Jericho bared his bloodstained teeth. 

“That makes them yours. You’ll burn for it, Outcast. You’ll die like the rest of your kind. It’s only a matter of time.”

Your breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to back away, to pretend you hadn’t seen what was about to happen.

But you didn’t. You watched.

Sol was silent, his gaze locked onto Jericho with a stormlike intensity—dark, electric, dangerous. His hand still cradled Jericho’s bruised jaw, his thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles over the blood-slicked skin in a cruel parody of tenderness.

You could almost believe it was gentle—if not for the tension coiled through Sol’s body, wire-tight, every muscle rigid with restraint. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes hollowed out by something far deeper than hunger. Something ravenous. Something primal.

Then he leaned in.

Jericho flinched—just barely—as Sol’s lips brushed the column of his throat. Not biting. Not yet. Just… lingering. Breathing him in. Savoring the heat of his skin, the pulse thrumming beneath it. 

A low sound rumbled in Sol’s chest, something between a growl and a sigh, before his tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—dragging a wet, searing stripe along the curve of Jericho’s neck.

The air in the cellar grew thick, suffocating.

Then he bit.

Not with the careful precision of some romanticized vampire myth, but with brutal, animalistic force. His teeth sank in deep, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat as he claimed, as he took.

Jericho arched against him, a choked moan spilling from his lips—more pain than pleasure, but laced with something darker, something hungry between them. 

His fingers scrabbled weakly against Sol’s arms, nails digging in as blood welled up in thick, crimson rivulets, spilling over his collarbone, staining his shirt. Sol held him down with one hand, the other braced against the stone wall, his muscles taut with the effort of control—or the lack of it. There was no finesse here, no ceremony.

Just need. Raw, relentless, consuming.

And the sounds—God, the sounds.

The wet, desperate drag of Sol’s mouth against Jericho’s skin. The ragged hitch of Jericho’s breath as Sol swallowed, as he fed, each pull drawing another broken noise from the man beneath him. The slick, obscene sound of blood being drawn, of lips sealing over the wound, of Sol’s low, shuddering groan as he drank deeper.

You stood frozen, your spine pressed to the wall behind the door, your pulse hammering in your own throat. You’d seen vampires feed before. You’d been trained for it—diagrams, studies, clinical detachment.

But nothing could have prepared you for this.

The heat of their bodies, too close, too intimate. The way Sol’s free hand slid into Jericho’s hair, fisting tight, yanking his head back to expose more of his throat.

The way Jericho’s breath came in ragged gasps, his lashes fluttering, his body trembling between resistance and surrender. And worst of all—the shameful, molten heat coiling low in your stomach.

Why did it have to look like this? Why did it have to sound like this?

When Sol finally ripped his mouth away, it was with a vicious snarl, lips glistening—not just with spit, but with blood. Jericho’s blood. The metallic tang hung thick in the air, mixing with the sweat and the raw, primal energy radiating off Sol’s heaving body.

Jericho collapsed beneath him, boneless, his once-smug face now slack, his breath shallow.

Unconscious—or maybe something worse.

Sol loomed over him, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts, his knuckles white where they clenched at his sides. The blood on his mouth wasn’t just smeared—it was art. A dark, violent masterpiece painted in strokes of crimson, stark against the pale fury of his skin.

And god, it was hot.

The way his tongue flicked out, just once, tasting the remnants of the fight. The way his jaw tightened, muscles flexing as he swallowed hard, like he was forcing down something far hungrier than blood.

Then he spat—a sharp, dismissive motion—right beside Jericho’s ruined face. The sound of it hitting the stone echoed in the damp cellar, a punctuation mark to the violence.

“Still not the same,” he growled, his voice rough, edged with something wild. Something untamed.

His fingers trembled slightly as he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood in a way that only made him look more dangerous. More feral. 

The hunger wasn’t gone—no, you could still see it lurking in the depths of his darkened gaze, a bottomless pit of need that refused to be sated. But there was more now. Something deeper. Something worse.

Rage. Grief.

A storm of emotions that twisted his beautiful, brutal face into something unrecognizable. Your pulse hammered in your throat, your skin prickling with a dangerous mix of fear and something far more reckless. 

You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to want to see this. But here you were, standing in the dim, flickering light of the cellar, the scent of iron and sweat wrapping around you like a second skin.

One thing was crystal fucking clear:

Sol was dangerous.

And you?

You were in way too deep. You needed to run. Now.

Boots barely made a sound against the cold stone as you bolted up the cellar steps, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The stale, iron-scented air chased you all the way through the narrow corridors of the manor.

Shadows flinched and twisted in your periphery, hallways stretching like old bones, groaning beneath your frantic footsteps. You moved fast, half-tripping on the warped floorboards, hands scraping along the chipped wallpaper like it might steady you.

You had to get away.

Not from the manor. Not even from Sol—not yet.

From what you saw. That hadn’t been just hunger.

That was a vampire unrepentant.

You reached your room in a storm of panic, slamming the door shut behind you with a breathless gasp and throwing the bolt. The quiet that followed was deafening. Only your pulse filled your ears as you fumbled toward your bedside table, pulling open the drawer where your dagger should’ve been.

Gone.

No. No no no no—

It was always there. Always. Silver-inlaid, blessed, sharpened just this morning. A blade passed down through generations. You were never without it.

You spun around, scanning the room like maybe it would materialize out of the air, maybe you were too panicked to see—

The air in the room turned thick, charged with something electric—something dangerous—the moment you heard his voice.

"Looking for this?"

Low. Calm. A velvet whisper curling against the back of your neck like a lover’s touch.

You froze. Every muscle in your body locked tight, your breath hitching in your chest as the realization crashed over you: He was here. Inside your locked room. Behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the predatory stillness of a creature who had all the time in the world.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—you turned.

Sol stood there, your dagger dangling carelessly from his fingers, the blade catching the dim candlelight in lazy, mocking flickers. The door was still bolted behind him, untouched, as if the lock had never existed. As if the rules of the world bent to his will.

Your pulse roared in your ears.

You took a step back without thinking, your body moving on instinct, your spine pressing into the cold wall behind you.

He looked different now. The blood was gone from his mouth, wiped clean, but his shirt was still damp with it, clinging to the hard lines of his chest in dark, rust-colored stains.

His hair was tousled, wild, as if he’d run his hands through it in frustration—or maybe just hadn’t cared enough to smooth it back into place after the violence in the cellar.

But his eyes—those ancient, fathomless eyes—held you in place.

They weren’t angry. They weren’t cruel. They were knowing.

"You shouldn’t run in old houses," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "You’ll wake the ghosts."

You tried to speak—tried to summon fury, fear, anything—but the words withered in your throat. Your body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the horrifying understanding settling deep in your bones: He knew.

He’d known you were watching. Maybe from the very beginning.

Maybe he always knew when you were near.

"You..." Your voice was a broken thing, barely audible. "You knew they were trying to change. Jericho... he wanted peace. I read it. I wrote about it—"

Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. He just let you speak—or stammer, your words faltering under the weight of his gaze.

"And you..." Your jaw clenched. "You killed the one chance vampires had to change how the world sees them."

"No," he said, the word a blade of ice. "They killed it. Years ago. When they cast me out. When they made me a monster and left me in the dark to rot." His fingers flexed around the dagger, his knuckles whitening. "This world doesn’t want redemption. It wants a myth to fear."

Another step forward.

Another step back—until the wall met your spine, unyielding.

"And you stayed," he mused, tilting his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he was unraveling. "You stayed in my manor. Slept in the bed of the dead. Ate the food of the damned. You laughed with me. Drank my tea."

"Because I thought you were different," you snapped, your voice gaining strength—or maybe just desperation.

"I am." Another step. Now he was close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the lingering copper on his skin, the faint, intoxicating trace of Jericho’s blood still clinging to his breath. "I didn’t hurt you. I never lied to you. Everything I am, you’ve seen. And yet here you are, daggerless, terrified, and still here."

The wall was cold against your back.

His body was a furnace in front of you.

"You don’t get to play the victim, hunter," he murmured, his voice dropping to something intimate, something dangerous. "Not when you walked into the crypt willingly." He lifted the dagger between you, the edge glinting near your throat—not a threat, but a question.

"I’m not going to hurt you," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. "But I need to know something..."

Then he leaned in.

Close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips. Close enough that you could taste the danger on him. His voice was a dark, velvet rasp against your skin. "Are you still here because you want to kill me... or because you don’t know what you’d do if I was gone?"

You didn’t answer.

Because the truth was a living, breathing thing between you—and you weren’t sure you wanted to know anymore. You didn’t breathe. You’d seen death before—dealt it yourself, even. But this was different. This was Sol not as a cryptid or a misfit... but as a predator. Cold. Calculated. And utterly furious.

And something about it…

You hated that you noticed it—but it was hot.

In a terrifying, morally questionable, “am I okay?” sort of way.

Sol exhaled slowly, like dragging the air into his lungs cost him. He finally pulled away, taking a step back, and for a moment, the space he left behind felt too empty. His chest rose and fell like a war drum had just gone quiet. He wiped the side of his temple with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his pale skin like war paint, and dragged shaky fingers through his hair—still matted, still wild. 

His eyes, however, were crystal clear.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

There it was—guilt, flickering like a dying ember in his expression. But not regret. He didn’t regret what he did to Jericho. He regretted that you saw it. That your illusion, whatever you had told yourself about him, had fractured like glass.

“I didn’t kill him,” Sol added after a beat. “If that helps. He’s not dead.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could yet. Your hand ached to reach for your missing blade even as your body leaned just a little—too much—toward him. Conflicted didn’t even begin to cover it.

Sol watched you with an unreadable expression. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Tired. Like an old record warped by heat and time.

“This manor... wasn’t mine. I didn’t inherit it. I took it. After its owner tried to feed me to a group of nobles for fun. I killed him in that cellar. I didn’t lie about that either.”

You blinked.

“You stayed anyway,” he continued, voice rough. “You stayed after the gallery. After I told you sunlight burns. After I told you about the horses, for gods’ sake. You stayed even when the villagers whispered. Even when you knew what I was.”

His eyes met yours again, and for a heartbeat, you saw the predator slip back behind the curtain. He looked… vulnerable. Just a little.

“But if you’ve changed your mind,” Sol said, voice barely audible now, “then go. No one’s stopping you. I won’t.” The dagger lay between you, abandoned on the table like it meant nothing. 

You weren’t sure if it still meant anything to you, either.

Yet, your fingers curled around the dagger before your brain even caught up with your body. 

It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden lunge, no clash of steel. Just a slow, deliberate grasp as if reclaiming something that had always been yours. Cold metal kissed your palm, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Sol watched you take it, and to your surprise—he let you.

For a moment.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he said again, but this time there was something different in his tone. Less calm. Less patient. His eyes never left yours, but his hand moved—not for the dagger, but for you. His fingers curled lightly around your wrist, just enough pressure to still your next movement.

“I just need…” His gaze dropped for the first time, and his voice frayed like a thread pulled too tight. “I need something from you.”

You frowned. “Let go.” He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped closer. Just enough for your shoulders to tense against the edge of the wall behind you. His other hand moved with practiced ease—curling around your arm, guiding the dagger hand downward, not to disarm you exactly, but to… reposition you. 

A sleight of hand hidden behind honesty. And before you could process the shift, he had your sleeve pushed back—exposing the pale stretch of your wrist under the flickering candlelight.

“Sol.” Your voice was sharp. A warning. A question.

But he wasn’t listening anymore.

“I haven’t fed properly in weeks, like you asked those days ago,” he whispered, staring down at your pulse like it was a thing made of starlight and sin. “You saw what I did to him. You think I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m sick. And starving. I tried to wait. I really did.”

You were about to pull back—to shove him away, to scream, to do something—but he moved first.

Fast. Desperate.

His mouth pressed to your wrist with a strange reverence, as though he were kissing it first. The cold brush of his lips sent a shiver jolting through your spine. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

You weren’t sure if it was fear or adrenaline or both. But then his fangs sank in—sharper, deeper than expected—and pain flared bright and white behind your eyes.

You gasped.

The sound that escaped you wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even fully a cry. It was something darker. Something shameful and involuntary. A sound you immediately regretted making.

Sol’s grip tightened around your wrist—not to hurt, just to hold you steady—as he drank, slow at first. Controlled. But then it changed. Like the hunger had finally caught up to him and overpowered restraint.

You pressed your free hand against his shoulder, nails digging in, trying to stay grounded through the burn in your veins. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was overwhelming. Heat flooding your chest. Dizzy, electric wrongness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. You hated that your knees buckled slightly.

You hated that he noticed.

Sol made a low noise in his throat—half growl, half sigh—and pulled back just enough for the air to touch the bite. Blood welled up slow and sticky along your skin, and he stared at it with wild eyes. Guilt, desire, hunger. Everything crashing together in that one unspoken moment.

Then he looked at you.

And everything in his expression screamed apology even though his mouth never moved. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, voice ragged.

You stepped back. Quickly. Clutching your arm.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” you whispered.

“I didn’t mean to. I—gods, I didn’t mean to.” His voice cracked. “But you smell like warmth. Like life. I thought I could take just enough.”

Silence stretched between you like the tightrope it always had been. The bite throbbed like a second heartbeat. And suddenly, everything felt too small. The room. The candlelight. Him.

You needed air.

You needed to figure out if you were going to run—or stay?

Your fingers twitched around the dagger’s hilt—barely. A weak, instinctual movement. Your body didn’t have the strength to finish. 

Everything began to slip sideways—like the walls were melting or the floor had been pulled out beneath you. The candlelight dimmed, blurred, twisted into strange shapes. You blinked slowly, trying to fight it, trying to hold on to something—the desk, the dagger, his name in your throat—but it all crumbled at once.

And then you fell.

Or you would have—had Sol not already been there.

His arms wrapped around you with startling ease, catching your body against his chest like you were nothing more than a breath being exhaled. You didn’t even feel the impact.

One moment you were standing, breathless… the next, you were weightless in his hold, your head tucked against the warm line of his collarbone, eyes fluttering closed against your will.

Sol froze.

Not because you passed out—no, he’d expected you to be weak after feeding. But this? This? The total collapse? The way your pulse slowed to a vulnerable crawl beneath your skin? It hit him differently. It hit him hard.

“…Damn it,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp, dark and unreadable.

He shifted his grip, careful not to jostle you as he lifted your wrist again. The bite wound gleamed red and angry in the light, the skin already starting to bruise with that distinct violet hue—fragile and raw. He turned your arm slightly, examining it with the cold eye of someone both fascinated and horrified.

“You really are different,” he murmured. A smirk touched his lips, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathed.  But it wasn’t cruel. It was curious. 

“I barely touched you,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “One bite and you’re out cold? Either I was hungrier than I thought… or you were far too generous.”

He leaned down slowly. Dangerously. Letting his breath wash over the curve of your throat—just like before, but this time there was no pretense. No restraint. Just hunger tinged with something unspoken. Not lust. Not quite. But need. Something deeper. Primal. Inhuman.

He inhaled deeply.

You didn’t stir. Not a twitch. Not even a protest.

“You smell like survival,” Sol whispered against your skin. “Like firewood and old blood and silver. Like you shouldn’t trust anything that breathes.”

And then his lips brushed your neck—not to bite, not this time—but as if tasting the ghost of what he’d taken. A pause. An indulgence. Reverent, almost.

But the moment didn’t last.

He pulled back, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. Still holding you close, Sol moved toward the bed with purpose, laying you down gently, though his eyes never left your face. 

He hovered over you for a moment longer, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest, checking to be sure your heartbeat hadn’t dropped too far. Steady. Warm. Alive. Relief twisted through him like a slow knife. And yet… he couldn’t stop staring.

He needed you.

God help him—he was done pretending.

The moment his hands found you, there was no hesitation, no carefully constructed restraint—only raw, unfiltered hunger. Sol moved with the lethal grace of a predator staking its claim, his body pinning yours to the mattress with delicious inevitability.

His fingers worked with devastating efficiency, stripping away your clothes like a man unwrapping something sacred, something his. The fabric whispered against your overheated skin—the brush of silk, the drag of cotton—before being carelessly discarded, pooling on the floor beside the bed like fallen petals.

His touch was a study in contrasts—fire and ice, reverence and ruin. Every graze of his fingertips left invisible brands in their wake, as if he needed to map every dip and curve of your body beneath his hands. His palms skimmed up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in a slow, maddening circle before his mouth finally—finally—found you.

And oh, his mouth.

Sol kissed his way up your body like a man starved, his lips trailing a path of searing devotion along your trembling flesh. You could feel the cool metal of his tongue piercing—a wicked contrast to the heat of his mouth—as he laved attention over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly, teasingly, just enough to make your breath hitch.

He lingered at the hollow of your throat, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin there, the subtle click of metal against flesh sending a shiver down your spine.

But he wasn’t done.

His mouth moved lower, lower—each kiss a brand, each nip a promise. When his breath ghosted over the swell of your chest, hot and damp, you arched into him with a whimper.

His tongue flicked out, the piercing dragging in a slow, torturous circle around one peaked nipple before he sealed his lips over it, sucking gently. The dual sensation of soft warmth and hard metal had your fingers twisting in his hair, your hips lifting off the bed in silent plea.

Sol chuckled against your skin, the vibration rippling through you like liquid heat. “So sweet…” he murmured, the word a rough caress as he switched his attention to your other breast, his tongue piercing tracing lazy, maddening patterns until you were gasping, writhing, utterly at his mercy.

And God help you—did you even want him to stop?

You gasped when his fangs found you.

A sharp, sweet sting—just above your nipple, where the skin was softest. The pain melted instantly into pleasure, your back arching as he groaned against you, his tongue lapping at the tiny wounds in slow, deliberate strokes.

He kissed around the sensitive peak, his lips brushing feather-light, maddening circles until you were shuddering, your fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were stained crimson, his eyes black with want. You were moaning softly, conscious, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his bite.

"You shouldn’t have stayed," he whispered, his voice rough, raw—more to the shadows than to you. "You knew what I was. You knew what I’d done. But you stayed." 

His expression was a storm of contradictions—guilt and hunger, awe and something darker, something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. He dragged his gaze over you, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin, your heaving chest, the way your pulse fluttered wildly at your throat.

Sol’s fingers traced idle, teasing circles over your skin, his touch light enough to make you shiver, deliberate enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb flicked over your nipple, once, twice—just to watch it stiffen beneath his touch, just to hear the soft, involuntary gasp that escaped your lips.

It wasn’t long before he moved, his body shifting with predatory grace as he climbed onto the bed behind you. His hands were firm as he adjusted your position, turning you so your back pressed flush against his chest. You could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body molding against yours, his skin searing where it met yours.

And then—the slow, deliberate slide of fabric as he rid himself of his pants, his cock springing free, heavy and hot against the curve of your ass. The sensation sent a jolt through you, your pulse stuttering as he let out a low, satisfied hum against the nape of your neck.

His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The movement was gentle, almost tender, but there was no mistaking the command in it.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice rough with restraint, his breath warm against your lips. "Tell me to walk away, and I will."

His words were a challenge—a test. And yet, you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not when his other hand was drifting lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before sliding between your thighs with a possessiveness. Not when his cock pressed insistently against you, a silent promise of what was to come.

Sol chuckled darkly at your silence, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

"That’s what I thought," he murmured, before his teeth grazed your earlobe—sharp, teasing, claiming.

A half-ragged moan tore from your lips as he rocked against you, the friction maddening, perfect. His hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, dragging you harder against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

Then his teeth grazed your shoulder—sharp, teasing—before he bit down.

You cried out softly, arching into him as pain and pleasure collided in a white-hot burst. His mouth was searing, his tongue lapping at the blood welling from the wound, drinking you in with a low, possessive groan. Every pull of his lips sent fire racing through your veins, your body trembling, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more.

He rutted against you, his cock hard and insistent through the fabric of his pants, grinding against your hip in rough, relentless strokes. You could feel the hunger in every movement—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into your flesh like he wanted to consume you.

“Fuck,” he snarled, tearing his mouth from your skin, his lips stained crimson. “You smell and taste even better than I imagined.”

You woke to the slow, searing drag of fangs along the nape of your neck—a claiming, a warning, a promise. Sol’s arms were locked around you, his body a cage of heat and hunger, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of centuries. His breath was a dark chuckle against your skin as he ground his cock against your ass, already hard, already needing.

"Pathetic," he murmured, the word a velvet scrape of amusement as he bit down—not enough to break skin, not yet, but enough to make you gasp. "Look at you. Still here. Forever mine."

You should have fought. Should have screamed. But your body was already arching into him, already begging for more, even as your mind reeled. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your hip before dipping lower, teasing, taunting.

The moment his teeth sank into your shoulder—sharp, sudden, punishing—you knew there would be no mercy tonight.

"You thought you could run?" Sol’s voice was a dark growl against your skin, his breath hot as he bit down again, harder this time, drawing a whimper from your throat.

Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, body arching beneath him as he held you down with nothing but the weight of his body and the unrelenting press of his hips. "You thought I’d let you go after what you saw tonight?"

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Because he wasn’t here for words.

He was here to ruin you.

Sol moved with a frenzied, almost desperate rhythm, his cock driving into you with a pace that left no room for thought, no space to breathe. Every thrust was a claim, every snap of his hips a reminder—you were his. The wet, filthy sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your choked gasps and his low, satisfied growls. 

He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t let you catch up. He just took, fucking you with a brutality that bordered on reverence, as if he could carve his name into your bones with sheer force alone.

His fangs dragged down your spine, slow and deliberate, savoring every flinch, every shudder he pulled from you. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with cruel precision, circling just there, just enough to make your hips jerk, your body tightening around him—but never enough to give you what you needed.

"Sol—" you gasped, voice breaking.

"Say it again," he demanded, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, his voice rough with hunger. "Say my name like you mean it."

And then—

Pain.

Blinding, exquisite pain as his fangs sank into your back, piercing deep. The sharp sting melted instantly into pleasure so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your vision whited out, your body seizing as you came with a scream muffled into the pillow, your muscles clamping around him in helpless, shuddering waves.

Sol didn’t stop.

He fucked you through it, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips bruising as he chased his own release. His mouth never left your skin, drinking you in, swallowing every moan, every broken sound you made as he dragged you back from the edge only to push you over again.

"Mine," he snarled, his voice raw with possession.

And when he came, it was with your blood on his tongue and your name like a curse on his lips, his hips stuttering against yours as he spilled deep inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.

Afterward, as you lay trembling in the wreckage of what he’d done to you—limbs weak, skin marked, breath still uneven—Sol traced the bites and bruises he’d left with something almost like reverence. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, fingers skimming over the evidence of his hunger, his ownership.

"Pathetic," he murmured again, softer this time.

But the way his thumb lingered on your pulse, the way his eyes darkened as he watched the slow rise and fall of your chest—

It almost sounded like a prayer.

Sol’s hand slid around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to claim. His fingers pressed just beneath your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. There was no escape now. No pretense. Only the raw, electric truth of what he was about to take from you.

“You should have run when you had the chance,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your lips.

Then he moved—swift, effortless, predatory. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other braced against your back, and suddenly you were weightless, swept off your feet as if you were nothing. As if your resistance meant nothing. The bed met your spine with a soft thud, the sheets cool against your feverish skin.

He didn’t give you time to think.

In one fluid motion, he was above you, knees caging your hips, his body a heavy, intoxicating press against yours. The heat of him was unbearable. The power of him was worse. You could feel every hard line of him, every controlled flex of muscle as he settled over you, his weight pinning you in place.

“Look at me,” he commanded, fingers tightening just slightly on your throat.

You obeyed.

His eyes were filled with red in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger—but not just for blood. No, this was something deeper. Something worse. The kind of hunger that didn’t just want to consume you. 

It wanted to ruin you.

His free hand dragged down your body, slow and deliberate, mapping every curve, every shuddering breath. The fabric of your clothes was an insult—he made quick work of it, tearing, peeling, unmaking you until there was nothing left between his skin and yours.

“You thought you could hunt me?” His lips brushed your ear, his voice a velvet snarl. “Sweet thing. You don’t even know how to beg yet.”

Then he took you.

There was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just the brutal, unforgiving thrust of his hips, seating himself inside you with a groan that vibrated through your bones. You arched, gasping, nails digging into his shoulders—but he didn’t let you adjust. Didn’t let you breathe.

He moved.

Each stroke was a punishment. A promise. The bed rocked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in time with his merciless rhythm. You were unraveling, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“That’s it,” he growled, his hand still firm on your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your vision blur. “Let go. I want to feel you break.”

You were close. So close.

And then his fangs grazed your pulse.

A sharp, sweet pain—bliss and agony tangled together as he bit down, drinking deep as his hips never slowed. The world tilted, colors bleeding at the edges, your moans turning ragged, desperate.

You were losing too much. You were giving too much.

But it didn’t matter. Because as the darkness crept in, as your body shuddered beneath his in helpless, overwhelming pleasure, one thought flickered through your fading mind:

At least you’d pass out before he was done.

Bro writing this? Sol as a vampire? DAMNNNNNNNNNNN—when did he get that fine? Like, be serious. I don’t even like Sol like that, hence why I still added, his yandere tendencies, his arrogance, his smug little smirk, the way he talks and somewhat begs like he's already owned you in three past lives—normally, that’s not my taste.

But the fanart? It did something unholy. Now suddenly I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, writing him in scenes where he’s still toxic, still dangerous, still so him… and yet somehow, it’s hot. Like fine fine. Like, I hate that I get it now, fine.

He’s the kind of beautiful that pisses you off in a way. Like, the kind where you’re glaring but your pulse is faster, and your morals are losing a debate with your instincts.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Thank you so much for the part 2 of the shapeshifter AU! 🙏 The atmosphere is so singularly spooky and sultry. Keep up the great work!

on it boss!!

70 / 1.6k / part 3 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

...

You wait until the early evening. It's the earliest you can run. Your so-called familiars won't come out while the sky is still bright. Even so, the moon’s faint sliver stands faintly visible against the sky. You pack your things and fetch your traveling cloak. Vital components. Your dagger. Scrying parchment. You've survived on less.

Something catches your eye as you open the door. The setting sun gleams off the little glass vial on your hearth. You grab it. It's the thing Soap left—what he was teasing you about; the "little treat" he brought back. You see now what it is: black henbane. Your heart beats faster. Out of anger or anticipation—you're not sure which wins out. You'll certainly make use of this. But it will be despite your demons. Not because of them.

As you set off to leave, though, you find yourself face-to-face with a different threat altogether: townsfolk with torches and pitchforks.

The mob's torches flicker, casting jagged shadows across their grim faces. Their leader, a broad-shouldered blacksmith with soot-stained hands, steps forward. The pitchfork trembles in his harsh grip. "Off to consort with devils, witch?"

Behind him, a farmer's wife spits at your feet. "My boy hasn't slept since your cursed raven perched on our roof! You sent those monsters to torment us!"

A ripple of agreement surges through the crowd. You catch the glint of silver amulets around their throats—crude charms of rowan berries and iron nails. Your designs.

"I don't want any trouble," you tell them. You already intend to leave this place forever; all you need to do is convince them to let you go in peace. "I swear it. I condemn the demons that plague the village just as you do."

The blacksmith's shout cracks like a whip. "Liar!" He thrusts his pitchfork toward your cottage and the crow feathers littering the threshold. "Found your nest o' nightmares. Bones under the floorboards. Charms written in your hand guidin' those beasts!"

A teenage boy hurls a rock. It grazes your temple with a thump that rings in your skull. "She fed my sister to the black dog! Saw its yellow eyes in her window the night she vanished!"

Then a torch arcs through the dusk. It crashes against your doorframe, tallow and embers cascading onto dry thatch. The farmer's wife screams, "Burn the hellspawn out!"

Other voices roar in agreement. The mob surges forward as one. Their amulets glow faintly as they near your wards, rowan countering rowan.

You slam the door shut, scattering glowing red hay, and bolt for the back door instead. You flee toward the forest. Warm blood slides down your face and trickles into your collar. You crash through the tree line. Brambles tear your cloak. Torchlight dances between birches behind you. They’re gaining.

"Kill her before she calls the beasts!" one voice shrieks.

Another voice, a child’s, cries, “There! By the elder tree!”

Your boot catches on its massive roots. You hit the forest floor hard. Pine needles stick to your bleeding palms as you scramble up—and freeze.

Yellow eyes blink open in the shadows ahead. A wolf.

The blacksmith’s heavy gait clatters to a halt. “Christ preserve us.”

The hound steps into the fading daylight, scars rippling across its muscular flank. Ghost. He bares teeth longer than your fingers.

You back away only for another shadow to fall from the trees above and land next to you soundlessly. The shape is feline—Gaz—but he's no longer the size of a housecat. He's as massive as a tiger. A growl thunders through him. He levels his gaze past you. At the villagers. They don't stand a chance.

You whirl back on the villagers with wild eyes. "Get out of here!" you cry at the mob.

The blacksmith shoves a trembling boy behind him. "Back! Back to the—"

Ghost lunges. Not at the villagers. At you.

His jaws snap inches from your thigh, herding you backward into Gaz's flank. Gaz pins you with one paw on your chest. He keeps his claws sheathed, but the pressure is enough to bruise. His rumbling purr vibrates through your ribs as he licks blood from your temple wound.

"Demons!" A villager hurls a torch. It bounces off Ghost's shoulder. Embers catch in his fur. He doesn't flinch.

Soap's cawing laughter rings from the treetops. He drops down as a raven, shifting mid-fall into human form. He lands in a crouch. "Och, look at these brave lads! Come to play with the big bad devils."

The blacksmith thrusts the pitchfork at him. "Back!"

 Soap catches the shaft and yanks the smith forward. "Careful now. You'll poke someone's—" He drives the smith’s own weapon through his boot, impaling foot to soil. "—eyes out."

Screams erupt. The mob fractures. Some flee. Others stand frozen.

"No, don't hurt them!" you gasp out. You try to push out from under Gaz's paw, but it does you no good. "Leave them alone!"

Gaz's purr deepens into a predatory rumble as he drags his rough tongue up the side of your neck to taste your sweat. His hot breath stirs your hair when he growls, "Too late for mercy, love. Smell the fear on 'em? Ripe as summer fruit."

Soap wrenches the pitchfork free from the smith’s screaming form, flicking gore off the tines. "Aye, let's make it a proper feast! Been ages since we had fresh meat that fought back."

"Enough."

Price's voice cracks through the woods like thunder. He stands under the pines’ shadow as if waiting for the last motes of sunset to vanish before he ventures out.

"You lot should've heeded the warnings. Salt your thresholds. Avoid the woods after dark." His gazes pauses over a young child frozen in fear, no parents in sight. He tuts. "But you meddled. Stole from my witch. Harmed her."

The blacksmith finds his voice. "W-We didn't—"

Price steps forward. His boot crushes the smith’s bloodied foot into the ground. Bones pop. "See, that's the trouble with mortals." He crouches to stare into the terrified villager’s face. "You don’t admit you’re wrong."

"Price, please, just take me instead," you plead. "I'm what you came for, aren't I?"

Price's gaze snaps to you. He rises slowly. The flicker of your burning cottage on the horizon behind you reflects in his eyes and makes them glow. His expression tells you how little choice you have in that particular matter. Where you go, they go.

Then he looks past you. “Gaz."

Gaz’s hand slides up your inner thigh. "Already on it."

"No. Save the foreplay. We've got a village to raze." He grabs the bloodied collar of your cloak and hauls you to your feet. "You'll watch. Then we'll discuss your ungrateful actions." His gaze flicks away. "Ghost. Gaz. Clean up."

You can only watch Ghost and Gaz bound into the screaming mob. Your body feels lighter than the air. Then you remember the weight of the henbane in your cloak pocket. The next moment, it's in your hand. You crush the glass, ignoring the stab of pain. You send it sailing through the air, and it lands right on its mark—the roaring torch discarded in the leaf litter.

The henbane catches and wafts up into the air as smoke. It curls upward in thick, narcotic tendrils. The smell is heady, its effect potent and immediate. Soap snarls as the first plume hits his nostrils. He staggers back and clutches his head. Gaz convulses mid-pounce, collapsing into ferns as his tiger-like form shrinks to housecat size. Ghost whines low in his throat and shakes his massive skull like a dog with water in its ears.

Chaos erupts. Villagers seize the chance to bolt. The blacksmith drags his wailing son toward the tree line.

Price grips your arm hard enough to leave talon marks. His other hand clamps over his nose, veins bulging in his temple. You cough into your sleeve. Your vision swims. Henbane's poison works both ways, after all. It’s powerful for those who know how to use it for their own ends. Black henbane is what you used to summon your familiars and what bound them to you. But its hallucinatory effects are more pronounced on those who have surrendered the greater part of their souls to magic—or for those whose bodies are already flush with it. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap don’t stand a chance. Even your soul is so considerably marked by witchcraft that you quickly fold to its effects. But you, at least, can twist it and warp it to weave a spell that might protect you.

Cloaked in smoke, you transform.

The shift hits you like a lightning strike—bones crackling, muscles twisting, vision narrowing into a something wide and preylike. The forest tilts, and suddenly Price's grip is gone. He holds your sleeve, but not you. You slip away, tumble through your limp clothes, and hit the forest floor on four paws. The world sharpens into smells of damp moss and wolf musk. Your rabbit heart hammers against ribs as thin as wishbones.

You dart left--straight into Gaz's waiting claws. The tomcat pins you with a paw, purring as his claws prick your scruff. Then he sneezes, henbane pollen glinting in his whiskers. You writhe free.

You race deeper into the forest with the wind at your back. The woods close in, but thorns no longer claw your clothes; roots no longer trip you. You are no longer an intruder. The forest itself turns toward you, opens to you. Thorns tug pleasurably against your fur as you bound past. Old magic stirs beneath your rabbit feet.

"Clever girl. Find her." Price's voice slithers through the trees far behind you, syllables slurred but venom intact. "And keep her whole enough to scream."

...

← part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[travelingthief]

Hecate Devotional Acts and Offerings

Devotional Acts

Magic/Sorcery/Spells

Write/cast spells

Daily practical magic

Practice divination

Bonecasting

Scrying

Make a talisman

Protection magic around your home

Have a book of shadows

Learn the history of witchcraft

Learn astrology

Learn herbology

Study the occult

Astral projection

Keep a dream journal

Moon/Night

Follow the moon cycles

Make moon water

Practice moon magic

Take a nighttime walk

Star/moon gaze

Sit in the dark and ponder your existence

Ghosts/Demons/The Dead

Leave offerings for the dead

Honor ancestors

Clean graves (PROPERLY!!!)

Visit graveyards

Leave flowers at graves

Learn local ghost stories

Tell ghost stories

Go ghost hunting

Learn demonology

Protection magic against the dead/demons

Miscellaneous

Stand/meditate at crossroads

Keep secrets entrusted to you

Walk dogs

Light candles

Shadow work 

Journal

Take a walk

Offerings

Moon water

Moon imagery

Moonstone/selenite

Keys

Locks

Herbs/plants/poisonous plants (safely)

Lighters/matches

Snake imagery

Snakeskins 

Ghost imagery

Grimoires

Pentacles

Essential oils

Dark alcohol

Books about magic, herbs, crystals, etc.

Tarot/oracle decks

Divination tools

Bones

Ouija boards/planchettes

Crow imagery

Crow feathers

Bat imagery

Dog fur

Potion bottles

Ashes

Wands

Mementos of the dead

Urns

Grave rubbings

Iron

Crossroads dirt

Cauldrons

Mortar and pestles

Pillar candles

Coffee grounds

Black teas

Garlic!!

Veils

Talismans

Birth charts

Daggers/athames

[tojisbestslut]

► 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗘𝗡 ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── [ Ambessa x enemy soldier reader ] ╰┈➤ masterlist

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SYNOPSIS: her attention was piqued as an enemy soldier continued fighting after losing the war, and the reason shocked her. — ⌗PART2

𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻 ↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ 2:02 ───ㅇ───── 4:26 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘦𝘦𝘥 — 𝘈𝘶𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘢 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗲𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆 ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ ▄ █ ▄ █ ▄ █

The devil had picked up the brush that dusk, filling up the canvas with uneven splashes of crimson red. Crows flying around the raining sky, screaming in excitement and fear at the agonizing scene happening beneath them. Men running with all their might, having the hopeless delusion of being saved. The squishing sounds of sharp weapons tearing apart human flesh, destroying God's perfect creation that took him million years in seconds. There she stood on a hill, proud and pleased, the noxious smell of blood filling up her nostrils indicating another victory being nearly. Squinting her eyes and watching every single detail with attention, she hummed and enjoyed the canvas she was filling.

A quick shadow sneakily moving past her direction in the distance caught her attention, making the warlord tilt her head, watching the scene closely, squinting her eyes in concentration as she tried to process what was happening. There moved a figure amongst men twice her size with ease, slashing their body holding a sword with each of its hands, jumping in the air and swirling around as the blood dripping from the edge of the swords moved in an angelic way. Ambessa frowned, unpleased at the new way things had suddenly turned. Moving her head towards the enemy soldier, she signaled the soldiers standing next to her to move towards the scene as her hands reached for her own dagger, in case she had to take care of the situation on her own.

Sensing a new crowd of people move towards you, you narrowed your eyes at the warlord eyeing you in the distance, enjoying the disapproved expression she held that was obvious from only the lower part of her face being visible under the mask. Your heart beat started raising as adrenaline pushed you through your limits, making it possible to survive. The chaos happening around you turned into a steady humming sound in the background as you could only hear your heartbeat while you blinked quickly to not let the sweat dripping from your forehead mess up your vision. Grabbing your swords tighter, you ran towards the new crowd heading towards you, and slashed the first throat that came to your vision.

Minutes have passed, and ambessa could see you tiring out. Even if she let her pride aside and accepted your strength, you were one and her men were hundreds. Yet she stood, watching you fight using all your energy, wondering what cause were you fighting for so furiously. Your nation had lost the war since the beginning, only leaving some of your peers here and there fighting to save their dignity. There was no need to fight to your death right now, as the outcome would still be the same. As you jumped higher this time and the soldier standing in front of you ran to the side leaving your figure exposed to the warlord's eyes, her breath hitched and her eyes sparked with amusement as she saw the small yet visible bump on your stomach.

With one movement of her hand, her men stopped fighting you and took a few steps back, holding to their weapons ready to slaughter you the second their warlord ordered. You looked up at ambessa as her men circled you like a prey, shoulders shaking and legs shivering with exhaustion. You didn't know how, but you'd even fight God right now if you had to, to protect your child. You couldn't logically think, you haven't been thinking since the beginning of the war. The only thing on your mind was survival, for your child. Ambessa hummed with interest, the shivering sight of you with fire in your eyes as you covered your stomach with your swords bringing back memories.

She started walking down the hill and towards you, her sharp eyes catching your body tensing up, which made her laugh and shake her head. The confusion and slight frown on your face was a sight for her. She figured you'd clearly expected her to fight you, so seeing her walk towards you with a smile on her face was something new and unexpected. She stood a few steps away from, and looked down at your bloody swords covering your stomach bump. The thought of a small pure fetus getting protected by a weapon that had killed many was interesting to her. Her eyes then finally landed on you, immediately noticing how your left eye started twitching. Maybe out of anger, out of frustration, but surely not out of fear. She did not smell an ounce of fear on you.

"Strong women are always a sight to enjoy" her voice broke the silence, causing you to squint your eyes in annoyance at her friendly tone. You had heard all about her mind plays, being nice and kind to the enemy to get what she wanted. "I'm not your friend" you immediately snapped back, lifting your swords, ready to strike. "Who said I wanted to be friends, mama?" She asked, her tone filled with amusement, yet you could find the mockery behind it. "Besides," she switched her dagger to the other hand, walking towards you. "That was a genuine compliment, you should be happy I granted you one" you huffed with anger, eyes scanning her hands quickly trying to predict how and when she'd attack.

Before you could even realize, both of your swords were dragged out of your hands by her dagger, making you bare of your weapons. Your mind froze in confusion at the different power scale between her and her soldiers, and you went immobile for a second, trying to think of what to do. She stood in front of you, touching your stomach with the tip of her dagger, watching you shiver, in fear this time. The only thing that caused you to feel actual fear was your child being in danger. She let out a hum out of respect, withdrawing her weapon. "Take her to the base" she yelled as she turned around and walked away, making you alone with your thoughts while her men reached you, grabbing your arms, not too harshly.

anyways, who wants to be added to the tag list? 😛👉🏻👈🏻 (lowkey got tired of writing stupid dumb reader)

[girlwithadragonheart]

hey i’m obsessed with lucanis (and spite) as well! I’m wondering if you would be interested in a mourn watcher elf rook x lucanis and have it be the week (or weeks i can’t remember) of rook being trapped in solas’ regret prison. i feel like spite would be pissed and confused as to why rook is missing! thank you and best wishes :)))

Lights Out

Pairing: GN!Rook x Lucanis (x Spite)

Summary: Rook is gone. Lucanis is grieving. Spite is restless.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Really depressing shit, spoilers obviously

A/N: I’m sorry this isn’t longer! I felt like dragging it out too much takes away from the visceral gut punch it is.

DATV Masterlist

Death was all Lucanis had ever known.

It clung to him like a shadow, a constant presence in his life as a Crow. It was his trade, his art, and his curse. The blood he spilled lined his pockets but left scars on his soul, marks he carried with him even when he tried to move beyond the life he once embraced. But death had always been something controlled. Until now.

Rook was gone. You were gone.

He stood in the doorway to your room, once petrified by the thought of how it reflected the Ossuary, now only drawn to what was left of your presence. His hands flexed at his sides, his chest feeling hollow.

The night was heavy with silence, the Lighthouse mourning the loss of its leader. Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his voice a low growl that rippled with confusion. “Where. Is. Rook?” The demon hissed, each word sharp as one of his daggers.

Lucanis didn’t respond immediately. He had no answer, and the truth stung worse than any wound.

Spite pressed on, his voice gaining a harsh edge. “Where. Is. Rook?!”

Lucanis could feel Spite’s frustration growing as he was ignored. Your absence was a gaping void, a wound that bled frustration and fear and loss. There was nothing he could do. The Fade was something so far out of his understanding, even with the demon possessing him. Still, he’d spent days searching, combing every lead, every thread of information he could grasp, only to find himself standing here, fists clenched in futile rage.

“Lucanis!” Spite snarled.

All he heard was you screaming his name as you were pulled into the Fade. He relived that moment every time he closed his eyes. What could he have done different? You had survived against impossible odds, and he had gotten his second shot at Ghilan’nain, somehow killing her. That high was quickly dashed as he watched your wide eyes, saw you reaching for him, screaming for him as you were dragged out of his reach.

“They’re gone, Spite,” Lucanis whispered, barely audible. 

“Where?” He demanded, pushing against the boundaries of Lucanis’s mind as though searching for you.

“I don’t know,” Lucanis’s voice was ragged as he huffed, taking a step further into your room and closing the door behind him. He ran a hand through his already-mussed hair. “They’re gone,” he repeated.

The faint scent of Nevarran spices drifted around the room, and the lingering smell of your oils. The things you had on a day to day basis haunted him. The Nevarran urns around the room and hastily scribbled notes on Elven architecture and the runes you’d found during the group’s travels. 

Lucanis didn’t have the heart to go any further in the room, his back pressed firmly against the door. His chest was tight, and he was finding it almost impossible to breathe, but all he wanted was to drink in your scent as long as it lingered. It was all he had left of you.

He had fought his way through countless battles, defied impossible odds, endured the Ossuary, and survived Ghilan’nain’s wrath, but none of it mattered now. The one light in his life had been extinguished. Every breath hit him like a blow to the chest, the tangible reminder of your presence that made his breath hitch. Every object in this room screamed your name, echoing in the silence that now filled the space.

Lucanis pressed harder back against the door, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. He forced himself forward, gripping the edge of the chaise lounge as he sat down heavily. His head fell into his hands as the weight of his grief threatened to crush him. He had dared to hope. After years of blood and shadows, he had begun to believe he could have something more---someone more. And now, that hope lay in ruins.

Spite stirred uneasily in the recesses of his mind, his presence a simmering heat that was neither comforting nor intrusive. The demon was quiet at first, an uncharacteristic stillness that only deepened the ache in Lucanis’s chest.

The room seemed to shrink around him, the walls pressing closer as the grief threatened to suffocate him. He reached out, almost without thinking, and picked up one of the notes you had left on the desk. The parchment was worn, the ink smudged in places, but your handwriting was unmistakable. His thumb traced the curves of your letters, his hands trembling as he clutched the note like a lifeline.

“You were my freedom,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. Tears blurred his vision, spilling over to streak down his face. “The only thing that made all of this worth it.”

Spite’s presence shifted, his usual arrogance subdued by something almost… mournful. “Rook…” the demon murmured, his voice a low growl that trembled at the edges.

Lucanis’s grip on the note tightened, his teeth clenched as guilt and rage swirled within him. “I failed them,” he hissed,his voice trembling with self-loathing. “I should have done more. I should have saved them.”

Spite didn’t argue. Lucanis wasn’t sure he was listening at all. The demon was restless, his silence heavy, a shared grief that settled over them both. “Rook.” Spite said again, pushing against Lucanis’s skull. He wouldn’t settle. He couldn’t. Spite wouldn’t stop moving, stop searching, looking through Lucanis, looking through the room, searching for his Rook.

“Spite…” Lucanis said wearily. “Spite, they’re gone,” he repeated, his voice cracking.

“Rook!” Spite pounded against Lucanis’s mind, screaming as though it would do anything to bring you back.

“Spite, enough!” Lucanis yelled finally, hands tangling in his hair. “Rook is gone! Gone! The one good thing---” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish. The anguish in his chest was too much, a wound that refused to heal.

Lucanis pressed the note against his chest, his shoulders shaking as he fought to contain the sobs threatening to escape. For a long moment, he simply sat there, the silence of the room broken only by his ragged breaths. The scent of you lingered, faint but persistent, wrapping around him like a ghostly embrace.

Spite shifted again, his presence like a smoldering ember in the back of Lucanis’s mind. “Lucanis…” the demon growled quietly.

Lucanis’s hands stilled, his breath catching. “I know…” he whispered. “I know.”

You were gone.

And he didn’t know if you could come back.

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

A/N: I'm not crying, you're crying ;-;

Let me know if you want to be on the Lucanis Tag List <3

Tag List: @cirillabelle

[felassan]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard - site update - companion blurbs and abilities. [source] Some of this information is new, including each companion's Abilities list.

Text reads:

"LACE HARDING Inquisition This dwarven scout has a positive outlook and a ready bow – as well as unexpected magical powers. At her core, Harding is still a girl from Ferelden; she loves adventure, animals, and nature and is fiercely protective of her family and friends. Abilities: Seismic Shot; Heavy Draw; Shred; Adrenaline Rush; Soothing Potion Harding's skills with the bow are unmatched - her arrows can stagger enemies and shred armor. DAVRIN Grey Wardens Bold and charming, this Grey Warden has made a name for himself as a monster hunter. Though he was raised in a Dalish clan, he craved excitement and adventure. He’d rather make history than reflect on it. Now, he cares for Assan, a young griffon. Abilities: Battle Cry; Death from Above; Heroic Strike; Assan Strike; In War, Victory Fiercely loyal, Davrin brings his enemies down hard with a combination of mighty attacks, teaming with Assan to keep their companions out of danger. BELLARA LUTARE The Veil Jumpers Bellara is creative, romantic, and obsessed with uncovering the secrets of ancient Elvhenan. She has a strong sense of self – a clear idea of who she is and what she wants – and will push herself to her limits to find the answers she seeks. Abilities: Fade Bolts; Enfeebling Shot; Replenish; Time Slow; Galvanized Tear Bellara manipulates the Fade and uses electricity and control magic to support her Companions and diminish the powers of their foes. TAASH The Lords of Fortune A Qunari dragon hunter allied with the Lords of Fortune, Taash lives for adventure and doesn't mind taking risks. While her interests include sparkling treasures and hitting things with an axe, Taash is also deeply knowledgeable about many topics. Abilities: Fire Breath; Dragon's Roar; Dragonfire Strike; Spitfire; Fortune's Favor Blunt and straightforward, Taash is a mighty warrior, who wields dual-axes and breathes out flames, igniting enemies with draconic fury. LUCANIS DELLAMORTE The Antivan Crows Lucanis is an expert assassin for whom the Antivan Crows are a family business. He is poised & pragmatic, but he’d rather not be the center of attention. His focus is usually on his work. Lucanis specializes in executing powerful mages and has earned himself the title Demon of Vyrantium. Abilities: Eviscerate; Abominate; Soothing Potion; Debilitate; Adrenaline Rush Lucanis stylishly deals necrotic damage in battle with his dual-daggers, whilst supporting his companions with potions and buffs. EMMRICH VOLKARIN The Mourn Watch A necromancer of Nevarra's Mourn Watch, this well-meaning scholar comes complete with a skeletal assistant, Manfred. Emmrich is as serious about his duty to protect innocents from the occult as he is about his studies and his interest in the mysteries of the fade. Abilities: Final Rites; Replenish; Entangling Spirits; The Bell Tolls; Time Slow Emmrich summons forth spirits of the dead to both entangle and hinder his enemies and heal his companions. NEVE GALLUS The Shadow Dragons A cynic fighting for a better future, Neve is both a private detective and a member of Tevinter's rebellious Shadow Dragons. Born and raised in a working-class neighborhood of Minrathous, she does not believe in the superiority of mages. Abilities: Icebreaker; Blizzard; Glacial Pace; Time Slow; Replenish Neve uses her talents as an ice mage to freeze and slow enemies, stopping them in their tracks."

[source]

[corviiids]

ficlet about how crow learns no healing skills but does know samerecarm (resurrect with full health)

warnings: blood, major character death but he gets better

--

Stupid, coming out here alone. No---that isn't the stupid part. Goro's been out here alone time and time again, he's been doing it for years. If anything, with Joker, he's got less to worry about than ever. That's the stupid part. They'd got cocky. Over the sound of their own laughter bouncing off the walls, both of them had missed the chains.

Joker's breathing is laboured. He's slumped into Crow's side. The next safe floor is three levels down, the previous is six up. Won't make it. Crow digs through Joker's pockets again. No Goho-Ms, no healing, just trinkets and dust. Joker's head lolls as Crow's hands rifle through his coat and trousers, body limp in Crow's arms. He's awake, though no better for it. The shelter they've found is tenuous. The Shadows are going to start respawning soon, and Crow's never going to get him out this way.

"Joker," he says. He snaps his fingers in front of Ren's face. Ren blinks. For half a moment, his eyes track Goro's hand. "Hey."

"Mm," Ren mumbles. Blood crawls sluggish and thick from a wound on the side of his head. He'll bleed out if this goes on much longer.

The way it is, that might be a mercy.

Crow can still fight, but not for two. Can still run but not with dead weight on his back. Goro snaps his fingers again. "Joker," he says more sharply. "Hey. I can't heal you. Do you understand? I haven't got any healing skills."

"Mm." Ren's eyes are starting to drift again.

"Hey." A slow death, bleeding out. Goro smacks the side of Ren's cheek, not hard, just enough to get his eyes to snap back again. Joker's mask lies discarded beside Goro's twisted knee, but there's nothing left in him to call Arsene. "I can't heal you. I've only got Samerecarm. Do you understand?"

It takes this Joker--the one who's slowly dying in Crow's arms--a little longer to understand than it would the one whose lifeblood isn't staining Crow's suit. Comprehension doesn't so much dawn as it does creep tentatively into Ren's dull eyes. He nods.

"Do you understand?" Goro asks again. Something in him suddenly needs desperately to be sure, to know Ren is sure. "If I do nothing, it'll be a moot point before long. I can't do it nice. Won't be quick. The gun's too loud and I can't waste Loki. But I'll do it quicker. That much I can promise." The pool of Ren's blood in his lap. "You get it, don't you, Joker?"

Another nod. The light is leaving Ren's eyes, but the hardness comes back. Red gloves tighten on Crow's sleeve, leaving dark smeared fingerprints.

The saber is too flashy. Crow's fingers slip into Joker's belt again, this time emerging with his dagger.

Goro pauses.

"Do you trust me?" he asks before he can think about it.

A third nod.

Crow grits his teeth.

Joker gasps as the blade plunges into his chest. His whole body seizes up. Blood pours from between his ribs, faster, more liquid than the steady ooze in his temple. Ren shakes in Goro's arms, soft noises choking out from his throat. It's not short, it's not painless. But he does slump, eventually. In less time than it would have taken his wounds unassisted. A thin line of blood creeps from the corner of his mouth; a little more bubbles and paints his lips.

Goro swallows. Letting Joker's body fall to the ground, he pulls off his mask and calls Robin Hood.

[kabsey]

For @brightbreezeblog, who asked for Lucanis reconnecting with the people and places in Treviso after the Ossuary and who provided amazing descriptions and even photos of Venice for inspiration. I hope you enjoy it! And fair warning: this is about 2.5K words, which, while not terribly long for fanfic, is definitely long for me! 😁

After stepping out of the eluvian, Lucanis slipped to the balcony rather than the interior of the Cantori Diamond. This early in the morning, few Crows were likely roosting in the upper level of the casino, but he felt unequal to answering even a few friendly greetings, let alone commentary on the invasion or questions about his supposed death. True solitude was an impossibility for him now, but he craved at least its illusion.

He picked his way down the uneven stonework at the back of the building and then exited the shadowed alley to the street beyond. Like the Crows, most of this part of Treviso was still sleeping, and the street was empty. With no one to watch him, he closed his eyes and inhaled. The scents of the morning in the city—rich coffee and sweet pastries, the sun-warmed cobblestone, the unique smell of the canals—distracted Spite enough that he made no comment on the well of tears in Lucanis's eyes.

For the first time since before the Ossuary, he was alone in Treviso.

He let himself simply absorb his surroundings as he began to walk, and several minutes passed before he realized he had started toward his old flat on instinct. It would have a new tenant, of course; even if he had not been declared dead, he would be terribly behind on his rent. For a moment, he debated heading that way anyway. If pressed, he did not think he could put a name to a single one of his neighbors, but they had been cordial enough to smile and nod in passing and even exchange the odd bit of conversation. He wondered if the old man who lived next door still walked his tiny dog every morning and if the baby that lived beneath him had finally started to sleep through the night (he certainly hoped so for its parents' sake). Each was a tile in the glittering mosaic of Treviso, and he had held each one up to the dim light of the Ossuary in his memory, clinging to the knowledge that the simplicities of everyday life continued for some, even if not for him.

In the end, he could not bring himself to face the home he had lost. It had not been a homey place—he had never had the time or the inclination to decorate beyond the basic necessities—but it had been his, and he had lived there for years. His first night there was still vivid to him, the way he had breathed his freedom in deep, away from the suffocating ghosts and expectations that haunted the villa. He would let it stay preserved that way to him, as if in amber.

He turned and headed to the market instead. His excuse for the trip had been to restock the pantry at the Lighthouse, which it did need, though his true motivation had been to reassure himself of the city's wholeness. The dragon attack had joined the other horrors that fueled his nightmares, and he needed time—just a few hours—to convince his subconscious that the worst had not come to pass.

The market was generally quieter in the daytime since the buskers rarely came out while the sun was in the sky, but those vendors who set up early in the morning were no less lively than their nocturnal counterparts. Buyers at those hours were likely to find more practical goods than fanciful trinkets, though Lucanis noticed the man who had sold Rook the wyvern-tooth dagger had already opened his stall. When he noticed Lucanis looking his way, the man grinned and beckoned him over.

"I have new stock, signore!" he announced when Lucanis walked over. He waved a hand over the array of new weapons he had laid out and then chose one to extend hilt first to Lucanis.

"This would be a lovely counterpart to the last piece you purchased. Made from the tooth of a rare snowy wyvern!"

Lucanis took the dagger and examined it. It was far from a well-made weapon, impractical and unbalanced, the utility of the blade sacrificed for aesthetics. But it was beautiful. He traced the lines of the wyvern carving in the grip, appreciating the detailed reliefs of the creature's musculature, how they captured its potential power. Then he handed the weapon back. The one Rook had bought him was indulgence enough. Owning two would be beyond frivolous.

"It's lovely," he told the man. "But not for me."

"If you're certain, signore," the seller said. "If you are not... well, I suggest you claim it before some other soul snatches it up."

"They will be lucky to have it," Lucanis said. He offered the man a nod and continued on his way.

Many of the other vendors tried to catch his eye as he passed. They might not know exactly who he was, but they knew by his clothing that he was a Crow and that he was rich. Like the busker, his fellow assassins generally preferred to wander the city in the evening hours, so making a sale to someone like him would be a rarity for those who offered their wares at this hour.

But he had no desire to purchase fabrics or crystals or jewelry. The true treasure of the early-morning market, the stall that had attracted the largest crowd, was the produce vendor.

As Lucanis joined the patrons gathered there, he noted with satisfaction that the same man he remembered still ran the stall. He was unfailingly jovial, paid equal respect to Crows and servants and everyone in between, and knew more about vegetables than anyone Lucanis had known. He was broad in the shoulder and stout in the middle and greeted every customer like an old friend.

As Lucanis perused the day's offerings, Spite made his own appraisal. More often than not, the demon's judgment was pronounced with a wrinkled nose or even the exaggerated gagging of a child. Lucanis shook his head and zeroed in on a basket of artichokes with maroon leaves. They were a local variety that too many passed over in favor of the larger, greener varieties. When the vegetable seller saw him eyeing them, he hurried over.

"You have good taste, signore," he said. "Do you cook?"

"A bit."

"Serve them with dried tomatoes and cheese." He patted the artichokes fondly. "You will never go back to any other variety."

"Should I do anything differently to prepare them?"

"No, no," the vendor said. "But they are smaller than you may be used to, so when you remove the choke, you must take care not to stab the heart."

Lucanis smiled. "I will try, though that is not usually how I do things."

It was an old joke between them, but he did not expect the vegetable seller to remember after so much time had passed. To his surprise, the big man's eyes widened, and he leaned over the colorful array of produce to examine Lucanis more closely.

"By the grace of the Maker!" he exclaimed, and then he bustled from around the stall and snatched up Lucanis's free hand in both of his own. He pumped it up and down with an enthusiasm that shook Lucanis's arm to the shoulder.

"My friend! It has been so long! My wife and I thought you had been called to His side!"

"No," Lucanis replied. "Not yet anyway."

"What joy you have brought to my day." He glanced over Lucanis's shoulder at the other customers gathered and hurried to resume his former place. "But let me get you your artichokes! How many would you like?"

"I'll take the lot," he said, and the vegetable seller beamed at him.

"You will not be sorry, my friend!" he exclaimed as he took Lucanis's coin. He stashed it away and them tumbled the basket of artichokes onto a bit of netting that he tied up with twine. "And if you enjoy them as I suspect you will, I will stock more for you next week."

"Have you had trouble sourcing fresh produce?" Lucanis asked as he took the bundle.

"Oh, some," the vendor said with a wave of his hand. Then he offered Lucanis a hint of a mischievous smile. "And of course I would never operate a garden within the city limits. Such things are disallowed by the occupation, you know."

"I see," Lucanis replied. "Well, if you should happen to get your hands on some leeks, set some aside for me."

"I think there is a good chance I shall find some before the season ends." The vegetable seller winked and then turned to assist an old woman who had cleared her throat rather loudly.

Lucanis relinquished his spot in front of the busy stall, artichokes in hand. Cheese seemed to be the one thing the Lighthouse had in abundance, and he picked up a small jar of dried tomatoes for an exorbitant price. But he could afford it, and the harried woman who ran the stall with a toddler balanced on her hip thanked him profusely as she squirrelled the coin away. At other stalls, he was able to place bulk orders of flour and eggs to be delivered to the Diamond, but no one had milk or sugar available. He would have to reach out to his own suppliers in the countryside and hope the occupation had merely cut off their travel routes rather than their livelihoods.

By then the sun had risen higher, and he could no longer ignore the siren call of Cafe Pietra. Hints of the heady aroma of their specialty blends began to reach him before the building came into sight, and he found himself hurrying his steps, as if the place would vanish like a dream before he could arrive.

"Not here!" Spite complained as the entrance came into view. "Not again!"

"Not again?" Lucanis muttered under his breath. "You've only been here once."

"Smells like. Lucanis," the demon grumbled, and then he vanished.

Good riddance, as far as Lucanis was concerned.

At the counter, the cafe owner was waiting for him with a smile. "Fresh-brewed Andoral's Breath will be up in a minute."

"You knew I was coming," Lucanis noted as he slid onto one of the stools. "And which of your little birds told you?"

She grinned, folding her hands beneath her chin as she leaned on the counter. "My youngest."

"Really?" Lucanis shook his head. "The last I remember she was still clinging to your apron strings."

"They grow fast at that age, and my oldest is keeping an eye on her."

"So the youngest watches me, the oldest watches her, and you watch them both?"

"Exactly."

From the kitchen, the owner's second-oldest daughter scurried out, gaze trained on the cup and saucer she balanced with a delicate grip in her hands. She set it before Lucanis and then bobbed him a little curtsey before hurrying away again, all without ever meeting his eye.

The cafe owner sighed. "That one has a ways to go."

"She'll be fine," Lucanis assured her. "I was not so different at that age."

"We'll see." The woman stood straight and knocked on the counter. "Do you need anything besides the coffee?"

The offer was for more than pastry; she and her husband were both Crows, though retired from taking contracts due to injuries. Instead they served as a hub for passing information and messages and as a neutral ground of sorts when representatives of other Houses passed through Treviso. They were both still more than capable of handling trouble, and he suspected several of their children now were as well.

"Not today," he told her.

He nodded his thanks as he collected his coffee and headed out to the balcony overlooking the canals. His usual table, a small one with only one chair that backed against the stone wall of the building, was empty, and he suspected that was not just good fortune. Any Crow would seek to curry favor with a Dellamorte, and the cafe owner was no fool. He appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

As he slid into the chair and breathed in the combined scents of the coffee and the canals, a moment of disorientation washed over him. He had imagined this exact scene so many times in the Ossuary, but it had been a desperate fantasy, a bid to keep himself going, one that he had never truly believed would become reality. And yet it was all so familiar, so much a part of his old life, that he almost felt that the past terrible year had been the dream, just a horrible nightmare that he had woken from and now his life could resume.

The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came, thwarted by Spite's sudden appearance leaning over the half-wall that surrounded the balcony. Lucanis swallowed his first sip of coffee with a thick throat and blamed the burn for the sting in his eyes.

"See?" Spite demanded over his shoulder. "Here again! Always here! You sit! You drink! Again! And again!"

Lucanis held the cup in front of his lips to hide their movement. "I haven't been here in a year, except for that meeting with Illario and Rook."

"No!' Spite spat. "You sit. And you drink. And you watch. The sky. The clouds. The birds. The stars. The sun. Warm. Cold. Day. Night. Over and over. Why?"

"That... those were memories. We weren't really here."

Spite growled in frustration. "Why? Here?"

Lucanis looked out at the gondolas subtly rocking in their berths from the motion of the sun-tipped waves. He could hear the gondoliers calling to each other and laughing and the gulls that echoed the sound with their own cries as they wheeled above. Beyond the scent of coffee, he could detect sweeter smells—oleander, pomegranate—and the salt tang of the sea.

"Treviso is my home," Lucanis murmured. "And this spot, the sights, the sounds, the smells... this is Treviso to me."

Spite looked back at him, a slightly lost expression on his face. "You are? Home?"

"Yes," Lucanis said, and he felt the truth of it in the air in his lungs and the taste on his tongue.

He had lost so much. But he had not lost that.

Spite's brow furrowed, and his eyes took on a forlorn look, a look of longing and heartache that pricked at something in Lucanis's chest.

"I'm sorry," he told the demon. "I'm sorry that you can't go home."

Spite turned away. "Drink. Then we go. To the Crossroads. Kill some. Venatori."

Lucanis nodded. He could always leave the artichokes at the Diamond for safe keeping.

[crypt-arcaneum]

It’s always bothered me a bit that Lucanis gets something for everyone but Rook when you spend some time with him so:

Grey Warden: “Rook, take this. A silverite dagger, it even has a Griffon engraved into the handle. I know you have your own weapons but doesn’t hurt to have a backup, especially with the darkspawn we have now.”

Veil Jumper: “Rook, here, a puzzle box! Looks like it’d fit right at home in Arlathan, do you think they solved it or are just selling it because they failed one too many times?”

Shadow Dragon: “Ah here, look, Rook. A bottle of agreggio pavali, just for you. Hopefully it’s a taste of home for you. A good year too, maybe we could crack it open when we get back to the Lighthouse.”

Lord of Fortune: “Can’t say if this tops some of your usual plunder but, here. This necklace looks like it suits you, the merchant said it had quite the story to go with it.”

Mourn Watch: “I can’t say I really know what would interest a necromancer here in the market. So I hope these bangles will suffice instead, they even have little skulls on them.”

Antivan Crow: “Now what kind of homecoming would this be for you if we just settled with coffee? Here, a ring, twist it like so and you have a compartment for hiding a lethal dose”

[dalishious]

All About The Antivan Crows

(NOTE: This piece is a revised, 2nd edition of an old one, updated with information that has since been added to the lore. I will be deleting the outdated post to avoid confusion!)

The Antivan Crows, also known as the House of Crows, is a league of assassins from the northeast nation of, as their name suggests, Antiva. While their notoriety is especially high in their home country, the Crows are well-known across Thedas as brutally efficient killers. The bulk of their work is in Antiva, but they accept contracts all over the continent. Because of their reputation for adhering to agreements—something that should one fail to do makes one’s life forfeit as far as the Crows are concerned—they are an expensive but valuable investment.

To find the Crows anywhere from Ferelden to Seheron is not an unlikely sight. Nations at war send them to cut down leaders on opposing sides. Noble houses with grudges against each other send them to cut down family trees. And of course, politicians vying for power send them to cut down their competition. Whatever the reason, the Crows are never short on contracts. They are even willing to intervene in Circle politics.

While assassinations are the most common contract, and what the Crows are most known for, they’re also no strangers to thievery and spying. In Antiva City rests a giant, well-protected archive, housing of all their collected blackmail secrets, records of past contracts, recipes for their own special poisons, and other such valuables. The secrets in this archive are what keeps the Crows ruling Antiva from the shadows by controlling the nobility and merchant princes. That is, those that aren’t among their ranks.

At the very top of the power ladder is a council of Guildmasters made up of the eight most wealthy and powerful Crow Houses. The role of Guildmaster is most typically inherited down through a family, after successfully proving their skill by single-handedly killing a target with nothing but a ceremonial dagger. The Houses that are part of this council are known as Talons, ranked from one to eight, one being the most powerful. Talon has also been used interchangeably with Guildmaster when referring to the leader of one of these eight Houses.

Below the Talons are the lesser Houses, known as the Cuchillos. The Cuchillo leaders not Guildmasters but simply Masters, entitled as Lords, until their House may gain the rank of Talon. The ranks of these different houses can change with circumstance, gaining or losing power. House heads are also capable of taking over different houses by eliminating others, should they dare to be so ambitious. As such, despite being part of a larger organization, the Antivan Crows are always in competition with each other, and are not unknown to assassinate within their own ranks to get what they want.

The current Eight Talons are as followed:

Dellamorte

Balazar

Valisti

Kortez

De Riva

Nero

Cantori

Arainai

Other known Houses are:

Ferragani

D’Evaliste

Di Bastion

Members of the Antivan royal family and merchant prince dynasties routinely join the high-ranks of the Crows, either as a way to boost their social standing, or because they were forced into it. Assassinations are seen as part of everyday politics in Antiva, and how positions of power often change hands. Having strong ties with the Crows brings a noble family both leverage and security. They also have an arrangement referred to as The Azul Contract, in which bastard royal children are given a choice of either exile or joining the Crows – such as the case was with Viago de Riva. In return, the Antivan Crows all but run the nation. Even kings have come directly from the Crows.

While the Crows are mostly led by nobility, the bulk of their organization is made up of their recruits, though the word recruit makes it sound like there was a choice involved. The vast majority of recruits, referred to as compradi, are children between the ages of five and ten, bought as slaves or found on the streets alone. For example, Zevran Arainai was seven years old when he was bought by the Crows. Compradi are usually gathered in scores at a time, though only a few survive to become full-fledged assassins. The Crows keep the children in poor, cramped quarters, and raise them in emotionally detached and torturous conditions, teaching them to know nothing else but murder, as Zevran puts it. They are allowed no personal items, and are encouraged not to make friends. Along with general training and education in Crow ciphers and Crow history, training of recruits includes pitting them against each other, tests of pain resistance and gauntlets, and challenges like locking them in an oubliette for weeks. All this leads most Antivan Crows immune to morality as much as they are to interrogation. It also breeds loyalty to the only life recruits know. Indeed, many Crows would sooner kill themselves than betray the guild.

It is very rare for a recruit to rise all the way to the top of the organization’s tiered leadership, but not unheard of. For example, Teia Cantori, climbed her way to the head of her house – but despite this, she is still regarded as an “overreaching street rat” by her noble peers.

The Crows favour recruiting elves, as they are widely regarded as beautiful and unthreatening; both advantageous impressions for an assassin. However, they take recruits from all races. Assassins are most typically rogues, but the Crows also train warriors and even mages, providing protection for their apostate assassins from the Chantry.

An experienced Assassin may gain the title of Master Assassin with time, putting them just below the leader of their House in terms of rank. Masters are capable of deciding their own contracts, and command groups of Assassins below them. Guildmasters decide which Master Assassins get which contracts based on the amount of the contract’s offer they bid to give to the guild, and their chances of success. Regularly, Assassins are not allowed to bid on contracts, and are instead assigned contracts or roles in larger ones by the Master Assassins that command them. The exception to this is when an Assassin is attempting to gain the rank of Master.

Save for rare exceptions of escape, Crows are Crows for life. The only way to leave them is to make them think you are dead, or find someone willing to protect you from them. Otherwise they will hunt you down and kill you for betraying the guild, and that is the better alternative: Anyone who angers the Crows and lives risks ending up in their own personal prison, the Velabanchel, to spend the rest of their days locked up and tortured.

Antivan Crows are often easily identifiable by those who recognize their unique tattoos – a tradition taken from the Rivaini. Some of these designs are sacred to the Crows, marking them as which house they belong to, while others are purely decorative. While some Crows display their tattoos with pride and intimidation, others prefer to keep them hidden.

-----

SOURCES

Dragon Age: Origins

Dragon Age II

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Codex Entry: Zevran Arainai (Dragon Age II)

Codex entry: Blackfeather Boots (Dragon Age II)

Codex entry: Finesse (Dragon Age II)

Codex Entry: The Crows and Queen Madrigal (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Item Description: Gift of the Talons (Dragon Age: Inquisition)

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

Dragon Age: Last Flight

Dragon Age: The Silent Grove

Dragon Age: Deception

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas vol. 1

Dragon Age: The World of Thedas vol. 2

Dragon Age Promotional Wiki: Assassin

-----

If you find these kinds of pieces fun and/or helpful, please consider supporting me!

[druidwolf21]

*slides some stuff that give me ideas*

Imagine being Konrad Cruze daughter and what lucidity he have to protect the only innocent thing he has to any of his brothers or a nice base humans he told his legion to leave his daughter in their care knowing well she'll live a good and safe life that isn't him

And lest say after the heresy Guilliman ( after awakening and all ) there is a large planet in uncharted of space that has been trying to make contact as the one in charge have something or someone

As it's the list daughter of the Night Haunter, and she been in a force endiceted coma as she is using her ability that she inherited from her father and bit more to protect the denizen of the planet for chaos long as she can

So how would Guilliman be when situation liked that be a reaction?

*enjoy my brain dumb, you can ignore this if you want*

Ok first of all

NOT BRAIN DUMB

Brain good!!

I love this so so much!!!

I really hope you like this! Thank you for letting me write it! I rewrote it so many times

Little bit of fluff, little bit of angst!

CW: violence, bad language

@kitty-chan33 @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @laura-naruto-fan1998 @echo-of-damnation @kit-williams @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond

Konrad Kurze was a wraith, his breaths staggered and eyes wild as he tore through abandoned streets and lonely alleys. One armoured hand clutched under his tattered clothes as he ran. Above him lay a sky choked with clouds of thick chemical refuse, industrial towers spewing a blanket of toxic haze across the world and smothering the dim light of the dying sun to a muted grey sheen. The city was a maze of blistered stone and rusted iron, and the people were just as rotten. Violence and corruption wormed it's way into the soul of every living thing in Nostramo, leaving nothing in its wake but despair and blood. This was no place for humanity.

No place for you.

He paused for a moment, black eyes scanning the collapsing architecture before a sound drew his attention and he turned, teeth bared in feral snarl as he spun to the source. A small woman stepped from the shadow, a cloak bundled around her frail form as she shuffled forward. A bag swung from her shoulder and a small dagger flashed as her cape swayed with her movement.

"My lord" she croaked, weathered hands raised defensively as she approached "my lord I am here, as you commanded" she was still young, but worn out, brown hair flecked with grey and crows feet wrinkled around dull green eyes. Her youth fallen to the same fate as everyone who found themselves in this desolate place. Kurze didn't care. He stalked over to the woman, sniffing and puffing at her before finally stepping back. "Good, I didn't take you for a coward, Tela, but one can only judge so far" he bent low, his fetid breath fluttering the woman's lank hair as she froze. "You understand the... Importance of this job? The consequences should you fail?" She nodded in response. A small but firm gesture under the black stare of the primarch. "I do, my lord" she strained her neck back, staring Kurze in the eye as she spoke. "I have not failed you yet, night haunter and I do not plan to start now" Konrad rose to his full height, nodding thoughtfully before slowly drawing his own ragged cloak aside.

Clutched in his taloned hand, pressed to his chest, he held a child.

A small girl, clinging to his beaten robes with pale hands, eyes bright and large as she glanced around.

Tela watched as the hardened cold face of the lord before her softened, his hands, normally so quick to gore and maim, moved carefully as he lifted the girl from his warmth and placed her on the floor. The monster who terrorized Nostramo now stood as just a man, wrapping the child in a bundle of fabric. "Regardless of what you think of me, she deserves more than this" he growled, his eyes not leaving the girl as she laughed, unaware of the world around her. "She will be the best of us. Of me"

"your daughter will be safe with me, lord Kurze"

🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄

Tela sat in the cargo hold, her body aching and cold from the cramped corner she hid herself in. The young girl squirmed and whined in the confines as the engines of the vessel roared to life, struggling against rocking motion as the trader ship began to depart.

"dad?" She questioned, looking at the old lady with big watery eyes, her bottom lip quivering. "Dad?"

"no sweetie, just me and you"

The girl began sobbing in earnest, tears streaming down her round face and reddening cheeks as she cried. Tela watched her for a moment, fingers twitching towards the blade at her hip. A primarch's child was an unusual thing in itself, but kurze's welp? She'd come with every intention of putting the abomination out of its misery, but this...this was not what she had expected. There was no fanged beast, no raging animal hellbent in gutting her and although the girl was larger than she should be at that age, her eyes seeing a little too much with each blurred blink, she was still just a little girl, missing her dad.

With a resigned sigh she held out her arms. "Come here, little one, I'll look after you" she cradled the girl against her chest, running frail fingers through her hair as she held her. A wave of emotion washed over tela and she blinked back tears that did not belong to her. She glanced down at the bawling toddler. A psyker too?

"what have I gotten myself into"

The two of them sat as the hull groaned and creaked around them, the sound of sobbing faded to a whimper as tela soothed her with soft words.

Shhh shhh it's ok, everything be be ok

🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄

"Aunt Tela, I'm back!"

The elderly woman smiled from her seat on the porch, shawl drawn close around her bent shoulders to stave off the cold evening air. She raised a frail hand to you as you climbed the hill, becoming you over. "Hello love, I was beginning to worry about you"

You smiled and waved her concern off, dropping to a knee to press a soft kiss against the old woman's head. "Really Aunt, you should know better by now, I outsize and outpace everything on this planet" you laughed and raised back to your towering full height, lean muscles popping as you stretched. Tela shook her head, tutting. "I've told you before, if you get cocky, you'll get into trouble, there are things much bigger and stronger than you out there and we don't need you drawing more attention than you already do"

You chuckled softly and lowered yourself to sit on the grass in front of her, an elbow propped across your bent knee as you sat in comfortable silence staring out across the sprawling view. Wooden cabins and small holding rested on the hillside and beyond them, The city of Trahull bustled like an anthill below you, grey walls climbing high to defend the branching streets and alleys. Even from up on the hill top you could hear the faint mumble of chatter as the denizens went about their day, bartering for goods and services in the street. In the center of the city, coiled and proud, stood a spire. A titanic structure dwarfing the buildings around it, its pale marble colour stood in stark contrast to the dark concrete around it. From atop the steeple a pulse was emitted, an obsidian wave generating a translucent shield around the metropolis.

"we've been here a long time, Aunt, If someone was coming, they would've been here by now"

The old woman sighed and ran her fingers gently along your head in thought. "60 years is long for me, love, but it's a drop in the bucket for you, I need to make sure you'll be safe when I'm gone." You hummed in response, unwilling to acknowledge the way the conversation was going, deciding to enjoy the simple touch along your scalp instead. "The imperium hasn't taken much interest yet, but if they knew you were here they would..."

You reach over and gently grasped her fingers, your hand dwarfing her own as you held her. "Tela, I know, I remember all the stories, the primarchs won't find me, I swear" you turned to look at her and smiled "I promise I won't go looking for trouble"

"well trouble has a way of finding you, unfortunately"

You shrugged off the well intended accusation, huffing slightly as she flicked your head with a laugh. She suddenly grew quiet, he hands stilling in your hair.

"are you still having that nightmare?"

You swallowed dryly and nodded. Images flashed through your mind, the city burning, corpses littering the street, blood flowing down the alleys as red eyes flashed in the darkness. "your father had them too, don't dwell on them, lest you bring them to pass"

You both sat and watched the sun slowly dip below the horizon, the orange and red hues thrown from the evening casting a warm light across the terrain like molten gold. You shrugged the cloak from off your shoulders and slung it around Tela, the weighty material dwarfing her as she snuggled into the layers. "It seems like it was just yesterday that you were the one buried in fleece to keep warm" she sighed wistfully, picking at a loose thread on the purple material. "Now you're out there, protecting the cities from orcs and eldar" she clutched the cape to her, arthritic hands shaking as she pulled it against her. "Such a loud child, always making trouble"

You cocked an eye brow at her as she spoke, letting her reminisce as she leant back in her seat. "I feared you'd turn out like your father, thought I'd made a mistake, but here you are"

"here I am" you agreed, watching her rock slightly in her chair.

"my sweet girl"

🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄🌄

"Tela, Tela wake up, we need to move. NOW"

Tela opened her eyes groggily, seeing your concerned face peering at her through the darkness. "What? What's going on?"

"no time to explain, were going to Trahull"

You bent and clutched her to your chest, lifting her with ease as you kicked the cabin door open and you felt her stiffen against you.

From atop the hills peak you could see it all, screams and howls carried in the wind filled your ears as gunfire and artillery filled the air, the sky was crowded with ships and choked by thick black smoke that coiled and curled, blotting out the stars.

Barreling down the hill towards the city, the cries grew louder and the smell of burt flesh and scorched brick was overwhelming. You kept your eyes fixed ahead as you drove downwards towards the gate, jumping over bodies and piles of ash as the walls loomed closer. As you moved through the debris, you dropped low, clutching Tela to your chest as you crept forward. Your ears pricked for any sound as the burned remains of cabins and homes groaned and heaved around you. Bile rose in your throat as you recognized the remains of neighbours. people who had helped you, laughed with you, now discarded into the trampled earth like broken toys.

A noise

You paused, eyes flicking through the smoke as a shape began to emerge from the haze. Your eyes widened in surprise before you twisted and ducked down behind a smoldering beam. Blood red armour, fringed with gold and platinum, an axe, bloody and rusted dragging across the floor. His pauldron displayed a round mouth lined with jagged teeth. You drummed your thoughts, digging through your memory to try and recognize the sigil but the smell of ichor and the taste of iron on your tongue overloaded your senses.

"what is a marine doing here?" You hissed, trying to ground yourself. Tela moved against your grip, pulling the hood off her face to glance around. Sadness and rage consumed her features as she spoke. "World eaters, Angron's dogs" she spat. You glanced round the corner, watching the mass of Ceremite and muscle skulk off into the ash. "Why are they here? You always said the astartes were only sent in to" The old woman cut you off "I know what I said, but something isn't right here, we shouldn't linger"

You nodded and turned back around the corner.

You reeled backwards as a metal boot swung towards your face, narrowly missing you as you jumped backwards. You scrambled to your feet and hissed through your teeth, raising to your full height and glaring down at the warrior. The helmet tilted as the cold steel stared back up at you, pausing for a moment before hefting the axe to its shoulder.

"Tela, go and hide, I'll find you in a minute" you growled, placing her gently behind you. She placed a soft hand on your arm, looking up at you with concern before scurrying off. You stared down at the marine, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. You were not prepared for this fight, you had no armour and no weapons, only the soft tunic, trousers and cloak you had gathered before escaping.

"what do you want?"

You didn't understand the garbled words that were returned to you, and you didn't have time to think before a heavy blade was swung towards your center. Instinct took over and your body moved on its own as you twisted away and swung your fist at the gleaming helmet, catching the ornate crest and tilting the marine into a cartwheel sideways as his axe flew from his grasp and his helmet flew from his head. A sickening crunch as his leg twisted in Ceremite. All thoughts in your mind were muffled as a primitive voice took command.

Kill him

Tear him

Break him

You lunged after the marine, collecting his discarded axe from the ground as you charged. The marine turned to face you as he clambered to his feet, his injured leg giving way beneath his weight. bare face revealing a scarred visage, riddled with cables and cord that plunged under his skin and His lips drew back in a snarl as he ripped a bolter from is holster on his hip and began firing, the rounds tearing through wood and metal as they pinged through the wreckage. A burn in your shoulder as one embedded your flesh, another hissing past your cheek as it burned a furrow under your eye.

You raised the axe above your head and swung it down with a scream, cleaving through sinew and bone. The world eater's hands shot to his chest gurgling and choking as he pawed at the blood oozing from between the plates of his armour as he fell forward with a last rattling breath.

Casting the axe to the floor, you sucked breath into your lungs through clenched teeth. Blood thrummed in your ears and adrenaline pulsed through your body as you glared down at the corpse, you bit back a manic grin, high in the victory as you spun round.

"Tela, it's ok, he's dead"

No response

"Tela?"

Through the soft popping of cindered wood and battle cries you heard her, a soft whimpering emanating from the wreckage. Sprinting over, you collapsed next to her, eyes already burning as you tried to staunch the wound in her stomach. You ripped at your tunic, plastering the already drenched fabric against her to halt the flow. A soft hand found your face and you blinked tears away as she smiled up at you.

"You need to go"

"I'm not leaving you behind"

"you don't have a choice"

Head bowed, you sobbed, openly weeping as you continued to paw at spreading crimson on her belly. "Head to the city, the tower, if you can get there, you can keep the shield up" she coughed, her light frame spasming in pain.

"I can't do it, please mother" you wept, shaking your head. A warm smile spread across her palming face as her thumb ran gentle circles across your cheek. "yes you can, my love"

Her hand fell from your face and she sighed.

"always such a loud child"

And she was gone.

You screamed your despair into her body, pressing your face into her hair as you swore, begged, threatened someone, anyone to help. But no help came.

And you were alone.

After a while, you dragged yourself to your feet, casting one last look at her, you slowly made your way towards the city.

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Guilliman rubbed his temples and groaned inwardly at the sharp rap at his door.

"what"

"I apologize for the interruption my lord, but the astropath picked up a message, they said it was urgent."

The primarch motioned the serf and they scuttled forward, reaching up and placing the large rolled parchment on his desk before bowing hastily and making their exit. Roboute sighed again and reached out to the letter, a scowl creasing his brow as he cracked the wax seal and began to read. Blue eyes flickered over the page in disbelief, rereading the message before he lurched from his chair. Slamming open his door, he stormed down the corridor to the shock of the Invictarus guardsman stationed outside his office.

"my lord? What is happening?"

" That's what I'm going to find out" guilliman thought, as he made his way to the helm.

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The planet was desolate, the soil was barren and lifeless, motes of dust flying into the air as the thunderhawk landed. A small retinue of men stood outside, clad in thick protective robes and face shields to protect them from the acrid swirls of sand that danced along the seals of their suits as they waited for the primarch to depart.

"my lord primarch, such an honour, we are grateful for your decisive response" the leader uttered, dipping into a low bow as guilliman stepped from the vessel. "As soon as we found it, we knew it should be investigated at once, a rather splendid archeological find, if I may say."

Roboute gestured for the men to lead them as his guard readied bolter and blade. Following the men at a leisurely pace, he cast an eye around his surroundings. Whilst the outside world had been laid to waste, the city sat resplendent behind high walls, a tall tower peaked over the great palisade , emitting a purple hued barrier that shielded the occupants from the wasteland. The archeologists stepped through the barrier with barely a glance, but roboute paused, examining the barrier closely but pressing a gauntleted hand flat against its surface.

The barrier convulsed under his touch, a blue ripple passing through its surface briefly before fading again. He rubbed his fingers together, feeling a familiar psyching energy emanating from the barrier, but a strangeness alongside it he couldn't place. He stopped through the wrought iron gates and pressed on, listening to the gentle sounds of the city. The imperium had hardly laid a claim here, with only a few militarum patrolling the alleys. The streets were crowded but happy, children ran in-between the feet of market owners peddling their wears from bright stalls.

A small child ran into the back of his legs, clustering against the armour. He looked down, towering over the small boy, who picked himself up off, dusted his britches and looked up at him with a toothy smile, gaps in his front teeth and a bruise forming already on his forehead. "Sorry sir!" He laughed before squealing and running after his friends.

Guilliman's gaze traced after the boy as he ran, an almost wistful look across his stoic face before returning his attention to the tower. Approaching the base, he was directed to a large door, carved so intricately into the marble it was easily missed. Pushing it open revealed a set of steps driving down into the dark bowels of the earth.

"wait here, I'll go alone"

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It was so cold

Or maybe it was warm

A touch, cold metal reverberating, echoing

An image, a man clad in blue and gold

Where am I?

Is this.

.

.

Home?

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Roboute paced the sphere cautiously, examining the cables and pipes feeding from it into the heights of the building. The sphere was glass, or something similar at least, a fluid bubbled softly inside, iridescent and ethereal.

Floating in the liquid, was a girl.

Curled in the fetal position, her eyelids flickered like she was dreaming, fingers twitching gently as if to reach out and grasp. Her face was soft, but the similarities were undeniable.

"Konrad, what did you do" Guilliman muttered, running a hand through his blonde crop. "And to hide her for this long" he felt his hearts pounding in his chest, his rage at his brother surfacing, along with the grief of everyone he had lost. Konrad had been a monster, fueled by rage and fear, but would she be the same? Why was she here, who was she?

Why did he hide you?

He continued to patrol the edge of the receptacle, tapping and touching every so often. Thousand of theoreticals pouring through his mind as he measured and counted. Finally he stopped, pulling his fist back and shattering the glass with a deft punch.

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Everything was too cold and too loud, but all at once too quiet and too hot, you felt yourself falling forwards and a strong pair of hands catching you as you gasped, breathing air for the first time in

How long had it been?

Memories came flooding back to you, the attack, the devastation. You had entered the spire to boost the shield, to save the city, to sleep and forget it all.

So where am I now?

Above you hovered a man you had never seen, but felt so familiar. You reached a hand to him, cupping his cheek with a soft touch as you lay in his arms.

"I.... Know... You?"

"no" he whispered, leaning in slightly to the touch "but I'm here to help"

You closed your eyes again and nodded slowly, pulling your hand back "everyone... The city... They're ok?"

The primarch gazed down at your face, so much like his brother, and yet so soft. "You're worried about the city?"

"yes"

"the city is fine"

"good, thats good"

The lord of ultrimar sat, holding you gently as you faded in and out of consciousness. His head was a mess, filled with confusion and hope as he listened to you mumble. Kurze might have been an abomination.

But you might be better.