#except this year only the parents with feathered wings were invited

[stillebesat]

Everywhere he looked, the only parental figures he could see were the ones who had feathered wings. 

Logan tensed, wings shaking as he leaned forward.  It couldn’t be. “Remy.” He whispered hoarsely, eyes raking the field again, searching for any sign of scale or skin among the adults on the field. 

There were none. 

“REMY.” He repeated, the roar of the crowd growing muted in his ears as he elbowed his friend to get his attention. 

“Geez Gurl, What? They’re about to take off!”

“Where are the other parents?” He hissed, grabbing his arm. 

Remy blinked, frowning down at the field. “They’re dow--” “No. Look.” Logan pointed, his finger shaking. “Those people all have feathers, Remy. Where are the ones like us? With the scales? The skin?” He couldn’t see anyone over the age of fifteen with bat wings, dragon wings, or even the more rare insect wings on the field.

[oneoftheprettynerds]

Belle Of The Ball: Dark! King! Steve Rogers x Reader

A/N: So this my first ever proper dark fic and I’m so nervous. I finished it but my mind thinks it’s garbage. so I’m gonna post this now when I’m feeling a random spurt of courage and am confident in my work. So here’s my masterpiece, cookies.

This is for Dark!MCU  Festive Fic swap hosted by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor  and @darkmcuficswap

My giftee is @hermesmaximoff Hope you enjoy it love!

Thanking @firefly-graphics for the dividers: both personalised and general.

There is also an amateur somewhat okay shitty poster I decided to make which is included at the end.  

WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FIC CONTAINING DUBIOUS CONSENT BORDERING NON-CON AND EXPLICIT SMUT. YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION IS YOUR RESPONSIBILITY. LOSS OF VIRGINITY, ABUSE OF AUTHORITY, BREEDING KINK ALSO PRESENT.

Summary: Invited to the Royal ball by the benevolent monarch, you could barely control your excitement to visit the Capital. While you were busy admiring his prosperous reign, King Steve was quite occupied getting enamoured by you. As you try to fulfil the King’s demands, secrets find their way out.

CHARACTERS + GENRE: DARK!STEVE ROGERS X READER, SUPERNATURAL STEVE ROGERS X READER (read to find out what), ROYAL AU, HALLOWEEN THEME (I tried for the request, hope you do like it)

King Steve Rogers invites the princes and the princesses of all Kingdoms, near and afar,

To celebrate his several years of reign.

He requests thy kind and noble presence

At the joyous regale

of his auspicious ball

On the thirty first of October,

after sundown, in His Majesty’s finest castle.

Challenging thy with the unique theme of

A Halloween Masquerade Ball,

The King expects exceptional indulgence from all.

 The Most Grandiose Halloween Celebration is being organised with the spookiest of events within.

Come here if you dare.

“We have been invited to a royal party! My day couldn’t have been better!” Your elder sister exclaimed, jumping quite unladylike in your chambers, as you went through the details of the venue. You chuckled at her antics, knowing rather well that she would be scolded if someone else was present. 

“Emma, Mother has to approve first. As Lady Ava always says, don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“As if mother would really decline an invite from the King, dear sister.” She rolled her eyes at you, not letting her enthusiasm die as you pondered over her words.

Your sister had a point though, the King summoning your presence was not to be taken lightly. The invitation came up handwritten in a scroll with the King’s wax seal atop it. It was placed elegantly beside a golden mask in a rectangular black box, that bore the Majesty’s sigil on the front.  

The theme of the ball wasn’t that peculiar if you reflected over it, the renowned monarch was also recognised for his distinct interest in eerie, unearthly beings. He was known for adventuring into haunted lands, mysterious manors and sinister soils, meeting up with people rumoured to be sorcerers and occultists.

Of course, the reason for his encounters was sometimes rumoured to be because of his familial distress, how he couldn’t find a mate to procreate with and conceive his own heir no matter what. Three females, who were pregnant with a progeny of his blood, none his wife though, had died during the first two or tercet months, reason unspecified why.  

Coming to You, you and your sister weren’t actual princesses, rather the daughters of one of the esteemed Ministers in the King’s cabinet. The benevolent King, however referred to the daughters of the town, more exactly, the Kingdom, as noblewomen. He held high reverence for the females and was the sole creditor to the improved condition of the women in this era. No matter how troubled his own life was, the King was the most merciful royal to be crowned to date, his people prospering under him.

Your sister nodded eagerly to your mother, drinking in her words like the fine tea you all had in the afternoons, while you just smiled at her advice.

 When you both met your mother for dinner, you were surprised to find her already informed about the invitation. Her conformity to the celebration astonished you even more, but Emma’s zeal was starting to rub off on you too by the end of the meal. 

Your mother continued, “Your father mentioned The Majesty is looking for a wife, quite possibly. He has been insistent in trying to get a successor the correct way this time, by courting the lady who piques his interest. Even though this might be a rumour, or some gossip spun by the ladies of the Cabinet, you both should try your best to be graceful and presentable. Among the hundreds of guests, he’d be having over, on the off-chance, if Gods allow, that either of you manages to entice him, it will only promise you the most pleasant of all forthcomings. It would also do me and your father some good, if you managed to find some other suitable bachelor, from a nice background to engage with.”

Your sister had always been one with the more overactive imagination out of you two, while you had been the more serene and poised one. When she’d be out playing with the children in your town, you’d be talking to the younger toddlers, drawing with chalks on the side. For every kid she splashed with water in the nearby sapphire river, you made tots flower crowns. These were the values you both grew up with, and these will be the values you’d die with.

After days of shopping velvet fabrics and silk textiles, and bothering your seamster to make sophisticated and stylish dresses, you both neared your day of departure. After some instructions to you both to represent your father and town well, your mother bid you adieu. It was nerve wracking to not have your mother by your side, for an event as big as this was, but since you both had passed more than twenty name days, you were expected to be proper, independent ladies. 

With a heavy heart and some self, positive affirmations, you and your sister embarked on the voyage, which was filled with her chitchat.

You only hoped that the gala was as exciting as your family made it out to be. That it was just a King trying to celebrate his sovereign with some western festival integrated together. That the event would not be as unnerving and creepy as the last line of his invitation made it out to be. 

For some unknown cause, it did not sit well with you. Your apprehensive intuition made you wary of the invitation for some reason, but you let your sibling’s zest take you over. What benefit would fretting get you?

The ball was far more pompous than anything you’d have imagined in your little head. All the ideas that Emma had come up with during your journey, to anticipate the extent of extravagance for the ball, were all exceeded with tenfold finesse. You had travelled to faraway, distant lands with your parents, but the King’s mansion, with all the festivity happening, was truly a sight to behold.

Entering The Capital had been the highlight of your excursion, you were sure earlier, but well you were proved wrong. Your father greeted you both when you had arrived, eager to see his angels after almost six moons, and had ensured you both got the best of the accommodations in the well-built, enormous fort. He introduced you to several of his comrades as well as their brooding, young lads and then, left you both to rest for the main event next eve. With two maids at your every beck and call, courtesy of your father, your time went smoothly and now you found yourself at the said Halloween themed celebration, staring around in awe of every little detail that had been so meticulously handled to make the event as dazzling as it was.

The servants were dressed rather ridiculously as cats, wearing some bizarre structure resembling cat ears, horribly short black dresses barely past their thighs and some whiskers draw using either coal or makeup, you weren’t sure. It was a poor attempt to make them appear feline. However, the food was as immaculate as everything else, entirely themed like only blood red wine, candied apples, chicken pumpkins, cheesecake brain, mummy muffins, some appetizer with bell peppers as jack-o-lanterns; these were the few that met your sights.

The hall was so grand, almost the size of three jousting arenas and playing fields combined with pillars having detailed architecture supporting the place. The walls were covered in scarlet, golden and black velvet drapes, the royal colours, and beautiful masquerade masks were pinned atop them, along the walls. Almost hundred round, white clothed tables filled the ballroom, with gold plated candlesticks and utensils upon them. The entire place had entertainers progressing around, the essence of it being magicians, clowns, contortionists, palm and tarot card readers. 

In the centre of the hall, was an empty space, reserved for the soon to be ensuing dancing. An orchestra on the side had beautiful instruments, playing soft melodies for now, reserving the upscale beats for later.

You had only read a few books on Halloween to be prepared but nothing could have geared you up for this. Your small-town self was gaping at everything with a childlike wonder while somehow your sister was quite composed and calm, somehow your roles had been reversed. 

Emma was wearing a blue gown, having several layers of nets and cloth, each a different shade of azure. She tried to dress as the mythical creature called mermaid, with crystal heels and a beaded neckline. Her masquerade mask had scales like fish, made using shining sequins. She looked so gorgeous, truly managing to look captivating.

You on the other hand were dressed like an angel, which you were against, finding it too mainstream and typical and wanted to dress like an enchantress with violet and jade colours, which your mother immediately negated. On demand of your sister, she let you wear a fluffy white ball gown, and had you made wings with dove feathers, an apparatus which was astonishingly light to wear. Using her art and craft skills, Emma made you a headband with two wires attached to a metal ring, shaped like an angel’s halo. The loop at top made of some special metal that glowed golden in the dark, making it look like a real, floating halo. Your mask had a fur lining on it, and silver sparkles were sprinkled all over you, with pretty makeup on your face, courtesy of your sibling.

The change in music brought you out of your reverie, as trumpets and harps began to hum, signifying the arrival of the King on the grand staircase. He had a crimson red velvet cape descending his broad shoulders, his tuxedo underneath could hide neither his long legs nor his bulging, protruding biceps. His black, shining shoes cost more than your entire apparel, you were certain. 

As your gaze ascended his masculine form, you were mesmerised furthermore with his high cheekbones, full lips tainted cherry pink, a Grecian slanting nose, sleek eyebrows, luscious blonde hair, a thick beard and the best of all yet, cerulean blue eyes, the prettiest you’d ever seen in the entirety of your small life. The ladies beside you, Emma included, had the same reaction whether they had witnessed his Highness before or not. Every female’s gaze seemed to flicker between his azure eyes and the Golden crown resting atop his blonde locks, flooded with rubies and emeralds and gemstones you weren’t sure your books had.

For a moment you felt his eyes land on you, which surprised you even more so, that you questioned yourself about it, but his cheeky grin and wink confirmed it, make you shiver involuntarily as heat spread through your face while a titillating stir ran through you, a first for you. His impeccably white teeth were clearly visible now, showing two elongated canines, which finally gave you a sense of his attire, paired with his blush lips, A Vampire.

He spoke a few words, eyes unsteadily wavering, observing different members of the gathering. He let the dances commence, partnering with his most suitable match at the festivity, the daughter of the wealthiest lord. After the first song was over, other couples joined alongside him while you stood at the side, observing everything. Only mere moments ago had your sister been courted by a young man, the two of them shooting each other coy glances since they had entered. 

A tap on your shoulder had you puzzled, you turned around focus landing on warm, brown eyes. You recalled him to be Lord Stark’s son, Peter, having met him yesterday at dawn. His familiar brown eyes gave you sense of comfort, which you liked, not being alongside Emma now.

“Shall we?” He asked, his cheeks ruby like yours were, as he extended the palm of his hand towards you. You giggled, smiling like a little babe who got extra cookies for dessert, and accepted his hand. Sauntering to the dancing arena, you only prayed to The Heavens above that Lady Ava taught you enough to embarrass neither yourself nor your guild.

Tracing his steps and following his lead, you did manage to dance without falling, which was a surprise seeing how spread out your wings were. You and him made easy conversation, about your hometowns and interests.  You saw your Father proudly looking at you and Emma, dancing with lads, you guessed, he approved of.

As the song ended and the orchestra played a transitioning tune between the melodies, a cough sounded beside you as you and Peter stopped. Your eyes widened as you nervously curtsied beside Peter, A ‘Your Majesty” falling from both your lips.

“If it’s not too much trouble, may I share a dance with the most stunning dame here?” 

Peter politely stepped back, letting go of your waist, as The King’s wide stature more than filled his place. Your heart was beating rather loudly, blood pumping to your ears as you tried to make sense of what was happening. In your peripheral vision you could see the prying eyes of others looking at you both, ready to criticize you for one wrong move. Your father watched intently, a slight warning in his eyes to not mess this opportunity up while your sister comfortingly smiled at you. You tried to even your breaths and make sense of what he was saying, to not just stand and gape like a fool in court.

As the harmony played out, he swayed you around, lifting you up and twirling you around. Compliments spewed out from his lips, making you crimson like freshly ripened apples. You couldn’t keep up with your expression of gratitude through your words as he admired your eyes, your elegance and your ensemble which just couldn’t make him shift his eyes from you. 

After two songs had played out, he left as suddenly as he had come, with a promise to meet you later. You watched him dance with other maidens, who approached him when you were dancing together, entertaining every approaching lady like an excellent host.

You made your way to the side, hoping to get some liquor, or at least some fluid in your veins and not faint right there this moment. Emma came up beside you while you were having wine, and rubbed your back in a parental way. Her eyes communicated her understanding of how overwhelmed you felt at the instant. Her date and Peter soon came and kept you both company for the rest of the night. As duos danced and people got intoxicated, you had to call it a night on behalf of your sister, her incessant giggling make you worried for her inebriated self. 

You slipped her out before your father caught her and gave her a stern talking to and tucked her in her bed keeping a glass of water and some fresh fruits for her on the bedside wooden bench. You concluded retiring for the night yourself but only after assuring your father of your whereabouts and well beings. Before returning to the hall, you took off your wings and the halo, also opting to leave the mask behind as the fur tickled your skin. Your makeup hadn’t ruined in the heat of the hall, it was a miracle. You made your way to the Hall, hoping to find your father, assumingly drunk with all his entourage.

Two hallways before the decorated ballroom were you pinned to the wall, one hand of your attacker covering your parted lips while the other held your face delicately, with a lover’s touch. A split second was all it took for you to be immobilised by this man and another by your wavering form to recognise the cobalt blue eyes and blonde curls. When The King was certain you wouldn’t scream, his hand left your mouth slid upwards, mirroring his other hand, with thumbs in front of your ears and palms resting on your cheeks.

“Your Majesty?” You mumbled back, your voice somehow even lower, afraid for yourself and even more so terrified to offend him.

“Say, would you come for a while to my chambers, the view of the creek from my balcony is splendid.”

His choice of words gave you an option, but his eyes, almost hypnotically told you there was only one correct answer.

“You are the one, I can feel it.” He whispered lowly but your heightened senses gladly picked it up.

You meekly nodded, your inner self surprised at your body moving of its accord alongside him, as your mind started voiding of thoughts like reporting to your father, checking up on Emma. You felt like you were trapped in someone else’s form and fought with an invisible force to take over the reins of your own body.

You did not fail to notice the lack of guards outside the King’s chamber and how every entrance managed to open itself. The King wasn’t lying about the picturesque scene though, as you stood in the balcony, hair getting ruffled by the strong breeze that seemingly came from nowhere.

Your body stiffened as King Steve came uncharacteristically close to you and slid his hands around your middle, his nose nestled in your locks, inhaling deeply.

His lips descended your neck, laying feathery kisses on his path as you stood there, unable to even move your hands or turn around. This out of body sensation was broken when you felt intense pain on piercing of your skin where your head met your torso. You suddenly gained all wits and enough strength to flail your limbs around but all your might wasn’t enough to even stir the man from his task. Your throat couldn’t gather enough energy to scream, though you doubted anyone would come. You started getting light headed and only then did he stop, carrying you in his arms to his widespread four poster bed, mattress as soft as sponge and sheets as silky as butter. Too weak to fight him off, you harvested all your energy in staying conscious as your gaze danced around, trying to make sense of every object present but not awake enough to notice too many details. The wine you drank did not make it any better.

As you laid on the stranger’s bed, you felt his body sit beside you, holding your neck; leaning down, his lips meeting yours for the first time. You did not reciprocate, neither did you have the strength nor the will, while his tongue slipped inside your mouth, roaming around like a traveller in foreign land.

As the kiss drew on, you felt some energy sidle inside you, enough for your mind to function again but not ample enough to fight off the brawny thief who robbed you of your first kiss. King Steve broke off the kiss and connected your foreheads together, his indigo eyes turning black in want, leaving you a frightening and gasping mess.

He backed away, sitting more straighter now as his hand drew back from around your neck and slid along your stomach, nearing the most intimate part of your body, even though there were still layers of cloth present. His hands did not stop there, however, and made their way downwards only stopping at the hem of your gown and slipping inside.

You shrieked out suddenly, becoming aware of his intentions quite late and grasped his wrist that rested now on your knee. 

“Your Majesty, I……I can’t-”

“Do you wish to refuse your King?”

You looked down, caught in the dilemma of wanting your safety and offending him once again. Your virtue had to be preserved till marriage, your mother had taught you, but on the other hand, the King’s words were the law.

“Answer Me.” The King’s cold voice broke through your thoughts, not a shout but still scarier than a yell.“

Your Majesty, I’ve never engaged in s-” You started tearing up, lower lip wobbling and body shaking at the thought of the future. You did not see this ending beneficial in any scenario. If you lost your virtue, you would never get wed but if you refused the King and he felt insulted, your family and your connections would be in the ruins, he held that much power over you.

Cradling your face with his other hand, he began again, “You think I’m not already aware, pretty one?” The man who was reprimanding you only few moments ago upon not answering him, had a smile on his face this time: not assuring or comforting, but malicious and sinister to its very core. “I could smell your untainted scent from my room, before even descending the stairs.”

“Your e-eyes..” You gaped again as colours morphed in his eyes, red now swirling around in the pools of darkness, his words lost on you as you felt your fear rising due to the inhumane action.

“For an intellectual, bibliophilic girl, you sure are oblivious, sweetheart.” He scoffed, looking unimpressed at you, “Come on, prove to me you aren’t heedless like the rest, draw the conclusion." His eyes held yours, again altering into hues of different colours, seemingly mocking you now. 

You don’t know how the thought jumped into your head, maybe because the two holes on your neck stung suddenly or because the automatically opening doors entered your mind, the contemplation that his fangs appeared so realistic and authentic the more you stared at them paired with the blood on his collar, not just the fresh red stain of your plasma but also the burgundy stain present there, giving his lips the cherry red shade you admired hours ago on his arrival at the event.

“This is not a co-costume, no-” You inhaled a quick breath, “you are a vampire.” Your face paled in realisation while he smirked proudly, tapping your knee in a weird, twisted form of appreciation.

“Tremendous, my dear. But only half, you see. My mother was one, yes, but my father, he gave me an even better ability, he was an Incubus.” You shuddered as the words sunk in, your only worry being staying alive now, when your life was in the hands of this sex demon, having the greatest of powers and strength. Your mind did not spend any time mulling over the existence of supernatural beings, only dwelling on possible escapes now.

“That is why even your untouched body couldn’t help but react to my form and it is also the very reason, that I can read what goes on in your mind, all your memories, your hobbies, every book you’ve read, your precious sister, Emma isn’t it? So please, do not even think about fleeing if you don’t want your family to suffer.”

The threat loomed in the air, nasty sobs wracking your body as his thumb came to wipe the tears off. His hands started undoing the lace on the front of your bodice as you sniffled. Managing to quieten down just a bit, you begged, “Please don’t do this, I’ll have nowhere to go if my family found about me partaking in this unholy deed before marriage.” You had little hope about him seeing reason but there was optimism nonetheless. 

“Darling, do not fuss that I’ll leave you unhinged and deserted after finding pleasure in your body, you are to be mine now. Essentially, you already are.” His lips claimed yours again as the front of your dress slackened, bundling around your waist.

You pulled back, surprised at his promise, “You mean that?” He nodded, coming to kiss you again. You turned so that his lips met your neck, tongue licking the salt residue of tears there. “In what sense?”

“In every sense you could think of and more. I’ll give you everything, make you my queen, would you like that?” He mumbled in your neck, tongue now soothing the two punctured cavities residing there.

You could feel yourself crossing your legs involuntarily, trying to caress the abrupt yearning in your intimate part, your underclothes dousing with wetness somehow. Steve smirked in your neck, sitting upright and playing his trump card.

“I’ll marry you and we’ll rule together with the plenty of successors you’ll give me. Won’t that make your parents proud? Isn’t that what your parents taught you? Catch the King’s eye?” You meekly nodded, his charisma of an Incubus winning you over. “I’ll make your father The King’s Hand and send your mother the finest of jewels and gems, satins and silks.” He looked over at your submissive form, looking at him with the innocence of a toddler, swayed by his promises.

“I’ll let your sister have a grand wedding with the man she dears. All you have to do is surrender yourself to me and be my Queen, rule alongside me. So I ask, will you?” You cut him off, your lips pressing against his as you tried to mimic his earlier movements. He held your waist, surprised but pleasantly so, crushing the layers of the rolled top half of your dress underneath his hands. You had very little idea about what bedding someone meant but you had this primal urge to not have any skin of yours covered or untouched by him.

Steve shed his cape and threw every cloth on his torso away, almost as eager as you to get skin to skin contact. Your hands tangled in his hair as he lifted you up and sat you in his broad lap, not before sliding your dress all the way down. As he broke the kiss and took in your body, parts of you hidden under the smallclothes, he let out a growl that frightened yet excited you with another shiver down your spine. 

He made quick work of his bottoms, his cock standing and reaching his muscled chest almost and you gaped. Your sister, Emma had informed you of men’s parts being far much smaller than what you had just witnessed. His member stood erect and proud, glistening as he pumped it with his fist. His eyes drank in your surprise and trepidation, getting amused and turned on even more. 

You still laid stretched across the bed, legs straight ahead of you while your torso rested on your elbows, eyes wary of his every next movement.  He eyed your scantily clad body, gaze filled with lust and nothing more and climbed between your legs, one hand coming down on your waist while the other grabbed the back of your head and pulled you into a possessive kiss, robbing you of your breath. Your mind was slowly registering the reality of it all, this was going to happen no matter what. You were going to sin by engaging in fornication. But is it really wrong if your benevolent king demands that of you?

His hand sliding from your face to your bosom distracted you from your chain of thoughts. He slid the cups of your garment revealing your nipples and took one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it while his other pinched the abandoned one. You didn’t know if you should be more surprised at his actions or the rush of the feelings that ran through you.

He slowly released your nipple and trailed soft kisses down your stomach to your most intimate part yet, kissing it through the cloth there. His delicate touch was abruptly contrasted with him grabbing the fabric, tearing it into two and revealing you bare. 

You closed your legs out of instinct but his heavily muscled hand took them apart in a single push. He eyed you with a warning, to not obstruct him anyhow anymore.

“Let me taste that sweet nectar of yours, sweetheart. I really want to find out if it is as addictive as my senses picked it up, as sweet as the aura that surrounds you.”

And with that he dove into your pussy, his tongue roaming your wet cavern. Neither did you understand what he spoke of nor had you sister told you about the activity happening right now. But all you could do was focus on the astonishingly pleasant shivers running through you as you had an out of the body, more accurately an out of the world experience. You had no sense of the time that passed and how long you laid there clutching the silk sheets letting out mewls. But out of nowhere, something in you snapped and all your energy left you. 

As your blurry vision cleared and your eyes found his face, he licked his still glistening lips, his beard moist and wet but erotically so. He dove right into kiss again and you tasted your own sweet nectar for the first time ever. His hand roamed your body, grabbing your curves and caressing your soft flesh. 

One of his hands made its way down furthermore and spread your fluids along your folds, and then lined up himself along your hole. With a sudden push, you felt yourself being full like never before, and a sudden pain hit you as your face visibly flinched. Steve swallowed your grunts of pain with his kisses and started rubbing your bud above your linked bodies. 

The shudder that ran through you once again made you incapable of thinking, the ache slowly subsiding behind the pleasure you felt. When your moans filled the air, Steve kissed your collarbones and sucked leaving bruises there, and started thrusting again. As his movements became faster and consistent, and his callused hands rubbed you and pinched your intimate flesh, you ascended to another world. Each action of his introduced you to a new star in the wide galaxy. The same unknown descended upon you again as something snapped in your abdomen and you experienced pure bliss. 

“Going to make you the mother of my children, you will carry my seed and bring the Kingdom several heirs. This time I’ll succeed, you will be mine, my Queen in every sense.” His words made you clench around him and that was all it took for him to achieve ecstasy as well.

Your head lolled and your eyes met his sweating frame lying across the silk sheets as a sinister grin adorned his face again, “I need to fuck a successor into you tonight, you ready?”  

[gameofdrarry]

Wizards Hearts Recs: Veela Creature!Fic

Wizards Hearts was a four-month-long Drarry reading fest. Players were given a playing deck of 52 tropes, and were asked to find 52 different fics to read and comment on to fill their decks. To prevent the same few fics from being read, fics were restricted to only being used for the game three times before being considered ineligible for further points. The tropes and submissions list can be found here.

Check out the masterlist of fics for this trope below the cut!

📜 Taro Milk Tea with a side of Depression by VeelaWings Rated:  Mature Words:  1073 Tags: Pre-Slash, Screenplay/Script Format, Conversations, Veela Draco Malfoy, Werewolf Harry Potter, Guidance Counselors, in therapy, Depression, Self-Hatred, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Morbid Humor, Inappropriate Behavior from a Professional, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020 Summary:  Draco sat through twenty grievous minutes of Ministry-mandated group therapy for Newly Registered Magical Beings & Creatures — then promptly stormed out. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Feathers, Fire & Fate by agentmoppet Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  25983 Tags: Veela Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable Harry Potter, Peacock Keeper Draco Malfoy, unusual careers, Banter, Pining, Loneliness, Dreamscapes, Accidental Bonding, Cursed Bonding, Guilt, Soulmates, Drinking, Minor Injuries, H/D Erised 2020, Creature Fic, Cursed Harry Potter, Fate, Dreams, Peacocks, Animals, Animal Sanctuary, Repaying Debt, Veela Mates Summary:  Harry Potter ignites the Veela’s Curse and gets an unwitting Draco Malfoy bonded to him as his executioner… and soulmate. They’ll need to break it quickly, before it takes over, but Potter isn’t the only one running out of time. The sand in the hourglass has nearly fallen, and whichever way this ends, Draco is doomed. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Not Even Malfoys Wear Silk to Work by ringelchen Rated:  Explicit Words:  14026 Tags: Christmas, First Dates, Co-workers, Veela Draco Malfoy, Vampire Harry Potter, Veelas, Vampires, Creature Fic, Oblivious Harry Potter, Secrets, Misunderstandings, Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy Has Long Hair, Harry Potter Cooks, Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, Flirting, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary:  Harry invites Draco, his new boss who also happens to be a Veela, to spend Christmas Eve with him. It is supposed to be their first date and Harry wants it to be perfect. However, with him being a new vampire and not knowing a thing about Veelas, problems are bound to occur. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Soup-pocalypse and The Great Curry Cataclysm by SquadOfCats Rated:  Explicit Words:  104357 Tags: Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Teddy Lupin was Raised by Harry Potter, Parent Harry Potter, Depression, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Past Suicide Attempt, H/D Food Fair 2018, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Thinks Draco Malfoy is Up to Something, Draco Malfoy Cooks, Courtship, Food Issues, Romance, Pining Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary:  Eleven years after the war, Draco Malfoy leads a quiet, boring, and perfectly respectable life, thanks very much. Or, at least he does, until a sudden and very unexpected veela awakening causes him to throw soup all over Harry Potter in the middle of the Ministry cafeteria. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 There's You by epsilonargus Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  19254 Tags: Veela Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Post-Hogwarts, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Creature Fic, Winged Draco Malfoy, St Mungo's Hospital, Angel’s Trumpet Draught, Grimmauld Place, H/D Pottermore Fair 2015 Summary:  When Draco is attacked and turned into a Veela, he falls under the protection of Auror Harry Potter. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Today, Forever by PalenDrome (nerdherderette), PotterArt Rated:  Explicit Words:  60958 Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language, Voyeurism, Frottage, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rimming, Anal Sex, Auror Harry Potter, Veela Draco Malfoy, Winged Draco Malfoy, Veela Mates, Bonding, Soulmates, Enemies to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco Malfoy/OMC (brief), Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Case Fic, Minor Violence, Minor Character Death, Magical Theory, Magical Biology, Muggle and Wizarding Technology, Digital Art, Embedded Images, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, Community: harrydracobang Summary:  As if his recent divorce and sleepless nights weren’t bad enough, a rash of escalating crimes against purebloods forces Harry and his team of Aurors to protect the riskiest target in all of Wizarding Britain. Of course, Draco Malfoy would still be ridiculously infuriating and impossibly gorgeous. As well as a Veela. Who happens to be Harry’s mate. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 A Year's Temptation by Lomonaaeren Rated:  Mature Words:  118117 Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Veela, Angst, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Alternate Universe, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent Summary:  Draco isn't best pleased to discover he's a Veela at twenty-four...especially since both he and his mate, Harry Potter, are married. Harry suggests a compromise that might work, if everyone agrees. But the compromise is fragile, and stands the chance of only making everything monumentally worse than before. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 High Priced by dysonrules Rated:  Mature Words:  17094 Tags: Veela, EWE, Magical Creatures Summary:  Harry Potter discovers he has Veela blood, which requires him to have contact with his "mate" in the form of some sort of physical touching or else he will wither and die. Of course, his mate turns out to be someone extraordinarily unsuitable--Draco Malfoy, who is only too gleeful to finally have something that Harry Potter needs. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Animal Attraction by Tari_Sue Rated:  Explicit Words:  19334 Tags: Veela, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela (Harry Potter) Summary:  A hex gone wrong turns Draco from one of the world’s most despised wizards into the Ministry’s most desirable Veela. Now all he has to do is learn to control Veela Allure gone haywire, try to find a cure and avoid Harry Potter. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Glory Be by Lomonaaeren Rated:  Explicit Words:  32847 Tags: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Veela, Assassins & Hitmen, Veela Fest Summary:  Draco—Draco Malfoy, skilled assassin, powerful and wealthy Veela, former Death Eater—has always known what to do, where to go, who to kill. And then Harry Potter came along: Harry Potter, Unspeakable, former Auror, the most powerful wizard Draco has ever seen. And Draco catches a glimpse of glory he may be unable to live without. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 In The Hand by aideomai Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  28470 Tags: Multiverse, lots of harrys, a few more dracos, feat. - Freeform, Veela Draco Malfoy, Female Harry Potter, Female Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, (sorta) - Freeform, oh and a jazz singer Summary:  Two months after Harry went missing, when Hermione was frantic with fear and panic and sleep deprivation, Draco Malfoy cornered them outside the Great Hall before breakfast. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Nothing Stays the Same by isabelbarret Rated:  Explicit Words:  103022 Tags: Auror Harry Potter, Veela Draco Malfoy, Veela, Babysitter Draco Malfoy, Falling In Love, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Quidditch, Daily Prophet Summary:  When Luna leaves for a year for an internship in America Harry is in need of a new babysitter. That's where Draco Malfoy comes who is now a redeemed death eater, veela, and highly recommended nanny. Life only gets crazier for Harry when a new case comes to the Auror department and the Daily Prophet is printing everything that harry does. Life is never simple for Harry Potter. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Shine, Even in the Darkness by raitala Rated:  Explicit Words:  41159 Tags: Top Draco, Bottom Harry, Rimming, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, Sex Compulsion, Quidditch, Draco is still a prick, Facials, Frottage, Auror Harry, Veela Draco Summary:  Harry hasn’t seen Draco for over fifteen years, but now he’s showing up everywhere and Harry is sort of weirdly attracted to him, but that can’t be right? ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Gift of Life by dragontara Rated:  Explicit Words:  13658 Tags: Mpreg, Veela Draco, Bottom Harry, Top Draco, Protective!Draco, Difficult!Harry, Loyal!Hermione, Doting!Narcissa Summary:  Harry had always wanted a family of his own. Now, after a drunken one night stand, he was going to get it, but it'd be nice to remember with whom he was getting it. Also, having a baby with a Veela was a much bigger challenge for Harry than he'd have ever thought possible. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Veela-Ness by Quentin_threepwood Rated:  Mature Words:  12618 Tags: Mpreg, Mpreg Harry, Veela Draco Malfoy, Gay Summary:  When Harry is informed he's pregnant, he knows it shouldn't be possible. For one he was a bloke. But maybe Draco his sort of boyfriend, wasn't lying when mentioned he was a Veela... ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 My Name Was Safest in Your Mouth by alpha_exodus Rated:  Expicit Words:  46134 Tags: Post-Hogwarts, HP: EWE, Background Relationships, Background Slash, Background Femslash, Pining, Potioneer Draco Malfoy, Creature Fic, Veela Draco Malfoy, Mates, Veela Mates, Magical Theory, Major Illness, Dirty Talk, Masturbation, Virus, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Magical Biology, Friends With Benefits, Angst with a Happy Ending, Community: hd_erised, Alcohol Summary:  Harry didn’t ask for Malfoy to walk into his shop after so many years. But one event leads to another, and soon they’re scrambling to help Hermione find the solution to one of the most insidious viruses the wizarding world has ever seen. To make matters worse, Malfoy’s hiding something, and Harry really wants to kiss him—except Malfoy doesn’t date. Ever. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 body electric by lastontheboat Rated:  Mature Words:  8844 Tags: Wandmaker Harry Potter, Veela Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, draco has commitment issues, harry makes wands the muggle way, draco's magic is suddenly on the fritz, oh no what could be causing it, nothing a good lust-powered wand crafting session won't fix, Harry Potter Has Long Hair, Dirty Talk, woodworking is sexy and nothing will change my mind on this subject Summary:  “What could you possibly want?” Harry asks. "Would you believe I’m here for assistance with my wand?” Malfoy replies, still refusing to meet his eyes, and Harry snorts. “There are other wand makers,” he says tightly. “Unless you’ve slept with all of them as well.” ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Amaranthine by Bumping_Bees Rated:  Explicit Words:  10324 Tags: Veela Draco Malfoy, Mates, Romance, Soul Bond, Smut, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Light Angst, Happy Ending, Reimagining of the Deathly Hallows, The Princess Bride References, Mating Bond, Veela Mates, Facebook: Hermione's Nook, Rimming, Anal Sex, Wingfic Summary:  "Isn't that how stories are told? Fight the bad guy, be the hero, live happily ever after in love? After everything he had been through, some part of him really believed he would get a happy ending." Harry Potter never expected to become someone's mate. He never thought Draco Malfoy would love him back. He certainly never imagined that there was a path that would lead through the war to them both being alive. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 touch me, touch the sky by glittering_git Rated:  Explicit Words:  34458 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Auror Draco Malfoy, Veela Draco Malfoy, Magical Creatures Consultant Harry Potter, POV Draco Malfoy, Getting Together, Animagus, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Creature Discrimination, Mates, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Switching, Rimming, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Couch Sex, Trans Female Character, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Bars and Pubs, Drinking, Secrets, Background Femslash, Creature Fic, Unusual Career, wing fic, Tattoos, Wandless Magic, Sectumsempra Scars (Harry Potter), Allusions to Various Creature Attacks, Non-Graphic Violence, Committing Acts of Violence Under a Spell, Compulsion, Blood and Injury, Anxiety, Panic Attacks, Kidnapping, H/D Erised 2020 Summary:  Draco Malfoy has been an Auror for six years, but he’s never done anything more than push paper. When he and his new partner get called in on the biggest case the DMLE has worked in ages, Draco thinks his luck has finally changed. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Malfoy's Mate by maraudersaffair Rated:  Explicit Words:  2481 Tags: Veela Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Partners, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Injury, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Christmas Fluff Summary:  Draco and Harry are Auror partners. They share a desk and quills and apricot buns. Draco is a Veela and Harry is his mate, but Draco knows he would lose Harry if he ever told him. ❤️ Read on AO3

[mikeana]

Drunk Hawks Headcanons

Got inspired by @kidhawks’s adorable birthday bird art and ended up writing all of this.

So alcohol... obviously isn't good for birds. Alcohol is also not good for Hawkses, as Hawks is kind of a lightweight drinker. It doesn't take too much for him to get inebriated, and as a result, Hawks actively avoids drinking - especially when other people are around.

Despite not really drinking much, Hawks does have a small, but noteworthy collection of different bottles at his apartment - all gifts from others, mind you. He’s decided that he won’t open any of them up until he’s made his dream of “a world where heroes have more free time” a reality. Actually, he’s quite looking forward to it. He’ll finally be able to relax, not having to constantly keep his guard up...

When Hawks does get drunk however... he’s a mixed bag. He’s generally a loud and happy drunk (call it unconsciously rekindling his hurried youth, but he can act fairly childish when inebriated), but every now and then his loud stupor will be interrupted by moments of prolonged silence when he’ll start to disassociate. And, if he’s reminded from something of his past or anything else he really doesn’t want to think about, he’ll go completely mute, not talking to anyone until the subject is either changed or he ends up distracted enough to bring back happy stupid-mode drunk Hawks.

One thing Hawks has a really hard time with while drunk is keeping up any of his public facades (another reason why he avoids drinking in public). And so... he doesn’t. The alcohol strips any masks away, until all that’s left is for Hawks’ genuine self. Drunk Hawks is possibly the realist Hawks you can get. It also just might be the stupidest.

Hawks’ avian traits tends to go wild while he’s drunk. He’ll unconsciously act very birb-ish (head tilting when he’s confused, gesturing with his wings (which become extra expressive), occasionally focusing on random things with his Piercing Hawk Stare), etc.). His wings (which are generally all over the place) are in a permanent state of floof.

His wings. THEY CANNOT BE CONTAINED. When drunk, Hawks forgets just how big his wings are, and they’ll end up splayed across the floor (where people trip over them). Sometimes he’ll unconsciously flap them too while they’re all spread out-like (hitting others in the back of the head). If you’re drinking with him, expect feathers in your face... and in your drink.

For the record, Hawks’ telekinetic control over his feathers while drunk is shaky at best (in the sense that the feathers don’t want to go exactly where he tells them to / jeering off a little to the right or left - they’ll tend to move faster than he wants them to too). Just another reason he avoids drinking.

Do not let Hawks fly while drunk. Even if he insists it’s ok, or not that big of deal - don't. Just don’t. The little bird can’t fly straight to save his life.

If you’re getting him drunk to get classified information out of him... good luck. While Hawks doesn’t have much of a filter when drunk, any information that he knows he isn’t supposed to share? It’s as if it’s locked in his head. Obviously how loose his tongue is corresponds with his inebriation level, but even when completely wasted he won’t share anything he’s not supposed to. It’s not even that much of a conscious effort either - he’ll just slip into telling embarrassing stories about himself, or become distracted by something shiny in the background. Basically, he’ll do / give you anything except what you’re specifically asking for... to the point that trying to interrogate him while drunk causes more frustration than it’s worth.

Hawks’ First Time Drunk:

While he’d always been a little curious about alcohol - he remembered his parents really liked it a lot, and then the HPSC told him he shouldn’t drink, which of course meant to a teenage Hawks that he absolutely had to at some point - he could never actually go through with it (not even when he stole a super expensive bottle of sake from the HPSC President’s office at 17). Every time he’d put any sort of alcohol to his lips, he’d immediately put it down, the little voice of previous trainers warning him that he needed to keep a level head, and be aware at all times - and did he really want to be like his parents?

Hawks’ first (and only) time drunk was an accident. It happened at one of the first big hero galas he was invited to - just a few months after his debut (he was already making a pretty big name for himself). At 18 years old (everyone else was 20+) Hawks only had 2 goals - network, and raid the fancy buffet. Unfortunately during the event, someone who didn’t realize there was anyone underage in attendance offered him a colorful fruity drink which Hawks - not thinking much of it except for the fact that it was pretty tasty with an interesting flavor and cool kick - drank.

Thankfully, nothing too bad happened. He got pretty loud and chatty with some of the people he was trying to network with - there were a few heroes who snickered at the young blood who had obviously had a bit too much - but thankfully there was a Jeanist there who noticed his state, pieced together what happened, and took him home before he publicly made a fool of himself.

Best Jeanist explained everything to a very confused, but sober Hawks the next morning, whose memories were a little fuzzy. Consequently, that was the moment that any curiosity Hawks had in drinking was instantly crushed, as not being fully aware of what was happening terrified him in retrospect. As for Jeanist? He never brought up that incident again. It’s one thing Hawks is eternally grateful for.

He didn’t realize it until about a week later, but one of the heroes Hawks chatted to (albeit, only for like a few seconds until he walked away), was Endeavor. It was the first time he talked to Endeavor since his debut, and it happened while he was drunk. Hawks proceeded to die of retrospective embarrassment in that moment of realization. Endeavor, on the other hand, didn’t think much of the encounter. He was too busy trying to leave the event at the time and didn't consider Hawks again until the following spring’s Hero Billboard Chart, where he finally matched his face to the name of the 18 year old that somehow managed to break into the top 10.

Hawks didn’t drink again until his 20th birthday, when his sidekicks pressured him into drinking a single can of beer to celebrate. He’s had a couple more drinks since then while alone (he can count the number he’s had on one hand), but he always keeps it to one glass, if not half. Never enough to get drunk.

[springtimebat]

The Uneventful Life of Alan Walker

It was a bright summer day. Alan Walker was stepping out of his house to greet the rich morning sun, milk bottles chiming in his strong hands. Alan Walker is Little Patch of Heaven’s milkman. Its only milkman. The others vanished a long time ago, one by one. Except for Alan. Alan somehow got away with it. Alan’s also a Walker and anyone who knows anything knows that Walkers can’t be trusted. He’s the only Walker left. Sometimes that’s a problem but not today. Not during his rounds.

He makes his way around town, delivering and collecting milk bottles. He occasionally leaves newspapers too, on the streets closest to the newsagents. He stops on Portland Drive around noon to watch Angel Jones undress in front of her bedroom window. Sometimes he’ll climb the tree in her front yard to get a closer look. But on this particular day, her parents are home, so he just leaves her a pot of strawberry ice cream on the doorstep instead. 

At four, Alan stops his truck on the corner between LPH elementary and LPH high. He puts the ice cream banner up in the left side window and presses the stickers of ice pops and lollies onto the screen door. Then he talks to the children as they come out of school. Alan gets along better with children. They’re polite to him and they flatter his ego occasionally. He gives them ice cream because they want it. He enjoys their company. It reminds Alan of old times, playing with all his brothers in the mud, before they got told to stop and had all the grit scraped away from them. 

Sometimes he’ll dislike a kid that comes up to him. Maybe they’ll say something stupid or disgusting, make him uncomfortable. He’ll deal with them when the crowds fade away. Or a higher up will deal with them later. Either way, they won’t make Alan uncomfortable again. And they’ll have some story to tell their stupid friends the next morning. They’ll stay away. That’s good. 

Around five, Alan drives across town towards the Kendall Woods, directly below the Devil’s Thumb. He collects herbs from the water’s edge. Rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano. It all grows by the Black Spots’ banks. It goes nice with all the things Alan eats at dinnertime. As he leaves, Alan Walker will see the shadow man, watching him from behind an oak tree. 

His eyes will be glassy and his trenchcoat will be tattered. He’ll be angry, as usual. 

“Are you going to the Joneses again?” The shadow man will ask. 

“Yes I am,” Alan Walker will reply. He always does, no matter the weather. He won’t break his routine for anything. 

The shadow man will shake his head, “You’re a bad man Alan,”

“Am I?”

“A terrible man,”

“Is that so?”

“You’re split down the middle. Your brothers were too,”

“Oh really?”

“You were all too clean. Your brother’s got caught. They got punished for all the filth they spewed. You will too.”

“Someday?”

“Someday soon.” 

Then the shadow man will walk away, back towards the Kendall Woods. Alan will collect his herbs, throw them in the back of his truck and wipe the mud off of his boots. He’ll then drive back into town. Back to Portland Drive.

Three times out of seven Mister and Missus Jones will be home by six and Alan Walker will be invited in for dinner. Very welcoming couple, the Joneses. They have such interesting things to talk about. Mister Jones was an engineer at the power plant nearby just by Cowhorn and knew all sorts about the Devil’s Thumb caverns. Missus Jones knew all about fashion and elastic. She worked at a flower shop on Geek Street. They both liked Alan Walker. He was an interesting fellow and so polite whilst at the dining room table. Alan Walker liked the Joneses too. Still, he looked forward to the times Mister and Missus Jones were not home. Because, four times out of seven Angel Jones will be left all alone at the house when Alan calls around six. She’ll bring him into the kitchen and fix him a cup of tea. Afterwards, Alan will bend her over the counter and just make love to her for an hour or so. They’ll lie on the floor for a while after, Angel wrapped in Alan’s strong arms. Alan couldn’t always predict what she’d say. That’s why he loved her. Still, she’d always start a conversation with the same thing. 

“How’s your day been?”

“Fine,” He’d say, “Much better now.”

She’d smile and pull herself closer to his chest so she could listen to his heartbeat. 

“Do you love me?” She’d ask.

“I adore you,”Alan would reply. And he would mean it.

After that she’d giggle and they’d either have one last roll in the hay or she’d talk some more. By eight or so, he’d be told to pack up and go home. Angel would walk him to the front door and kiss him on the cheek as if the last few hours hadn’t happened. Then she’d wave him goodbye as Alan got into his truck. Then Alan Walker would start up and head home for the night.

Alan Walker’s house is grey and soulless. He doesn’t live there. He just sleeps and eats there when he needs to. People like Alan don’t need homes. They live wherever they can, appear wherever they’re needed. And at around nine, Alan was needed down in the basement. Because on this particular day, he has a guest. They’ve been down there for a  week, sleeping in the dark. Now it's time to wake them up.

The first splash only startles them. It’s the waterfall that cascades down their deformed skull that makes the creature open their eyes and splutter. The thing’s disgusting, bulbous eyes. Alan Walker stares at his guest, a bat in his hand. He waits for it to notice him, sitting on an old box. Finally, after what seems like hours, the guest twists its head towards its host, its ghastly, wrinkled skin making Alan wince. 

“Who are you?” Alan asked, his voice no higher than a whisper. 

The thing chained up in his basement groans, stretches and releases a hideous, piggy squeal. 

“Excuse me?” He is answered with the same actions, perhaps a little more strained than before, as the creature begins to cough in the dark. Alan sighs. This one is far less intelligent than the...things before it. That changes things quite a bit. 

The creature shivers in the cold and Alan can see black feather uncoil from its withered shoulders. Huh, wings. Who would have thought? Alan lifts himself from their waiting spot, swinging the old, oak bat in his left hand. The guest’s eyes narrow and stare at him, as if he’s realized what will happen. 

“I don’t know how the law works where you come from,” Alan begins, “But here, where I was born and raised, we have specific rules about trespassing... very, very specific rules.” 

The thing begins to frown. Good.

“Our law, our basic human rights, state that a man can defend his land from trespassers with any means necessary. Nod if you understand me,” The thing nods, “Now speak if you’re capable of speaking. It’s rude leaving someone to have a conversation with themself.”

The thing gurgles but can’t seem to form any words. Alan gives it a small smile. 

“Ah well that’s a shame. No use holding off the inevitable. Let me just go get the lights.” Alan Walker, the only milkman in town, strolls back towards the basement door and reaches out to flick the lights.

“I’ll give you a few moments to think.”

Light flashes in the abomination’s eyes for a brief moment. However, afterwards it can see just about everything. The blood staining the carpet, the boxes, the dresser. It sees the cracked mirror on the opposite wall. It sees the rusted saw and Alan’s retired baseball bats from his younger years on the old workbench; tired, worn, covered in guts. Most importantly, he sees his captor’s large collection of shrunken, severed heads; twisted and marked by pus, their eyes swollen, wide open and empty. That is when the creature seems to realise what is going to happen. When Alan approaches him again it makes no vile attempts to communicate. No, much to Alan’s surprise he holds his head up high, sticking his pointed chin into the stale, basement air. He dies, soon after, without a fight. Alan leaves clean up duty for later. 

And thus ends a day in the life of Alan Walker, last of his kind. Tomorrow he will do the same things, follow the same routine. And when he drifts off to sleep, Alan will dream of the same thing he dreams of every night. The Shadow man, in his rotten trench coat, his eyes like little suns.

“You’re a bad man Alan. A terrible one. All split down the middle. One day you’ll get caught. Everything will be at peace. Until that day, the loop will continue.”

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #29: Stormsong

Prompt: paternal | Master Post | On AO3

Well, this did not go where I thought it would, and certainly isn’t crack. But I think I like it?

Anyway, SPOILERS for The Sorrow of Werlyt through the quest “Sleep Now in Sapphire” as well as the Omega Raid story line.

--

A late summer storm had roared up the coast, driving the residents of Terncliff inside their homes and the Ironworks engineers and Resistance soldiers down into the magitek facility. Most were in their commandeered bunks—at least those not on patrol throughout the town—while waiting for the storm to pass, but for the engineers at least, there was still work to be done in the warmachina bay.

For a given definition of work.

Valdeaulin rolled his eyes as Cid Garlond and Synnove Greywolfe’s shouting echoed down the hangar. He couldn’t fathom the reason why Greywolfe was here, for all that she had taken it deeply personally that she hadn’t been involved in the G-Warrior’s development; something to do with the warmachina’s systems, perhaps, or the recovered pieces of the Sapphire Weapon, currently in one of the secondary bays. He could follow her ranting about aetheric principles to a degree, but the similarities between thaumaturgy and arcanima rapidly ran dry when the arcanist also dabbled heavily in engineering.

From his spot close to the exit out towards the bay, at least, the pounding rain and crash of thunder mostly drowned out the engineers’ row (Greywolfe was standing atop the G-Warrior’s shoulder, yelling down at Garlond as they both shook their fists and waved wrenches at one another for emphasis, the other Ironworks employees not reacting to them at all). If he closed his eyes, he could imagine for a moment that rain was falling on the stone roof of his home rather than sheet metal, that the cool wind blew in from the dark depths of the Twelveswood, that the voices he heard were those of his wife and daughter. But then something would crash in the hangar, and he would be drawn back to reality.

With an annoyed sigh, Valdeaulin opened his eyes and resumed his work on a map of the region surrounding Terncliff and heading towards Werlyt. He didn’t have to do it, but there was precious little else for him to do with the weather so foul and the hunt for Gaius’ wayward foster children and their Weapons project temporarily halted. And it would make the lives of the Resistance patrols easier, at least.

He was making notations on one copy about the local patterns of aether for any Resistance mages—eerily dead, but with the occasional strange spot he could sense of high activity that might be a natural golem, or a pocket of minor elementals—when he heard footsteps trotting towards his position. His ears twitched and he looked up, eyebrows going up despite his attempt to remain stoic.

His time with the Order of the Twin Adders had been relatively short—perhaps two years, if that—but Rereha Reha had been notorious well before she and her sisters-in-arms had stumbled into bearing the mantles of Warriors of Light. Valdeaulin hadn’t served in her unit, but he had seen the fallout of some of her “shenanigans,” both good and ill, and his commanding officer had spoken of her with fond exasperation. Like him, she was an outsider to the Twelveswood, but for some unfathomable reason, she had been permitted beneath its boughs by the Elementals to live and learn in Gridania.

She hadn’t changed much, appearance wise anyway, since that time he had last seen her before Operation Archon: devious, almost smarmy grin, pink hear dyed with streaks of white, skin astonishingly blemish free despite a career outdoors that he had once overheard a Gridanian noblewoman hiss over in a fit of jealousy and left him struggling to disguise his laughter as a cough. She still favored sky blue for anything that wasn’t a uniform, going by her leather coat, but her usual matching stockman hat with its jaunty feather was suspiciously missing.

And…was that a hatchling dragon in her arms?

When the lalafell came to a stop before him, he grudgingly said, “Lieutenant Reha.”

“Ooooh, that’s Captain Reha now, Sergeant,” Rereha said, just shy of cackling.

Valdeaulin nearly dropped his pen. “Dear good gods, why do they keep promoting you?” he said in disbelief.

“Mostly to make me someone else’s problem,” she chirped, easily hopping up onto a stack of crates next to him. The dragonet in her arms croaked reproachfully as it was jostled, but she merely patted it on the head and continued, “I think the plan is to get me high enough that it forces Grand Marshal Brookstone to retire already. I am also, apparently, quite good at getting the job done even if it means someone goes prematurely grey from shock, mortification, or both.”

“That sounds like a quote,” he said.

Rereha held a finger up to her lips in a ‘shush’ gesture, smirking, and waggled her eyebrows.

Valdeaulin shook his head and, to use one of Severa’s favorite phrases, decided to bite the bullet, gesturing to the dragonet. “And who’s your friend there?”

If he hadn’t once been the father of a precocious daughter (one who would be about the same age as this hedonist bard had she lived), he likely wouldn’t have noticed the very brief widening of Rereha’s eyes in the classic children’s expression of oh shite. But he did, and he kept his face studiously blank of anything except polite interest while the lalafell smiled bright and wide—too wide, just a hair—and said, “Oh, this little guy?”

She held the dragonet, a yalm long from nose to tail by his guess, up for inspection. He had black eyes, apparently all pupil, or perhaps his irises were true black, as well. His head was head was wedge-shaped, with fan-shaped protrusions on either side of his head of similar shape to his wings. The closer look showed that his scales were tiny; from a distance he had almost appeared smooth-skined. He was dark green, shading to a paler shade on his belly, and the undersides of his wings and ear fins, plus his extremities, were pink.

The dragonet was, quite frankly, adorable, despite the unsettlingly powerful glare. Something about his aether niggled at him, though; he could have sworn he had encountered it before, but that couldn’t be possible…

“I had heard you and the other Warriors of Light had brought peace between the Ishgardians and the Dravanians,” Valdeaulin drawled, “but I didn’t expect it had extended to babysitting.”

“Dragonets do what they want,” Rereha said with a sniff. “He usually stays in Anyx Trine, but occasionally he comes wandering to find us and beg for bacon jerky.”

The dragonet perked up at that word and he craned his neck and head back to chirp at Rereha imperiously.

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I got the goods.” She set the dragonet in her lap and slung her pack off her shoulder.

As Rereha rummaged around in her bag, Valdeaulin said mildly, “Does he have a name?”

“Hm? Oh! Yeah,” she said, popping her head up and triumphantly holding a wrapped packet. The dragonet began hopping impatiently, wings flaring, and Rereha shoved him out of the way, but he merely took that as an invitation to hop onto her head, lean over, and croak angrily in her face. She poked his nose and said to Valdeaulin, “He’s, ah, Deeh Sohm.”

His parental bullshite detector, as his Trisselle had called it, noticed the ever-so-slight hesitation, but as before, Valdeaulin didn’t comment on it. As hilarious as it would be to make Rereha Reha squirm, he assumed whatever it was that was causing her to react like someone with their hand in the biscuit jar, it some sort of Warrior of Light business.

Instead, he merely nodded, and went back to notating the map. Rereha, meanwhile, hurriedly unwrapped the waxed paper to reveal a pile of jerky and began breaking off pieces. For every piece she passed up to the impatient “Deeh Sohm,” she popped one into her own mouth, apparently as ravenous as her small companion. The jerky vanished completely into their stomachs in no time at all, and both dragonet and lalafell belched in satisfaction. A lick of blue flame accompanied the dragonet’s.

Valdeaulin did not comment, though he did briefly wonder if Lisie would have stayed as shamelessly irreverent had she grown up. The thought only hurt a little, this time.

Apparently now that snack time was over, it was time to sleep the food off: Rereha yawned once, laid down with her head pillowed on her back, and promptly passed out, in the manner of many soldiers and adventurers who learned to sleep whenever and wherever they could, with an inelegant snore. The dragonet, briefly dislodged from his perch atop her head, instead stomped down to her stomach, kneading it like a cat before he curled into a ball, wings tucked close.

Valdeaulin shifted just a bit on his own seat, shuffling back to make himself a better windbreak for the occasional stormy gust that howled into the hanger.

Suddenly, the dragonet’s aether signature…changed.

Valdeaulin very, very slowly raised his head, eyes wide. Before, the dragonet’s aether had felt dim, the faintest hum of a repeating tune of power, fitting for a creature that looked so young.

Now, though.

Now, it was a chorus of complex harmonies, of rhythms and tone and melodies that somehow blended into a coherent whole. It was heavy with the weight of antiquity, nearly crushing with how narrowly it was focused upon himself.

The dragonet stared at him, and now he would swear that fathomless, midnight gaze saw through him, right to the very heart of his being, weighing and judging and knowing. A loud, grumbling hmmmmmmm, almost two-toned with reverb, echoed in his mind.

Rereha snorted, though she didn’t wake entirely, and she patted the dragonet on the head. “Go t’ sleep, Dad,” she slurred.

Slowly, the ancient awareness folded itself away, bit by bit, until the dragonsong was muted once more to that simple cascade of notes of earlier. The dragonet blinked at him, yawned, and tucked his head under his wing to nap.

Valdeaulin stared at the pair for long moments, before resolutely returning to his work.

He did not want to know.

[anistarrose]

the years wore on, and changed my heart (The Owl House)

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/23366812

Summary: A Boiling Isles fairy tale about two sisters, a curse, and the demon king who did the cursing.

Characters: King, Eda Clawthorne, Lilith Clawthorne, Luz Noceda

Relationships: Eda Clawthorne & King, Eda Clawthorne & Lilith Clawthorne

you ever think of a theory so unlikely yet so sad that you feel the need to write a fic about it immediately? that's basically the origin story here. (title is from "East" by Sleeping at Last because boy oh boy does that song have some King vibes)

***

(This is the part of the tale that a few parents still tell their children, to scare them into behaving.)

Once upon a time, there lived two Witches. Two sisters, the same blood and same bile running through their hearts of stone. They loved each other, and protected each other, and even in their dreams of the future, they never left each other’s sides.

But the firey-orange-haired sister had a fierce and rebellious spirit, chafing against authority and conformity of any form. The dark-haired sister still loved her, of course, but love slowly turned to worry, and worry to fear — after all, there was no room in the Emperor’s Coven for someone who openly questioned the foundations of the coven system itself.

Once upon a time, there lived a mighty King of Demons. Fur as black as shadows, hypnotizing round eyes that shone like two twin moons, and a cold uncaring heart, drawn only to conquest and brutality.

But a King is no Emperor, and despite his might and his magic, he found himself ousted. To reclaim his usurped throne, he could not simply act alone — he needed an army of ferocious servants, loyal servants, powerful servants.

Once upon a time, the King spied a head of red hair questioning the Emperor’s authority. He donned a mask to approach her — a two-horned skull that fit neatly over his own head, concealing his royal identity — and invited her to meet him at a later date, for he believed they had many views about the Emperor in common.

The naive Witch accepted his offer, and agreed to meet him on the night of the next full moon. When she told her sister about the conversation, the dark-haired Witch begged her not to go — it’s a trap! There could be agents of the Emperor waiting for you! You could be arrested — and then how will we ever be able join the Emperor’s Coven together? Please, stay home! Don’t throw your life away!

The firey-haired witch was not swayed by her sister’s pleas, and when the night of the full moon came, she drugged her sister with an illicitly brewed potion and slipped out of their house unnoticed. The icy nighttime winds howled, as if they to were begging her to turn back, but she ventured onwards, through the forest and towards the lair of the deposed King.

The masked King cordially welcomed her inside, and invited her to sit down. He had a plan to overthrow the Emperor, he explained, but before he could trust anyone to join his rebellion, he needed to pose them a few questions:

Do you hate conforming? he asked. Do you hate the expectations this world has for you?

I do! the Witch replied. I always have! I knew you’d understand!

Would you like to be something original? he continued. Something unprecedented? Something fierce and powerful and chaotic that the world has never seen before, something that’ll shatter all their dumb expecations of what a witch or a demon should be?

Of course! the starry-eyed witch exclaimed. That’s everything I want to be!

The King smiled as he cast aside his mask, and the concentric circles within his eyes lit up one by one. Then thank you for enlisting.

Before the skull-mask even struck the rocky ground, one of its horns breaking upon impact, the curse had been cast. Like an extinguished flame, the Witch’s orange hair turned gray in the blink of an eye. Her teeth and nails sharpened into fangs and talons, while two wings sprouted from her back, and she let out a bloodcurdling scream so loud it woke her sister from her slumber back in town.

After she fled the cave, the cursed Witch’s sister found her first, and smuggled her to the house of a friend Potions track who could brew an elixir and slow the curse’s progression. But for a complete cure, they would need to beseech the Emperor’s Coven themselves for help — and the cursed Witch refused, for such was the fury that she held for the Emperor. She was too proud to let any coven brand her with their magic, even if she turned into a monster without their help — and turn into a monster she did, as the years passed by.

Some say the Owl Lady still dwells in the Boiling Isles even as her curse worsens, spreading dissent against the covens by day and feeding upon unsuspecting witches by night. Do not stay out to late, young Witchling, or she will steal you away and drink your blood.

Even more importantly, do not make trouble for your elders, or the deposed King will lure you away and curse you. Give thanks to your Emperor, for freeing us from that wretched demon’s reign of terror.

***

(This is the part of the tale that no one tells their children because the only two to ever know it were the Witch and the King, and they forgot it all as soon as it happened.)

Once upon a time, a King cast a spell, and once upon a time, a Witch fought back. As the Witch’s hair turned gray, so did the world surrounding her. As she was plunged into the void, she did not go quietly, and she dragged the King down with her.

Surrounded by darkness, the King still laughed. With each ripple of magic reflected in his eyes, the Witch transformed further, feathers bristling and fangs elongating, but the King paid little attention to the nails at his neck transforming into talons.

You’re my beast now! he roared. You’re going to help me regain my throne!

The Witch drew no circles in the air, but something dark and primal ran through her transforming heart — and with it, she tapped into the foundations of the cursing spell itself. It was a rare type of magic that she performed that day, fueled just as much by spite as it was by bile.

The King had cursed her with a spark of his demonic essence. Well, she was going to take it.

She was going to take everything he had, everything ferocious and bestial and intimidating about him. She was going to take everything except his orders.

You want to make me a demon?! she screamed. Fine! I’ll make you powerless!

The King realized, too late, what was happening. His body, made more of ichor and magic than of flesh, was losing its form, liquifying and reshaping within that blank gray void, and he screamed too as he lurched forward and his head collided with the head of the transforming Witch.

Upon impact, a bolt of pain split open two minds, and in an instant, the Witch and the King both forgot.

A mighty demon and a puny mortal walked into the deposed King’s lair that day, and a mighty demon and a puny mortal left it. Neither looked the same, nor remembered as much, as when they had entered.

The Owl Lady left first, scampering out of the cave on all fours and practically bounding into her terrified sister’s arms. She had clung to just enough of herself to hold it together, and restrain herself from lashing out at what by all means should have been her prey — but as the years passed by, her control would wane, and she would come to depend on higher and higher elixir doses to stay herself.

The deposed Demon King awakened more slowly, as the sun began to rise and turn fateful night to ordinary day. He felt tiny and out of place in this lair, dwarfed in stature by mere stalactites and startled by every shadow — but most of all, he felt confused.

What am I doing here? How did I get here?

As little as he remembered, he knew that something was wrong. He was more than this runt of a body, more than these cowardly instincts. He was important. He was a ruler. He was a King — so where were his offerings? Where was his might? Where were his powers?

He didn’t remember how, but he knew he had been humiliated. He couldn’t be seen like this, he couldn’t be recognized. He needed to hide —

Frantically pacing in tiny circles, he nearly tripped over a skull lying on the floor, one of its horns intact and the other broken. It would do nicely to hide his identity, he realized — and maybe, just maybe, strike terror in his enemies’ hearts.

For the second time in recent history and first time in recent memory, the King donned his mask. Then he set out into the surrounding forest, in search of answers and royal subjects that he would not find.

***

(This is the tale no one tells their children because it’s only just now happened, and no one knows how the story will end.)

Once upon a time, there lived two Witches, torn apart by a curse. They both thought themselves successful, and believed the other was throwing their life away. They still loved each other, of course, and would never wish grave harm upon each other — but oh, were they loath to admit it.

Once upon a time, there lived a puny, impish King. He loved dreaming of conquest, and of sacrifices made in his name, but most of all, he loved the gray-haired Witch who’d taken him in off the street. The Owl Lady was what they called her, and The Owl Lady and The Demon King had a wonderfully ominous ring to it, after all. They made a good team, especially once the Human arrived to complete their sinister triumvirate.

Sadly, the Witch was afflicted with a curse, and this upset the King and Human greatly. Though the King often spoke of ruling with a cold heart and iron fist, he hated seeing the Witch upset — and he’d never seen anything upset her more than her worsening curse, no matter how insistent she was that she was fine, and there was nothing to worry about.

When he took back his throne, the King decided, he would convene a royal panel of investigators to track down whoever did this to the Witch. Then he would throw them in the dungeon until they agreed to undo the curse, at which point he would allow them to do so, before throwing them back in an even darker, smellier dungeon for the rest of their natural life.

He decided as much within an hour of learning of the curse’s existence, and informed the Human of his plan very matter-of-factly. She patted him on the head, and told him he would make a great ruler one day — but the King was more perceptive than he seemed. He sensed the doubt in the Human’s voice, and the sadness in her eyes.

She didn’t think he could do it, and he wasn’t quite sure if he blamed her.

The King was weak, and he knew it. Even from beneath his grim mask, he could hardly inspire fear, much less inspire ferocious warriors to listen to him. He was in no position to command an army of demons.

But once upon a time, while plotting revenge against an usurper his equal in size, he made a discovery: the Witch, while only half-transformed, would obey his commands with no hesitation. Knowing not of the spell-gone-awry that had tied them together a lifetime ago, the King was surprised — but the surprise stirred familiar feelings.

Confidence. Determination. Vengeance.

The Owl Lady was the most powerful demon the King had ever met, and at first, he feared this development was too good to be true. But a ghost of a memory had already returned to haunt him, presenting itself not as a recollection, but as an idea too tempting to resist:

He would use her to take back his playground throne — a logical first step towards world domination. It would be over quickly, and the Witch wouldn’t be hurt — she didn’t seem unhappy in this cursed form, after all — and no one would be the wiser. He would do this just to prove that he could, to prove that he was still a natural-born leader. To prove that he wasn’t as weak or as puny as he looked.

But upon reaching the playground, the Witch once again did what she did best — she rebelled. The King’s vague memory had prepared him for this possibility, and he had half-consciously resolved not to make the same mistake twice, but he hadn’t expected the backup elixir to fail him. He hadn’t expected demon hunters.

Most of all, he hadn’t expected to do the unthinkable, and abdicate his newly reclaimed throne. But the King loved the Witch more than any throne or kingdom or offerings, and deep in his heart, he knew there was no other choice he could make.

He squealed with all the rage he could muster — far more than a demon his size should’ve been able to contain. It was anger with the person who’d cursed his Witch, and it was anger with himself, for using the Witch in his own selfish scheme… and against all odds, it worked. The Witch remembered — not the truth of the past, but the truth of the present.

The King was her friend. She didn’t want to hurt him.

Later that night, the Witch admitted to the King what she’d never admit to the Human — whether it was because she’d known him longer, or because he’d clearly already assumed as much, the King didn’t know. But, for whatever reason, the Witch admitted that her elixirs weren’t working anymore, and as she spoke, her confident facade cracked and split open like the King had never seen before.

He hugged her. He didn’t know what else to do. How could he feel so helpless, so powerless, yet so guilty?

She hugged him back, cradling him in her arms and tucking him just beneath her chin, but even that felt just wrong and undeserved. He’d schemed, and manipulated, and hurt his dearest friend — and if this was what it took to be the King of Demons, then he wasn’t even sure what he wanted to be, anymore.

He told her, an admission for an admission. How he’d discovered that she would listen to his orders. How he’d been so power-hungry, and desperate for the reclaiming of his playground throne, that he’d used her. How inexcusable the whole affair had been.

I’m sorry, Eda, he sobbed. I’m so, so sorry —

I know, King, the Witch murmured, running her fingers through the fur on his back. That’s why I forgive you.

[qvill-s]

Could I request Dimitri thinking he's going to lose his wounded f!s/o but then it's all okay in the end?? Cause your last one about the dream made me cry 😭

NOTES: you cried? good of course you can bb !!! i don’t mind getting a lot of requests for him bc i, too, love him immensely…

this is a bit (read: a lot) time skippy, so let me know if i need to distinguish the parts more !!!

WARNINGS: blood (but not too descriptive); wounds / injuries; typical wartime stuff

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

dimitri + a fatally wounded s/o right under the cut !!!

His first memories of you start with your mother’s voice uttering the words, “You are to be wed once you’re older.”

The two of you were about this high when you found out, hovering just a few inches below your mothers’ waists. Dimitri, at the tender age of seven, was unphased by the news. Political marriages were, of course, unavoidable, and though they locked any hope for a romantic future out of the picture, they were necessary.

You, however, ever the dreamer, were devastated by the news. From where you hid behind your mother’s skirts, he saw the first glimmer of tears well up in your eyes. At your ill-contained sniffle, your mother turned to admonish you, telling you to accept the fact that you were stuck in an uncompromising fate so helplessly entwined with his.

“It’s for the good of the people,” your mother scolded gently as you clung to her skirts, the tears finally spilling over your cheeks as you cried harder. In the face of your wobbly lip and white-knuckled hands and wet cheeks, he decided that he didn’t like fragile things.

Especially if they were fragile little things that cried over the unavoidable.

❛ ━━━━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

He expresses his distaste for you in the smallest ways. 

He ‘accidentally’ excludes you from the games he, Sylvain, Felix, and Ingrid play under the guise of forgetting to invite you. He politely declines any and all of your invitations to come play with his studies as his primary excuse to not go. He engages you in dry conversation when the two of you are forced to spend time together and the parents are watching, but once they leave he ignores you and goes back to doing his own thing.

Subtle gestures, inconspicuous cues to let you know that your sudden change of heart towards your engagement won’t change his.

You don’t seem to get the hint until the aftermath of the incident sees him housed in your estate. 

Your guest bedroom isn’t any less lavishly decorated than his own room, but for some reason, it’s homeliness feels little more than a fraud. The mountain of pillows pressed against the headboard looks smothering. The cushion he sits upon and the covers on the bed aren’t as soft as his own window seat. Your house colors pop up everywhere, it’s incessant presence is overwhelming, reminding him that he isn’t home, he isn’t home, he isn’t home—

Suddenly (as if everything wasn’t enough), he hears your own distinctive knock at the door. He fights the groan that threatens to escape his lips.

“Dimitri?” You call through the door, “Are you okay?”

Stupid question, he counters silently, eyeing a bluebird that chirps happily on the windowsill. Of course he isn’t okay.

“I’ve— I’ve got cookies and pastries and… and things. Mother says that you’ll need to eat soon.”

There is a beat of silence, before you try again with, “Dimitri? P-Please talk to me, it’s… Mother says it’s not good to keep everything to yourself.”

He doesn’t answer, observing instead the life that bustles in your backyard. He almost hates how clean and white your servants are dressed, how cheery and bright your gardens look, how your estate doesn’t reflect the massacre his own house had been subjected to.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and for the first time in that exchange, sound escapes him in the form of a small scoff. It’s a phrase he’s heard a thousand times over the course of two days—I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry that you had to go through such a thing at such a young age, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—and frankly, he’s quite tired of it. Too many people apologizing for what had happened as if it was through their own fault that his family died.

“I’ll… I’ll leave you alone.” Your voice sounds small, defeated, and he hears it clearly even across the distance that separates the two of you. Briefly, he entertains the idea that your apology isn’t like the ones he’s heard, but then your footsteps recede down the carpeted hallway, and that thought flies away on the wings of the bluebird on the sill.

❛ ━━━━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜ 

You keep to your word.

You interact with him only when you need to, and in the face of your parents, you give him wide smiles and practiced words, expressing how happy you are to be in an engagement such as this.

When the two of you are sent to the Monastery, the divide between the two of your grows ever wider. He doesn’t hear his name come from your lips, doesn’t hear the way it curls around the syllables of his name, because you take to addressing him as your highness and my lord. You grace him with nothing more than polite smiles and gestures, and Dimitri finds that he misses the expressiveness of your youth.

He thinks that the way you treat him is no different from the other students at the Academy, until one day he chances upon you and Ashe out in the courtyard, locked in an animated conversation about a shared book in your repertoire of reading. He chances upon you covering your mouth with a hand as you laugh, the gentle touch you land on his shoulder, and the way your eyes gleam with a smile he hasn’t seen for years. He chances upon you catching his startled eye, the way your smile melts into something more guarded, and the courteous nod you send in acknowledgement.

It leaves him feeling strangely empty.

After that incident, he notices how your behavior towards him alienates him as nothing more than acquaintance with the rapidity of one noticing a dark stain against a white cloth. He notices how willingly, how eagerly you spend time with people other than him. He finds you cooking and baking with Mercedes and Annette, speaking of trade with Ignatz and Ingrid, gossiping over tea with Dorothea, and even caught an exchange of playful banter between you and Sylvain.

It takes him a while to realize that the empty feeling in his chest, the ache that hovers right over where his heart should be, is hurt. It hurts him, he realizes dimly, it hurts him to see that you are close to Sylvain, to Ashe, to everyone else except him.

It takes a lot longer for him to convince himself that he doesn’t mind—that he shouldn’t mind—because the two of you never liked each other anyway.

(Right?)

❛ ━━━━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

Dimitri takes to the battlefield with an ease he doesn’t think he should have.

Now that five years have came and went, it’s much easier to give into his demons and the voices he hears in his head. It’s much easier to listen to their cries for revenge, to let his muscle memory and reflexes kick in and do the work for him.

He leads the charge, taking a backseat to his actions, watching impassively from the room behind his eyes. He ignores the sound of their screams and the squelch of his lance going through flesh, counting instead the graves he’s piled up behind him, hoping against hope that the number might one day satisfy the people who have died in his stead.

He doesn’t notice you until he hears the faint sound of your gasp behind him—a miracle in itself, because it’s difficult for him to escape the tunnel vision his bloodlust creates until the battle is done—and he turns to find a sword buried into your stomach. Your assailant dislodges his sword from your body with a grunt, and you fall to your knees with a whimper, clutching at your wound with both hands, your own weapon forgotten in the dirt beside you.

His heart lurches in his chest, and for a few moments, he is filled with a rage so blinding he doesn’t know what happens between that moment and the next. All he sees is a flash of red, and suddenly he’s cradling you in his arms and into his chest, calling for the nearest healer.

“Hold on,” he tells you, applying pressure to the bloody gash on your abdomen as he runs through all the possible ways this could’ve been avoided. The small part of him that shudders in the wake of his actions, the conscience that haunts him in his dreams, is appalled that you were hurt because of him, because of his carelessness, and his mouth quirks downward into a frown.

You mirror his expression, and the motion moves slowly across your features.

“You’re s-supposed to be happy,” you whisper, reaching a shaky hand up to his cheek. You run a thumb across the corner of his mouth, a feather-light touch that strangely leaves him wanting more, “Y-You should be smiling… Now”—you cough, and his panic rises a little higher, because he can see the blood that coats your teeth—“Now, you d-don’t have to marry me a-anymore…”

“Save your breath,” he admonishes harshly, getting more and more agitated by the second. (How long does it take for Mercedes to walk?) Your name leaves his lips in a panicked rush of breath,“You’re going to live.”

“—s-shouldn’t,” is what he catches from your slurred words, and it’s the last thing he hears from you for a while.

❛ ━━━━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫･━━━━━━━━━ ❜

He paces in the hallway outside of the infirmary as questions present themselves one after the other in his head.

What did you mean? What did you mean by he was supposed to be happy? Did you think he wanted you dead just to get out of your engagement? Is that why you threw yourself so foolishly into the path of the blade meant for him?

He paces and paces and paces, wearing down the stone floor of the hallway, your words echoing his footsteps, until at long last, Mercedes and her band of clerics call him in to discuss your condition. They tell him that the sword struck deep, that some of the deep and dark red of your lifeblood managed to spill out, that it’ll take a while for you to recover.

“You can stay if you wish, Dimitri,” Mercedes invites him kindly, pulling up a chair beside your bed before ushering everyone else out of the room to give you two your privacy.

When he sees you, you are as pale as the sheets you lie on, and when he takes your hand in his, it feels colder than it should be.

His fingers find the pulse on your wrist, pressing down until he feels it beat, albeit weakly, against the tip of his forefinger. He sighs heavily, a sound of tired relief, as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the muscle of your thumb, hoping to bring warmth back into your chilled skin. Your fingers twitch against his little one, and when he looks up at your face, you’re staring at him through drowsy, hooded eyes.

“D-Dimitri…?” You manage, weakly, your voice nothing more than a thin whisper in the stale wind of the infirmary. It’s the first time he’s heard his name from you in years, and he finds that it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

When he shakes himself out of his state of wonder, he remembers Mercedes’ words and helps you take a sip from the water by your bed, your hand clenched tightly around his all the while.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he tells you once you’ve settled back in. His face twists into another grimace. His gaze feels drawn to your stomach, to the place his negligence had hurt you, hidden underneath the covers of your temporary bed. He feels the weak pressure of your fingers closing tighter around his, and it’s the closest the two of you have ever been since you met.

“You’d… you’d be h-hurt,” you tell him, your fatigue seemingly making you more honest than usual, “D-Don’t want that… for you… Couldn’t b-bear to— to see it.”

Your words give him pause.

You— you cared…? All this time, were you—

And then, it hits him.

You’ve only distanced yourself from him because he’s given you reason to believe he didn’t want you. He is, and always has been, the culprit, the mastermind behind your separation, and he feels a pang of guilt knock against his heart.

He wonders when exactly it was that you came to love him as dearly as you have, to love him and wish for his happiness enough to disregard your future for the sake of his own. He wonders how long you were looking for such an opportunity, for a chance to release him from a fate he told you time and time again he detested. 

He can’t help but feel disgusted with himself and his actions, because he let you suffer in silence, because he encouraged your sadness and let it fester, because somewhere along the line, he fell in love with you too.

He has a million regrets, but his biggest one is that you had to receive a mortal wound to get the truth through his thick skull.

“Sleep,” he commands you gently, smoothing a palm over your hair with the lightest touch he can manage.

“Will— will you—?”

“Yes. I’ll be here.”

Satisfied with his promise, you give up the fight against your fluttering lashes, resting them against your cheek as your breaths slow to the steady ones of sleep.

When you wake, he decides, he will tell you the truth.

[misdre]

Aoki Takao website translations post #2

the second part, aoki’s notes about characters from the first season. he really doesn’t say all that much though. i skipped all the beasts that only had pictures of them (which was almost all of them), that’s why there are a few random beasts between the human characters in the text.

Anime 2001 [season 1]: Page 1

In summer 2000, there was a meeting for discussing a TV anime (starting from January 2001). The CoroCoro serialization was in the middle of the Japanese tournament. All four holy beasts had made an appearance at that point, but the planned world tournament arc was made into the main storyline of the anime.

Originally I planned that nobody but the main four had holy beasts, but because of the anime and the variety of real Beyblade toys increasing, it became so that rival bladers also had holy beasts.

I had very little time to create all the characters for the anime that would run for a year and had never done that before, so it was a real struggle. But looking back now, it was really stimulating and I consider it a valuable personal experience that I’m thankful for.

 “The Russian team”

In the original manga, and of course in the anime as well, the greatest rival needed to be very charismatic and therefore Yuriy was created.

“Yuriy Ivanov”

He’s the leader of “Borg”. The team has an army-like composition. His holy beast is a wolf.

For the CoroCoro serialization I drew him to display his strength as a cruel and cold character, but for RISING I also portrayed him with more human-like weaknesses and kindness that I didn’t get to draw earlier. By the way, for some reason his surname is spelled as “ivaanofu” everywhere except the original manga and I have no idea why it was changed. [he spells it “ivanoofu” himself in katakana. it really is pronounced ivaanofu in the anime too] The anime’s production method is very different from the manga, so perhaps it’s fine having several names.

December 22 2018 postscript: I later noticed that RISING volume 1 also misspells it as “ivaanofu”. The correct spelling is “ivanoofu”. [damn he’s really committed to how it should be spelled]

“Wolborg”

I pictured a land of extreme cold and gave it wings and ornaments of ice.

“Boris”

The subleader. He admires Yuriy. His holy beast is a falcon. I was thinking of the feathers of a bird while designing his hair and the collar of his clothes.

“Ivan”

A sarcastic sniper. He’s often picking fights, but he’s loyal to Yuriy. His holy beast is a snake.

“Sergei”

A soldier-like character with great respect for rules. He’s a muscular guy with a soft heart. His holy beast is a whale.

“Volkov”

He’s the founder of Borg, the private military school. He uses his connections from military times to send out illegal soldiers. Beyblade is part of his program of training young boys into soldiers.

When I look back now, it’s like the team composition of Borg (the way the characters are isolated) became the model for the rest of the teams as well.

 “The Chinese team”

The team of the Chinese fang clan (named Byakko clan in the anime) from Rei’s home town. The holy beasts and characters both were modeled after wild animals. In the village of the fang clan, sage Tao teaches scholarship, martial arts and bey battling to children from the near-by cities and communities who have been separated from their parents.

“Rai”

Rei’s childhood friend and eternal rival. The team leader. He’s like a reliable older brother. His holy beast is a black lion, so I also designed him with the image of a lion in mind. His name is the “rai” of “raion” [lion in katakana in Japanese].

“Mao”

Rai’s younger sister. A tomboy. Her name comes from the Chinese word for cat. Her holy beast is a lynx.

“Kiki”

A cheerful rascal. His holy beast is a monkey. His name comes from the sound that monkeys make.

“Galman”

I referenced a Chinese opera version of Sun Wukong for the ornaments.

“Gaou”

A gentle muscleman. His name comes from a bear’s roar. His holy beast is a bear.

  Anime 2001 [season 1]: Page 2

”The American Team”

The theme of the team is sports. I chose animals that live in North America as their holy beasts.

“Michael”

The team leader. He’s a baseball player. He’s a sportsman-like nice guy. I had several ideas for very elaborate gimmicks that he could shoot his beyblade with. The above sketch is an old one, so I ended up using a different one in the manga. His holy beast is the national bird of the US, the bald eagle.

“Eddy”

A basketball player. His holy beast is a scorpion.

“Steve”

An American football player. His holy beast is a bull.

“Bison”

Instead of an American bison, I used a bullfighting bull as the model.

“Emily”

Her position in the American team is similar to that of Kyouju’s. Her sport is tennis. Her holy beast is an alligator.

“Judy”

She’s American. She married the Japanese Mizuhara Tarou and had her eldest son Max with him. [that sounds like max has brothers but it prob just means ‘first child’ here] She was invited to a project team in NASA after the evaluation of a thesis she wrote while enrolled in MIT. [massachusetts institute of technology…. damn] She left her husband and Max in Japan and took up the new post away from home. She was inaugurated as the coach of a blader team formatted on a science camp organized by NASA. The rest is the same as the setting back then. She’s now living in Japan with her family after the birth of her eldest daughter Charlotte. [IS THERE GOING TO BE MORE???]

 “The European team”

A selection team representing several European countries. They were named after F1 racing drivers who were active at the time. (Germany) Ralf Schumacher, (UK) Johnny Herbert, (France) Olivier Panis, (Italy) Giancarlo Fisichella. *Their outwards appearances, personalities etc. are not based on them, only their names. Their surnames were influenced by well-known movie actors and directors from each country. I wanted each character to represent the special characteristics of his country. Their holy beasts are creatures from European folklore.

“Ralf Jürgens”

A German. He’s a stubborn person who honors tradition. I designed his outfit after bike wear. His holy beast is a griffon.

“Johnny McGregor”

An Englishman. He’s very strong-willed and has confidence in himself. I had rock style fashion in mind when making him. His holy beast is a salamander.

“Olivier Pohringer” [spelling of his surname is not up for debate FYI]

A Frenchman. He loves trendy things. I gave him a unique fashion sense. His holy beast is a unicorn.

“Giancarlo Tornatore”

A cheerful Italian. His holy beast is an amphisbaena.

[lunatunacat-14]

A little warning, you will see the aftermath of someone who got buried alive, so if that'll set of any triggers then you probably shouldn't read this.

●●●

Chapter 2: Buried alive?

After Inks death, everything seemed to fall apart in the Multiverse. Literally. Most copys fell due to his death, without the Protector the balance had broken. So only the Originals had made it. Though only physically, they mentally could not take his death. Most people from the Originals were friends of the Protector. So it hurt them, but not as much as it did the Destroyer. As he was called. Though family and friends call him Error. He didn't recover from his loved ones death. He couldn't. Ink was everything to him. But he couldn't die, he had a son to take care of. Eventhough he could barely take care of himself.

Now time has passed and our Immortal beings had aged 100 years from Inks death. Most people had forgotten him. His name. His looks. His personality. All that was left of him was his status, as the Protector. Thankfully close friends and family still remembered him, and by now had accepted his death. Well besides Error.

Error cryed quietly holding a drawing of himself and Ink, they were both holding their son. Paperjam. He was a newborn at the time, but damn was he a cryer. The two didn't get sleep for months. Error giggled slightly, remembering that sweet memory. How funny it was now, but how sad as well.

"Dad?" Error looked up at his son, who had opened the door. Though he could not reply.

Paperjam smiled and crawled into bed with his father, looking at the drawing as well.

"It's about mom, right?" He questioned, looking up at his parent. Error nodded, hugging his son.

"Yes, yes it is" he said, his voice breaking slightly. Paperjam rubbed his father's back, soothing circles. He doesn't remember much about his mother, only what people were willing to tell him. He had tried once to get information from his father, but he only broke down in tears. A sight he had never seen before, but now it seems normal.

"Paperjam?" He looked at his father, notifying him that he was listening.

"D-do you want to see his grave?" Paperjam seemed stunned, his father never invited him to his mother's grave. So he accepted the offer graciously.

It was cold as the two gods stood above the grave. Pure silence, until the sounds of sobbing came from them. He couldn't believe it. This was as close as he ever been to his mother's grave. He Kneeled down, as the tears slipped down his face and onto the dirt above the grave. This is where his mother is resting for all eternity.

"Ma I-" the tears didn't stop and it hurt so much. Is this what his father felt for so many years? This pain?

"M-ma I wish I could, I could-" soon the dirt would have turned into mud from all the tears.

"Ma if you're listening, I just want you to know that. I wish I could see you again, I wish we all could see you" at his final words he stood up and he and his father left. Maybe someday they shall return. But when they do, they will not find what they are looking for.

___

A sudden gasp was heard, then the sound of banging against wood. No one heard it, well except the one doing it. The banging continued, then screaming following it.

This cycle continued on for awhile before the wood broke and dirt piled in. The screaming being forced to a stop as tears fell down their face. Everything hurts so badly, they thought. But they continued, scratching at the dirt and rocks. Trying to Escape this twisted fate. As the dirt and rocks fell into their eye sockets, pain being the only thing they felt at the moment. As they continued to claw at the dirt above them in Desperate panic to get out. It didn't take long before they saw the moon shining down on them. Upon see it caused them to scratch at the surface, to get out. They reached their arm over the opening and pulled themselves out of their burial. Dragging their body out of the Cemetery. Finally falling down on the road. Blood mixed with dirt, along with feathers from the wings that they have. They gagged, as the blood and dirt poured from their mouth. Such a disgusting sight. It hurt so badly, why does it hurt? What happened? Why was I trapped? Did I do something? Who am I? Those were all questions going through their head. As they scratched on the stone floor, reassuring them that they were no longer trapped. They are free now. He was free now.

A sudden sound of growling came from down the road, coming straight for him. It didn't seem to see him. Considering he was on the floor, he tried to drag himself out of the way but he was too weak. He had used all his energy to get here and now he just had to sit there, and wait for his end once again. He closed his eyes waiting for the incoming hit. But it never happened, instead he heard the sound of something crashing into something. He snapped his eyes open to see why he had lived. In front of him was a skeleton. He wore a long fluffy robe, colored purple and blue. With a black crop top underneath with a blue heart in the middle, black jeans with blue boots. His face looked like a normal skeletons but his eye lights were a purple shaped heart. The skeleton looked at him with a concerned look.

"Are you- oh my god!" The skeleton covered their mouth fully seeing the condition the other was in. It was horrifying. They immediately pull out a box and called a number, panic in their voice as they did so.

They kneeled down next to our winged skeleton and asked him questions he didn't understand.

"Okay how about your name?" They questioned.

He looked down at the stone floor, his name? What was his name? Out of pure luck, he happened to look at the torn up scarf around his neck. Then s he read what it had said.

"My name is Ink."

●●●

I hope you all enjoyed that, and again I will do more if you all like it enough. So this doesn't have to be the ending.

[tendertenebrosity]

Torin, awake

Sequel to here and here, and here!

Torin, who had been teetering forward at an increasingly precarious angle, slipped over to one side and awoke with a start.

“Hey,” Bertram said, from his seat in the lone armchair. He lifted a mug of hot cocoa. “Yours is over by the fire. Unless you want to go back to sleep in a real bed.”

Torin rubbed at his eyes and looked around, wincing and rubbing at his shoulderblades. “Oh. Thanks.”

He rearranged his legs and tail until he was sitting cross-legged, took a deep draught from the mug, and sighed contently. “Where, um, where are we, professor?”

“I’ve commandeered one of the university’s rooms,” Bertram said. “We’ll head back home in the morning.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the room filled with the sound of the crackling fire and the occasional low rumble of thunder from outside.

Bertram cleared his throat. “Torin,” he said carefully, looking down into his cocoa. “Did… did somebody cut your wings? Before?”

Torin hunched his wings and his shoulders, looking embarrassed. His feathers were fluffed up and standing every which way. “Oh,” he said. His gaze dropped. “Sorry… about that. Don’t worry about it, professor. Being stupid. I wasn’t...” He scrubbed an awkward hand over his face.

“Okay,” Bertram said quickly. “You don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay, if you don’t want to.” His fingers fidgeted around the cup. “I just… you need to know that I would never, ever do that.”

Torin nodded, his face fixed on the fire. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “I… I didn’t… really think you would.”

“Right,” Bertram said uneasily. “Good. Great.”

They both sank into silence again, staring into the fire, Torin from the floor and Bertram from the armchair.

This time, it was Torin who cleared his throat, and turned around to look at Bertram. “Could… um… could you help me preen before I go back to sleep?” he asked. A bright little smile flashed across his face. “I feel so much better, being clean and dry, but – I sort of feel like I’ve been dragged through a couple of hedges backwards?”

Bertram eyed his feathers, puffed out and sticking out all over the place, quite unlike his usual sleek shine. The smooth sharp edges of his primaries were broken up.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said, matching Torin’s bantering tone, and was rewarded with another little smile. “Of course I’ll help.”

Torin hadn’t asked Bertram to do this very often. He felt… oddly privileged to be asked. And at the same time, faintly anxious and guilty.

Unlike bathing, Torin could do this himself, he didn’t need to ask Bertram to do it, but he was anyway. More than once, Bertram had wondered what he would need to do to win Torin’s trust. This was a gesture in that direction… but given that it was his fault Torin had gotten lost in the storm in the first place, Bertram was beginning to doubt if he’d earned it.

He put aside the dregs of his cocoa and slipped down off the chair, to sit on the floor in his borrowed, much-too-large clothing.

Gently he ran his fingers through the contour feathers putting the worst of the misaligned ones back into place. They were warm from the fire, dry and soft under his fingers, and he knew a moment of the same absolute, dizzying wonder that he had felt when he had seen Torin for the very first time, in the lobby of his lodging-place in Eastport. Breathless at the thought that such a miraculous creature could exist, could be here, could be touched by him.

Now, with his recent scare and the guilt still clinging to him, Bertram thought uneasily that Torin wouldn’t have liked it, if he knew Bertram’s thoughts. He probably hadn’t liked it even then, he realised.

“I’ll start here,” he offered, trying to break out of his moody thoughts. Focus. He asked for your help. Don’t start again.

“Mmm,” Torin agreed, fingers already working through his other wing.

They sat, Bertram’s brown head and Torin’s particoloured one both bent over their work.

Bertram sat back after a while, stretching his linked hands high over his head to ease his cramped back. He poured them both another cup of cocoa from the jug keeping warm by the fire.

“Darius did it,” Torin said, abruptly, but his voice very soft. “Because I flew away.”

It took Bertram a moment to figure out the connection, to realise that Torin was answering his question from earlier. He froze, the jug and cup in his hands, and then put them down slowly. “I see,” he said. “Because… you flew away.”

“Yeah. It took, um. Eight months for them to grow back.”

Bertram thought about that. Thought about Torin’s joy in flight, how he would vault over stair bannisters and leap up into the sky as easily as another young man might break into a run or boost himself over an obstacle with one hand. If one were used to flight, he thought, surely being deprived of it would be like… like having your legs hobbled? For eight months?

“That was cruel,” he said.

Torin glanced at him. “You think so?” he said, his voice low. “They didn’t. Either of them.”

“Sorry… either?”

“Darius and Alissa. You met her, once – she sold me to you.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Bertram had thought – the girl had said Torin was her friend. He’d thought Torin liked her? Wasn’t that the whole premise? He furrowed his brow. “I… wouldn’t have thought that of her,” he said slowly. “They shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m sorry.”

Torin shifted, seeming a little agitated. Bertram didn’t try to move closer and restart preening.

“Well, it made a lot of sense. From their perspective. Can’t have your property escaping, right?” He looked over and met Bertram’s eyes, his mouth twisting bitterly. “Don’t you think so?”

Bertram sucked a breath in between his teeth, suddenly feeling as though he was trying to make his way through quicksand.

Torin did this sometimes – like he was trying to press Bertram into saying or doing something harsh. Like the winged boy was certain that eventually Bertram would reach the limits of his patience and start acting like this Darius – God, Bertram was starting to despise the man - and he kept probing to try and find out where those limits were.

“No, Torin,” he said. “I don’t. I think it was wrong, and cruel.”

Torin shrugged moodily. “Maybe because you people don’t have any wings, they thought it shouldn’t be such a big deal to lose them. I could still walk, right? And, hey, it was only feathers, they grew back. So, no harm done.”

“I…” Bertram winced. “I... don’t know if I fully understand,” he admitted. He felt like he was trying to find a safe place to place his next footstep. “But you only have to listen to you to see that there was harm done.”

Torin sighed. His shoulders relaxed, and after a moment, Bertram offered him the cocoa mug. He accepted it. “They were okay a lot of the time,” he said. “Not like you. But okay. It was just work, I couldn’t leave but they treated me not that differently to the people they paid to be there. And Alissa was… I thought she was my friend. I don’t know. Maybe she was. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Hmm,” Bertram said, non-committal.

“Of course,” Torin said. “That was back in Eastport. I thought… I guess I thought I could find my way home from there. I thought I could remember the way.”  He shook his head. “I couldn’t, mind you. Besides, I didn’t even get out of sight of the city before someone caught me. Stupid bird, right?”

“No,” Bertram said. “You’re not… stupid. How long have you been away from home?”

“A couple of years, I guess?” Torin said. He glanced over at Bertram. Shyly, he stretched his wing out in invitation, and Bertram, feeling even less like he deserved it, smiled anyway and began to smooth long black flight feathers between his fingertips. Each had a perfect little oval of white in the centre.

“I was… only supposed to be going on a short trip, to visit my aunt and uncle. They probably all think I’m dead now.” Torin sank his head onto one hand, cupping his chin and looking into the fire.

“That’s awful,” Bertram whispered.

“I missed it all so much,” Torin admitted. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have risked flying away.” He gave a sad smile. “I still do. But, well, that was back in Eastport, which is completely different. Even I’m not dumb enough to think I could make my way home from here. It’s on the other side of the sea, even if I could figure out where to go after that.”

“Right,” Bertram said quietly. “You know, I... I really should have asked you more about your homeland. If you’d be interested in telling me about it, I’d love to listen.”

Torin nodded, and then smothered a sudden, huge yawn. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’d like to talk about it more! Sometimes I worry I’ll forget things. Maybe once we get home?”

“Sure,” Bertram agreed.

Torin withdrew his wing, folding it gently back up against his body. “Thanks,” he said. He spoke in a rush. “For… for everything. You were right, I was an idiot. I should’ve known better, I was just mad. My parents or my auntie wouldn’t have stopped yelling at me for a solid month.”

“Well, I don’t have a winged person’s impressive lung capacity, so I would find that difficult,” Bertram said, grinning. He stretched again, rolling his shoulders. “Why don’t you take the bed, Torin? I’ll sleep in the chair.”

Torin blinked at him, and then grinned wickedly. “Are you sure? Aren’t you a bit old to be sleeping in chairs?”

Bertram spluttered. “Cheeky,” he said. “Anyway, we’ll see who feels like an old man in the morning, won’t we? I suspect you’re going to be sore enough as it is.”

Half an hour later, Torin was an indistinct lump under the blankets, but Bertram still sat up, watching the fire.

He was exhausted – tiredness dragged at his eyes and his limbs – but sleep was elusive. His mind wouldn’t stop turning over and over, trying to find a new angle to look at the situation and coming up with nothing except the conclusions he already had.

Are you really that different to this Darius fellow? he thought unhappily. You don’t put a collar on him or punish him, but you don’t need to. He can’t get home.

You brought him here.

Looking back at his past actions with the benefit of hindsight, Bertram knew what was wrong with the wonder that had come over him when he’d first seen Torin. Wonder, yes, nothing wrong with wonder, but… It had had a possessive edge to it.

He wants to go home. And he can’t. Because you took him across the sea.

[apocalypticwafflekitten]

I’m Coming Back For You - Pt. 6

Jerome Valeska x Winged!Reader 

A/N: HEY!!!!!! I”M BACK!!! I”M FINALLY WRITING AGAIN!!! 

I’m so sorry for the long wait! I have been super busy lately, and I haven’t had much time to write, but I’m back! Hopefully I will be able to write a bit more frequently, but no matter what, I will keep writing this story even if the updates are slow!!! 

But to make up for my absence: this chapter is quite a bit longer than usual. I hope y’all like it, and I would love any and all feedback you leave!

Summary Kinda Thingy/Original Imagine: I can’t say much here without spoilers. You may want tissues though. Just a suggestion. 

Warning: Major Character Death (I hate spoilers, but there’s no avoiding this one)

Word Count: Just the Story: 3021,  Total: 3185

(Yep, just a little longer than usual...)

Tonight was special. There was no denying that.  

It was the night of the Childrens’ Hospital Benefit. 

You were busy in your room, getting ready for the night. As you slipped into your gown, you looked down at your invitation, feeling a little bit of guilt nip at your conscience. 

You knew that Jerome, Tabitha, and Barbara were going. You knew that they were going to do something outrageous. You just didn’t know what. 

You were torn between saying something, and just letting the night unfold. 

But instead of thinking it over, you were brought from your thoughts by the curious, maybe even worried, voice of your favorite ginger. 

“What are the scars from?”

You realized that you had yet to zip up the back of your dress, and the scarring that marked the base of your crimson wings was plain to see. 

Suddenly you were shy. You almost visibly shrunk and words were hesitant to fall from your mouth.  

“It’s a long story Jerome. Sad too. I don’t think you’d like it.” You say somberly as memories played like an old film in your mind.  

“Tell me.” Jerome suggests. He wasn’t telling you to. You could tell by the sound of his voice. It was alright if you didn’t want to. He seemed genuinely concerned, and for that you were thankful. 

You figured you might as well tell him.  

“I was ten year old. Before that I used to be very open with my wings. I would let people pet them, and I’d give people rides on my back. It was wonderful. I can still remember what it felt like to have someone’s fingers carding through their feathers.” You gave a small smile at the memory of the feeling as it traveled to the tips of your wings. “But at ten years old everything changed. There was a fair in my home town, and I begged to go. My parents and I were walking among the crowd when we were separated. There were too many people, and my hand slipped from my father’s. I was lost in the crowd, so I started to run around in search of some place where I could find my parents...Then they got me. Out of nowhere. I don’t know how they found me, and I’m not sure how they even knew about me, but in one moment there was the fair, and the next: darkness.

When I woke up, I was in a dimly lit room and I was tied to a chair. Well, it was more of a stool so that the people could get at my wings. 

I don’t know how long I waited, but at one point two people came into the room with a tray of knives and the sort.  

And then there was pain. Searing, burning pain unlike anything I’ve ever known ripping through my back. All I could see was the darkness in the back of my eyelids and all I could hear were my own cries for help and mercy. 

Then, just like that, I woke up in a hospital bed unaware of what happened or how I got there.

My parents were right by my side, asleep, clutching my hand in theirs. When they woke up they explained everything to me. How I was found by a police search unit in an empty, abandoned warehouse on the edge of town, and how I was rushed to the hospital, barely making it there.

They showed me pictures of the injuries when I thought I could handle it. They were horrifying. One of my wings was partially torn from my body, and on the other, there were cuts straight to the bone. Mom and Dad explained to me that the people who had kidnapped me wanted to cut off my wings and either sell them, or experiment on them.

From that day on, I’ve haven’t let anyone except my parents touch my wings. Not even my closest friends.”

You finished your story and waited in silence for Jerome’s response.

“Oh (Y/N)...” Was his quiet response. Despite his outer appearance, Jerome was boiling with rage inside. He was furious that anyone would dare to hurt you. Especially when you were so young and innocent. 10 years old...

He gave you a hug from behind and placed a small kiss behind your ear, resting his head on your shoulder as you both stayed in silence.

Out of that silence came a small question a few minutes later.

“May I?” Jerome asked.

You thought that he was going to trace your scars, but when you gave a little nod of approval, he zipped up your dress for you.

“There isn’t much time. We should get going.” He whispered before leading you out of the room and to the taxi that would be taking you.

To you there was some significance in him zipping up your dress rather than tracing your scars. He understood that not all battle scars are shown proudly, and that you probably didn’t want him to touch them. Which, in fact, you didn’t. Not right now anyway.

“I’ll see you there doll.” Jerome smiled a soft smile as he helped you into the taxi.

You arrived fairly early just as the doors were opening. Finding your seat, you awaited the rest of the guests, and the rest of the night to unfold.

It was a beautiful evening. The other guests were generally very polite, the food was amazing, and you were happy to see a few of your colleagues from around town.

“Hello Miss. (Y/L/N).”

The voice behind you caught you off guard. You had been lost in the music that was being played by the string jazz band in the corner, and ever so secretly eyeing the piano right beside them.

“Oh. Hello Bruce.” You greeted the young billionaire.

You and Bruce had met shortly after you came to Gotham. You were visiting Harvey and Jim at the police station when.... (come back to fill this in web you’ve refreshed your mind on this subject)

“It’s good to see you. How has your job been?”

“It’s been good. How have things been with you?” You ask. 

Before Bruce can answer your question, you hear Lee Thompkin’s voice above all others. 

“Good Evening. I am Dr. Lee Thompkins. For the past five years I’ve had the honor of being a part of the Children’s Hospital. Thank You for your support, and thank you so much for coming out tonight. Over the years we’ve had magicians come and entertain our children. And so tonight, we have one of the magicians here four you. Without further ado, please allow me to present to you, the Great Rudolpho.” 

In that second, you mentally face palmed as you knew now what Jerome was up to and where he was. You didn’t need any sort of proof. “The Great Rudolpho” was a name only he would choose.   

You saw Barbara dressed in her assistant’s outfit, which you had to say looked quite dazzling on her. She was standing next to a large cupboard that, when she opened it, was empty. She feigned shock, closed the doors, waited there a second, and then re-opened the doors to reveal Jerome, or “The Great Rudolpho”. 

You had to admit that his disguise was a little hilarious. The fake beard and mustache made you giggle to yourself. 

As Jerome hopped up on stage, he pulled a red handkerchief from his jacket, and from it, he uncovered a rose. After the rose, he revealed a dove, and when he let the dove lose, it flew directly to you.

You smiled as the beautiful little dove landed on your gloved hand. You were a little surprised. Jerome knew what he was doing with magic. On second thought, maybe it shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to you that he knew some magic. He did grow up in a circus after all.

Jerome followed the dove with his eyes, and smiled at you when you looked up at him, dove in hand. You looked beautiful tonight in the warm glow of the light from the chandeliers.  

For his next act, Jerome called Bruce up to the stage. Now you began to worry. You knew that Jerome wasn’t really here for fun and games. He came here with a plan in mind, and that plan most likely involved killing something. 

The thought made your stomach turn a little. 

You watched as Barbara led Bruce up onto the stage, and into a small, wooden box. 

He laid down in the box, and the trick clicked in your mind. It was one of the old tricks where the Magician “sawed” the volunteer in half. You prayed with everything you had the Jerome wasn’t going to actually saw Bruce in half. Was it likely? Possibly. Would you put it above him? Definitely not. 

You were tense, biting a little on your lower lip as the trick was performed.  

When the two halves were pulled apart, you saw no trickle of blood, and heard no cries of pain. You let out a breath of relief and watched the rest of the trick with a bit clearer of a mind. 

“Some people say Bruce has a split personality.” Jerome joked, bringing a chuckle from you and the rest of the audience.

“For my next illusion,” Jerome announced in accented voice, “Id like to call to the stage esteemed Deputy Mayor Harrison Kane.” Jerome’s voice was a little ominous. 

While the rest of the audience applauded, your eyes grew wide with the idea that just popped into your head. And idea that was possibly a realization. 

You set the little dove on your shoulder, and restlessly shuffled your wings. You were worried about what was going to happen next. 

When Barbara pushed out a small table, and revealed the knives held there, your suspicions were confirmed. 

Jerome was going to kill the Deputy Mayor.  

“By the way, nobody here is getting out alive.” You panicked as the words dripped from Jerome’s mouth. 

The audience laughed, but you noticed a few worried glances here and there. 

And then, in the blink of an eye, there was a knife in the Deputy Mayor’s gut. he fell to the floor with a thud, and you could feel the wave of fear wash over everyone. There was a collective gasp, and all the while Jerome just smiled, and laughed.   

“TA-DA!!!” Jerome called as machine gun fire lit up the room. 

Panic ensued, and everyone tried to get out of the banquet hall, though none succeeded. 

The dove flew off in panic, and despite the bigger things going on right now, you hoped that the little bird made it out safe. 

You however found a door hidden in the wall that was most likely for staff entrance and exit. You looked to see where it led. All you saw was a corridor and a door at the end of it, but you hoped that it would lead somewhere. And so you  started ushering the people around you into the corridor so they could either hide, or find a way out.

 You didn’t know how to fight. Only the very little self-defense that Harvey and Jim had taught you. Nothing good enough to last against the men who were shooting up the building. You figured you might as well do what you could to help the innocent people here. 

Once there was a steady line of people going through the corridor, you looked back to the stage from your hidden spot. 

There Lee was strapped onto the red wheel on stage, and you feared the worst. 

Jerome had taken her phone and was dialing someone. You could take a guess at who it was. 

There was a small silence before Jerome burst out into speech. 

“Sorry, Jimbo, it’s just little old me... Are you outside?...You are aren’t you?” Jerome chuckled. “Oh goody.” 

You were appalled, but also fascinated. How you had come to be so close to this maniac was a question you couldn’t answer. Despite you morals and everything you’ve ever known telling you that what Jerome was doing was wrong, you couldn’t help smiling every time Jerome laughed, or feeling the smallest flutter of happiness when he smiled. It was completely immoral. Part of you knew. Part of you didn’t care. 

“Breathe James. I haven’t touched a hair on your girlfriend’s pretty head...See for yourself. This is live television after all.” More laughing ensued as Jerome mocked shooting Lee in the head in front of the News Camera. 

“True, but not the point.” Jerome answered something the Jim had said. 

“Hey, lets talk about what I want. Excuse me.” The crazy ginger said as he cleared his throat and stepped over the Former Deputy Mayor Harrison Kane’s body. “Forty-seven million dollars, a helicopter, obviously, the dry cleaning I left at Mr. Chang’s, be careful, the man is a crook, and, oooh, I don’t know, a pony!” Jerome chuckled to catch his breath before he continued. “Uh, you got ten minutes or I start killing people. Remember, this is being broadcast to every home in Gotham, so, you know, don’t let people die. Bye!” 

Jerome laughed violently into the phone before he hung up. 

“I think that went well.” 

He then turned around the room and started searching for something. 

He lit up when he found you, and singled you out in the crowd. 

“(Y/N)! Darling, how’s your night been?”  Everyone who was still being held hostage turned their eyes to you in shock. You looked down to your shoes, shy and quite afraid. Your wings instinctively closed in around your shoulders. The rest of the city didn’t need to know that you were dating Gotham’s most wanted.

“Well, it didn’t go quite as I expected.” You responded nervously, earning a chuckle from Jerome.  

“I don’t think it went quite like anyone was expecting. Well, anyone but me and Babs here.” Jerome gestured to Barbara who smiled and waved at you. 

You waved back politely. 

“Hey, (Y/N), what do you say you help to calm the nerves of these poor audience members?” Your psycho boyfriend suggested as he gestured to the piano. 

“I don’t know Jerome. I don’t have much that’s performance ready.” 

It wasn’t playing in front of the crowd that was the problem.You genuinely didn’t have anything you deemed to be performance ready.  

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve got something.” 

“Okay then. I’ll try. But if this goes down in flames, it’s you fault. 

Sitting down at the beautiful grand piano, you tucked your wings against your back, and started to familiarize yourself with the keys. 

After warming up, you began to play the Moonlight Sonata.  

“Listen, just beautiful.” Jerome commented, smiling widely, listening to your performance.  

You were silenced as you heard a voice among the crowd. 

“Enough.” Theo Galavan demanded. He stood from his seat, and started to move towards Jerome.  

“You need to pack up your pathetic little sideshow and leave.” 

Theo’s voice was stern and serious. There was no telling whether or not he was being serious, or just acting.

“Is that right?” Jerome retaliated.

“It may be presumptuous to speak for all the citizens of Gotham, but we are sick of you. You’re a small, vicious man with a pathetic need for attention.” 

Jerome gave a little bow at the recognition. 

“Enough, man. For God’s sakes, enough.” 

“I’m curious what your leverage is here Mr...” Jerome trailed off as if waiting for a name. 

The two looked straight into the camera. 

“Theo Galavan.’ 

“Well, Mr. Theo Galavan,” Jerome mocked Theo’s serious and deep tone, “If you don’t sit down, uh, I’m gonna shoot you. In the face!” 

Confusion had set in now, and you truly couldn’t tell whether or not the two were still acting. 

“I know there is some human decency left in you.” Theo tried for reason. 

Jerome gestured to himself with a questioning face. 

“If you need to take a hostage, take me. But let these people go home. To their families, to their children!” 

Suddenly, Barbara whacked Theo on the back of the head with a mallet. 

You knew now that this was no a part of the script. This was unplanned, and Jerome was taking over. 

Before long, and after a few of Jerome’s gimmicks, he called upon Bruce Wayne to be the night’s “First Official Victim.”  

When Bruce didn’t show, Jerome started to threaten Alfred’s life. 

When Jerome ordered a gun on Alfred’s head, Bruce finally showed himself, yelling a profound “Stop!” as he ran in. 

There was profound rustling and struggling over the silence as Jerome started to drag Bruce away from Alfred. As Jerome got Bruce up onto the stage, gunfire was heard behind you, and upon looking, you saw Jim running in to shoot down the guards.  

Everything happened so quickly, yet the moment I saw what happened, time couldn’t have moved slower. 

in a fraction of a second, and without second thought, Theo had shoved a knife into Jerome’s neck. 

You couldn’t even hear yourself scream out the most painful “NO!” you had ever screamed. You couldn’t hear anything. 

Your feet rushed you across the banquet hall, up onto the stage, and next to Jerome’s body. Your wings flared as Theo removed the knife and let the blood flood from the wound. You could hear the blood bubble in his mouth as he tried to speak.

 “You said... I was gonna be....”  “No darling, don’t speak.” You whispered as tears began to fall from your eyes. You didn’t care now whether all of Gotham knew that you loved this stupid idiot. You didn’t care about Jim and Harvey’s reactions. You just cared about Jerome. 

Jerome reached for your hand, and you took it. 

“(Y/N), I...” 

He never finished that sentence. Just like that the light faded from his eyes, and your vision was blurred with tears, and hatred. 

“THEO GALAVAN!” You screeched at the man. “YOU KILLED HIM!” 

You found yourself unable to attack him. Barbara had grabbed a hold of you, and started to drag you away from Theo, and towards her escape. 

“Let me go Barabara! Let me go!” You protested. Your anger fueling every angry bat of your wings. 

“We can get our revenge later. But for now we have to go.” She whispered back. 

“I”M COMING BACK FOR YOU THEO GALAVAN! YOU’RE GOING TO PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID!”

TAGS!!! 

Forever and Always:  @blackirisposts @savvythedork 

Just for this Story 

@crimsonredcoco @childishmonster05 @crazydcchick @subtlemalice @alisondepartedbear @rockyrocket15

[after-the-fxll]

Meta: Wings and personal space.

Disclaimer: Right, so… you probably mean “write about the psychology of personal space inasmuch as it relates to wings and concerns Aryx,” but what you’re going to get is a huge meta about me blabbing about anything and everything you ever wanted to know about wings for angels and a wee bit on demons in Aryx’s world/verse, including personal space psychology. Enjoy, haha.

Another disclaimer: All of this information comes from from own brain, my own interpretations of lore and mythology surrounding angels and demons, my own interpretations of several movies which inspired angels like Aryx’s creation, and from a series of books I wrote years ago entitled “The Vulture and the Dove.” I never published it, but it was eight books in total, the last two of which I never finished writing unfortunately. Aryx came from the seventh book. I am happy to talk more about the series if anyone wishes to know. =)

Putting this all below a cut because loooong. XD

{BIOLOGY}

Angel Species and Wing Types in Aryx’s World

There are three species of angels in Aryx’s world, only one of which is usually found on earth, with only a few exceptions. The three species are: common angels, archangels, and holy seraphim. There are three species of demons which are thought to mirror these three species of angels, namely: incubi/succubi, archdemons, and infernal seraphim. Aryx is an archangel, so as far as angels go, he is intermediary in power and possesses two pairs of equal-sized wings with a 20ft. wingspan when fully spread.

Common angels have only one pair of relatively small wings. Small meaning a 15ft. wingspan when fully flared. Archangels have two pairs of equally-sized wings, and they are of medium size, meaning about a 20ft. wingspan or a foot or two longer. Holy seraphim have three pairs of wings, one small, one medium, and one large. Their largest wings can have over a 30ft. wingspan depending on if they are male or female. Holy seraphim are usually taller as well, easily reaching heights of 7 or 8ft., whereas common and archangels are usually the same heights as humans.

Angel wings are constructed much like those of birds of prey. They are flesh and blood and bone, and the main bones are hollow to keep their weight low so that flying is easier. There is a central nerve that runs along the main bones, and depending upon how this nerve is treated, one can cripple an angel or really turn him on, heh. The main bones have a joint in the middle, so each wing has a single bend in it. That is true of all angel wings regardless of size or species.

Flight feathers are longer, stiffer, and very important for flying, while feathers are reduced to fluffy downy material at the bases of the wings where the bones and tendons connect to the angel’s shoulder blades. The shoulder blades of angels are much thicker, stronger, and differently-shaped than those of humans. They’are able to pivot, slipping underneath muscle to move the wings during flight. 

Emergence of Wings and Early Life

Archangels and holy seraphim that are only found in the heavens are usually created by the gods, coming into being just as they are in adult form rather than being born and growing up from an infant or child. But common angels can breed with each other and humans on earth, and when they are born, they do not have any wings. The milestone of an angel spreading his or her wings for the first time is called “finding” them. Typically, earthborn angels find their wings at around age 5 to 7, depending on their sex. Females find them earlier than males, generally.

When a young angel first finds their wings, they are moist, crumpled, and very weak. Their parents or guardians will help the little angel to wash the wings and will go through a range of motions with them, much like physical therapy. When the wings are deemed strong enough for flight, a parent or guardian will take the young angel up into the sky, holding hands in case the young angel gets tired. It may take months of practice before a young angel can fly on their own.

Aryx is a created archangel, so he did not have to find his wings, but rather was created with them already emerged. He has never known life without them.

Spreading and Retracting Wings

“Spreading” is the act of calling one’s wings from out of one’s back. This is a magical process, as the physical manifestation of the wings is created while being infused with the essence or energy of the wings that is stored in an angel’s back when they are retracted. When an angel spreads his wings, they fly out very quickly, spreading fully before either relaxing or assisting in flight. Because of this, angels need to make sure they have plenty of room to spread their wings or else they could injure themselves.

“Retracting” is the act of withdrawing one’s wings from physical being to store them, as it were, safely within the body of the angel. This is also a magical process, as the essence or spirit of the wings is actually absorbed into an angel’s back while the physical essence disappears.

Common angels retract their wings far more often than archangels or holy seraphim, especially those born on earth. This is because they interact far more with humans and subconsciously often try to blend into human society. Archangels and holy seraphim do not desire to blend in with humans typically and are often far more arrogant about being angels in the first place. They may not hate humans or resent them in any way, it is just that they are incredibly proud of what they are and expect humans to respect them accordingly. Part of that is feeling that they have a right to spread their wings and keep them spread whenever and wherever they choose.

Aryx, as an archangel, feels most comfortable always having his wings spread. He is not nearly as arrogant as most of his kind with regard to humans as he has lived on earth for hundreds of years and worked alongside many capable humans worthy of his respect. Usually he keeps his wings spread, but now and then he will retract them for convenience or blending-in purposes.

Anatomy of Angel Wings vs. Demon Wings

Angel wings are flesh, blood, and bone, and are covered in feathers. They do not possess any scales, talons, or webbed skin. Demons, on the other hand, depending on their species, have completely different wings. Their wings are not flesh, just bone and skin. They also possess sharp talons and may have scales according to species. Think… birds vs. bats, or birds vs. dragons, as far as structure is concerned.

Demon wings are brown or black, and angel wings are white or pale gray. In very rare cases where angels fall from grace or demons have their wings transformed into angel wings, the feathers will be brown or black.

Aryx is a fallen archangel, but he is only fallen physically, not morally. Therefore, his wings possess clean, white feathers. If you want to read more about the difference between physically fallen and morally fallen angels, I shall direct you to this post here.

Angel Feather Composition

Angel feathers look soft and inviting, but they can be deadly. They are actually far stronger than any feathers known to humans. The spines are like needles, and the hairlike fibers that make up the “fluff” of the feathers are actually like fine steel. To touch them, as long as you go with the grain and are gentle, they feel as soft as any bird feathers one might touch. But in battle, an angel’s wings can become weapons. I’ll cover that more in the battle section later.

{PSYCHOLOGY}

Personal Space and Etiquette

Angels do not like anyone they don’t know or trust touching or even getting near their wings. Besides fear of physical harm and simple shyness on the angel’s part, they consider it extremely rude and even outright insulting for anyone to touch their wings without asking first. Some more prideful and arrogant angels even believe asking is rude, heh. The general rule is to just don’t touch angel wings, and if you really want to be brazen, at least ask first.

Aryx is not arrogant about his wings, but he is cautious with them. He appreciates very much when someone asks first, and in most cases he will allow humans to touch his wings so long as they are gentle about it. He understands how interesting and inspiring angel wings can be to humans and has no problem indulging them as long as they treat him with respect. This is not true of most angels, though, who prefer that humans do not touch their wings.

Perching and Resting

I’m going to direct you to a post I have already written on this topic to save some time and space here. =)

Aryx does not sleep in a bed. Well he doesn’t sleep at all, heh. He rests and slips in to a lower state of consciousness, perching on chairs or window sills, most often.

Emotional Connection

Angels love their wings. Really. They love them. Deeply. They care for them meticulously, take pride in their cleanliness and size and beauty, and take comfort in their warmth while they rest. Female angels consider their wings part of their overall beauty as a whole, while males tend to view theirs as part of their manhood. Angelhood? XD But yeah, angels feel a deep love and affection for their wings, and so they are emotionally affected when bad things happen to them.

Aryx absolutely adores his wings. They’re his friends, his protectors, his comforters, everything. He spends a lot of time grooming them and inspecting them to make sure they’re healthy and clean, and he is always very careful with them. Unless he is in battle, in which case he is as careful as he can be while still getting the job done.

Breaking or Losing a Wing

Basically, this is devastating to an angel on so many levels. The physical pain alone is enough to send an angel into severe shock and if they are not properly trained or conditioned to deal with such pain, they will fall right out of the sky if their wing is broken or severed in battle. Even if an angel is battle ready and able to push through the pain, the emotional toll is akin to a death for them.

Losing a wing is like losing a loved one, and unless one can get to a holy seraph quickly (the only creatures besides the gods themselves capable of reattaching a severed limb), a lost wing is… lost forever. Angels can survive losing a wing if the wound is cauterized and they are able to rest, but the emotional loss takes years to overcome, and even then it never fully heals.

If a wing is broken and it heals crooked, or if an angel loses a wing and has a stump in its place, their confidence will suffer greatly for it. It’s considered personally shameful, ugly, and freakish to have such an injury, while other angels and humans may look upon an angel with such an injury as lucky to be alive or even a hero depending upon the circumstances surrounding the injury. because of this, angels with crooked or missing wings can be some of the most unfriendly and standoffish you will ever meet. This is exacerbated if the angel is common and only has two wings to begin with. A broken or lost wing in that case may prevent the angel from flying ever again, which they may feel is shameful, but it is also yet another emotional loss for them.

Mood Expression

An angel’s wings can be read and are revealing of an angel’s mood or temperament as well as his facial expressions. Something that should be made clear is that an angel is a whole being that is not human, not a human with wings, or a creature with cold, sterile wings attached to their back for no reason. They are a winged, non-human creature, and their wings are a major part of their life. So just as humans will slump their shoulders or frown or cringe or stand straighter or whatever according to their emotions, angels do all that and more. Their wings are an added form of expression that happens as instantly and naturally as facial expressions. Two of the most common examples of an angel expressing emotion through his wings are flaring and dropping.

Flaring is when an angel extends and spreads his wings to their fullest capability, often also lifting them up a little rather than having them completely horizontal. That’s if they only have two wings. If they have two or three pairs of wings, the pairs will cascade as they flare, with all pairs being fully extended but spreading out like petals on a flower around the angel. Angels do this for two reasons usually. Sometimes they are trying to intimidate an enemy by appearing larger, proclaiming their species (if a higher form of angel), or frightening smaller enemies by flaring their wings quickly. Basically, “I dare you to mess with me,” as they display their power. The other case is when an angel is just trying to assert himself over someone else. Maybe he is in a heated argument or feels that he has been insulted in some way, and he wants to demand respect or make a point. Flaring always denotes pride in oneself and self-confidence in an angel. Think of it as a posturing action, much like peacocks flaring their feathers.

Example: Gabriel arrogantly flaring his wings upon his arrival in Legion

Aryx only really flares his wings when asked by humans to show them, or if confronted by demons. Because he is an archangel, most demons on earth do not expect to see an angel of his power. So flaring his wings reveals his species and will frighten away most common demons on earth. 

Dropping is the opposite of flaring and denotes a lack of confidence, remorse, guilt, or sorrow in an angel. Typically an angel’s wings will be folded behind him when they are dropped, and it may be anything from a few inches that they’ll lower to actually laying on the ground, depending upon why the angel is upset. A minor drop may just indicate that something is on their mind or that they feel badly about something and it’s a minor show of a bad mood in general. If an angel is laying his wings on the ground, there is something seriously wrong and someone should really talk to him about it, heh.

Aryx drops his wings often in subtle manners, especially listening to humans talk. Humans have a lot of strife in their lives and Aryx is a very compassionate and empathetic individual, so hearing about the losses and troubles of others affects him emotionally, which can be observed in his wings.

Morality

An angel’s wings will change color (from light to dark) and their feathers may even begin to fall out if they engage in evil/immoral behavior. This is actually a sickening of the angel physically, for evil acts breed unholy and negative energy, and their bodies are naturally built for and empowered by holy and positive energy. So they are essentially poisoning themselves with evil acts.

I will direct you to this post on fallen and corrupted angels, as it goes into some detail about wings as well.

{NSFW}

As I mentioned earlier, the central nerves of angel wings can cause an angel great pain or pleasure depending upon how they are touched. They are very sensitive, and the proper caresses of an angel’s wings in the right places can really light his fire, so don’t do this unless you’re trying to start something with him, haha.

Aryx is very good about informing humans and others who are not aware of this sensitivity in angel wings to not touch them in certain ways. He might turn a little red and even grin shyly, but just calmly corrects the situation. Unless of course your muse is trying to rile him up in that manner, in which case he’ll like it if he’s receptive toward your muse.

{IN BATTLE}

Wing Structure According to Species Purpose

The reason for the increase in the number of wings as angel species become more powerful is two-fold. More wings means more power, speed, and control in the air. More wings also means that a wing may be impaired or lost and the owner will still be able to fly. This makes sense when one considers the usual occupations of the different species of angels.

Common angels on earth can live quietly and peacefully alongside humans if they choose. Archangels are usually only found in the heavens and are employed guarding the gates of the common heaven, which is where human souls are housed. So they need to be more battle ready than common angels. Holy seraphim are the generals of the gods of light, commanding other angels in battle and charging forth first into danger. They need to be the most battle ready and most able to sustain injuries to their wings and remain flying.

Angels vs. Demons

Most battles between angels and demons take place in the air. Whether on earth or in the heavens, angels and demons naturally take to the air when threatened. They employ different strategies when trying to kill or take an enemy out of commission, but for the most part they’re both trying to drop their enemies out of the sky.

Angels will try to rip the taught skin of demon wings so that they can no longer hold the air. They may also try to sever demon wings with weapons like swords.

Demons will only try to sever angel wings if they are large and strong enough to cut through them or break the main bones. Angel wings are not as fragile as demon wings, so this is often difficult. Because of this, most demons try to either injure angel wings such that they are in too much pain to fly, or they may even resort to setting them on fire, since their feathers catch easily.

Aryx has thankfully never completely lost a wing in battle, although he has broken several of them and had one very nearly severed during his fall to earth. He was healed by a human soul knight (like a priest/sorcerer combination) very soon after, but the emotional trauma followed him for a long time afterward.

Angel Wings as Weapons and Shields

As I mentioned earlier, angel feathers are actually made from steel-like fibers and spines. They don’t look like steal, they look like normal feathers, but because angel wings are magical appendages, the feathers they are far stronger than mundane bird feathers. Because of this, angels can use their wings as weapons or shields, whether fighting in the sky or on land.

Angels have two main types of attacks they can make with their wings. They only do so if absolutely necessary, for their wings are precious to them, but very often with demons and other adversaries they may face, they are just as magical creatures as the angels are, so mundane weapons may not pierce their hides. 

One attack they can do is to flick their wings quickly and release a few of their largest flight feathers, which will fly out like daggers. They can impale or even pierce clean through enemies depending on who they’re aiming at. This is risky, though, because if the feathers are collected by demons, the angel may be in serious danger, but I’ll cover that in the liabilities section. 

The second attack is to pivot on their feet or spin in the air fast enough to flatten their wings and slice in a circle around them. When they do this, any beings very close to them will be sliced by the angel’s feathers, so long as their hide is not enough of a protection. Angels can cut human beings in half with their wings if they so choose, but of course they usually do not.

Angels can also use their wings as defensive shields, blocking blades and bullets. In medieval times, they could shield humans from sword blows, and in more modern times, they can protect them from gunfire, by enveloping them in their wings. They can only do this, however, if they are ready to do so. If they’re caught unaware, bullets and other piercing or even slicing weapons will injure their wings and knock out feathers. But if they are prepared and going on the defensive, they will turn and interlock their feathers in a certain way that makes them like strong steel mesh, impervious to mortal weapons. When in this defensive mode, angel wings are actually far sturdier than the rest of their bodies. Angels can be shot or stabbed in their bodies, but not while their wings are defensively postured and prepared. It only takes seconds for them to properly prime their feathers, but again, if the angel is caught off guard, all bets are off.

Example: Gabriel using his wings as both shields and weapons against humans in Legion

Example: Gabriel fighting a fallen, wingless Michael and using his wings to his advantage in Legion

Aryx fights very much like the angels in Legion do, using a combination of a weapon (a sword in his case) together with his wings. Using wings in this manner are as natural to angels as punching with fists or kicking is to humans, as they are perfectly natural appendages that all angels are used to having.

Angel Feathers as Blessings

Angels do lose feathers, just like birds. Some feathers die or get tugged weirdly and are now sitting funny, so as part of the grooming process, angels will pluck dying or out-of-place feathers. New ones will grow in their places. If a feather is needed, they may just pluck one to use for spells. Angel feathers are very powerful spell components, and depending upon if someone of good or evil inclination finds them, they can be used for holy or unholy spells.

Angels will bless their fallen or plucked feathers and give them to individuals they want to protect. This is not always done under battle conditions, but is usually done if they suspect someone maybe be a target of attack in the future. Keeping a blessed angel feather on your person will grant you minor healing abilities or may protect you from attacks, depending on the reason it was granted. If you’ve received an angel feather, you are trusted, for it is dangerous to let feathers fall into the wrong hands.

AngelFeathers as Liabilities

Fallen feathers that are picked up by demons or priests of evil deities can be used in rituals for evil magic. They can fuel dangerous spells that could take innocent lives and could even be used to locate or remotely injure the angelic owner of the feathers. Because of this, demons would often scour battlefields after the battles were through to see if any feathers could be found.

Captured angels were sometimes subjecting to severe pluckings of their feathers, rendering their wings all but bald in order to gain enough feathers to fuel whatever devious spell the priest or demon in charge had in mind. Unfortunately, angels captured in this manner were most often killed shortly after all their feathers were plucked, unless they managed to be rescued in time.

Aryx has been known to pluck out perfectly good feathers for use as tokens of protection and spell components to protect those he cares about.

And there you have it, folks! I think? I covered? Everything? XD But if anybody has any more questions about things I may not have mentioned here, please ask away! =)

[diavalcorbeau]

Diaval Corbeau was just spotted coming out from the tree near Thoresby house, with Cage the Elephant, Ain’t no Rest for the Wicked; playing as a constant tune inside their head, it might as well be their song. easily noticed by their sharp smirk just waiting to surface, scrutinizing eyes trailing and nearly silent steps. Diava is not one to be forgotten.

Name: Diaval Corbeau Age: 23 DoB: April 11th Pronouns: He/him Sexuality: Vastly questionable/apparently raging pansexual Distinguishing features: Several tattoos, scars across his ribs left side, tends to squint his left eye to focus it from an old injury.  Hometown: None, was born in the Boston area though.  Studying: General law (2nd year) Housed: Thoresby 

+quick-witted +observant +loyal +adaptive -Vain -sneaky -sarcastic -unpredictable

Diaval is a creature of chaos, or so he's been told. His very birth an ill-planned result of happenstance, his place in an already strained family not a welcome addition. And starting out on shaky ground it's little wonder he depends on little else but himself. When the ones biology itself encouraged to look after you always had their own agenda how does a person ever learn to have faith in anyone? Once there was a little girl who was kind to him, she was an almost-friend, but that was a lifetime ago.

He's no tragedy though, and will tell anyone that in no uncertain terms; he's a creature of his own design. A gorgeous design, all in all, brilliant and with such sharp claws. Sharp tongue too, if you ruffle his feathers. If you make the mistake of asking why he's so blunt, didn't his parents ever teach him any manners? He'll laugh because that's not what parents teach; they teach you to lie, steal, cheat, they teach you to survive so they don't feel guilty walking away. 

Find him admiring himself in the mirror, sure, but mention it and he'll snap back with a sarcastic remark, you're better off just leaving him to his own devices. Unless something comes up missing, or you might need something a bit questionable because Diaval has an eye for shiny things. 

His soft side is trapped fluttering in the cage of his ribs; never cross him or the few he nests with. He's a possessive one, with his trinkets and his people, and every underdog recognizes their own. Love him or hate him, it makes no difference, but don't ever lie to him about it; nothing earns his torment more than false intentions. 

Once upon a time he wanted to be more than he thinks he is now. He stares at the raven tattoo across his shoulder and wishes freedom came that easily. He might just envy the people whose family speak of them with kind words, or even at all, those with siblings still alive and homes to return to. But it's fine, he's fine, in fact he's better than fine. Because he doesn't need any of that. Diaval grew up too fast and was far too old for fairytales long before he was alone in the world. 

History

Death tw, child abandonment tw, child neglect tw

The world is a strange place when you live on borrowed time. It's not any looming grim visage that Diaval knows lurks though, simply the past; because he has always been the master of his own destruction.

It didn't start that way. But when a person is born into nothing, meant to be nothing, how can they reach beyond it? His mother and father already had a brood of two when he arrived, he was a mistake. But a mistake with big eyes and a sweet smile, a beautiful child. The perfect distraction really. When the family legacy was grifting it only took some creative thought to turn a mistake into a profit; who could say no to an innocent little boy when he was lost? Couldn't find his mommy?

He was taught to lie, to lure, long before he learned to read. Because his mother couldn't curb her want for a drink other than when she had a child on the way and his father had wild ambitions of great wealth that he was certainly going to take more than earn and a weakness for gambling. For all the early years he never knew anything else existed. It was fun, never staying anywhere long, living in hotels and cars; it was an adventure.

The shine wore off as he reached his youth, when the teachers he saw for classes a few weeks until they moved on stopped bothering to keep track of him. While his peers, never friends because friends lasted longer than a month, played games and talked about their excitement over upcoming holidays Diaval loathed the coming cold and sparse days it brought. He'd go to bed hungry often and he knew that. His little sister was born in the winter, that was the nearest to ever feeling like Christmas he knew.

It was a few summers later that his elder sister left the nest, an old family saying for the truth that the family went on without her. Some little town in the middle of nowhere was the home she picked, and he never spoke to her again. The next year his mother and father disappeared in the early morning hours, only a note left behind and a trio of their puzzled offspring. Sometimes he still hopes things turned out better for them than it did him.

His older brother was realistic, having both a teenager and a toddler in tow made life more difficult. But it was all any of them had left, all he had left; big brother Dainial and little Maeve.

They came to an unspoken agreement. Diaval stepped in and turned a blind eye to his brother's increasingly risky actions; Maeve became his focus. He likes to think he did well enough keeping her happy, teaching her what he could, watching her grow with an increasing amount of pride. Then one day Dainial didn't come back to the hotel, one day another life ended and two left behind never said goodbye, one day Diaval was seventeen with a six-year-old looking at him like he knew all the answers.

He spent their last day together visiting her favorite places, bought her everything he could, then he left her standing in a hospital waiting room with the promise of the best surprise ever. He hopes it was, he hopes people were kind and the family she found was enough to forget the one she began with.

The years afterward Diaval survived, just as he was taught. It was the only gift his parents had ever really given him. He thrived, actually, but it wasn't a lifestyle made to last. Tiny crimes built up, small arrests began to trail him from state to state. The irony that the breaking point was in the crime he didn't commit is a bitter one. The shock that followed came just as swiftly in the form of an uncle he never heard mention of. Some rich guy related to his father that managed to track him down by police records? Diaval didn't really buy it but the alternative was much more abysmal, so being bailed out? It could have been worse.

Except he didn't think the guy was going to toss him into some high-class, preppy university and expect that to make up for the family's blind eye all those years. It's by no means ideal, Diaval knows his uncle's good graces are more a threat than an offer of help; make something of himself or he'll call off the lawyers working on his pending trial. Shape up or be locked up. He's not sure what the guy's angle is yet but college is still marginally better, while it lasts.

He's already a ghost, chains wrapped tight and just waiting for the lock to shut. But how is that anything different than what it's always been, his wings have always been snared but they're certainly not clipped yet.

Sherwood

Diaval doesn't want to be at Sherwood. But he wants less to end up on the bad side of the uncle who gave him the ultimatum of school or airing his transgressions. Birds don't do so well in a cage; he'll take classes to prison any day. Mostly. 

Since he has to study, and he enjoys the irony of it, he's studying law. At least until his uncle finally gives him up for a lost cause. Might as well know how the other side lives, right? Those lawful, useful sorts; it must be dull.  So he drifts through class, far too smart to fail but far too bored to put up more effort than needed to get by. He could excel but what's the point? It all ends up the same place in the end, an education isn't going to change his past. And that always catches up. 

But he's a common sight in the social spots, networking, because everyone knows if there's something you need to get your hands on? Diaval is the one to go to. 

He resides in Thoresby, again thanks to his uncle, but it suits him just fine. Some of his housemates aren't the brightest crayons in the box so they're fun to get stirred up. But it's all harmless, usually

Headcanons

Diaval would be a loner if he wasn't so determined to prove he's not limited to any label. He settles himself right in the middle of any situation that catches his eye and makes himself at home. If there's a bigger dog in the fight? He's got teeth. But, honestly, for the most part he feels like life is just going through the motions anymore. When it comes to most people he's hardly malicious. Snarky? Without a doubt. But he's rarely out for blood without a reason. 

Maybe it was his upbringing but he's not a fan of the dorms. He has a bed and his collection of trinkets lying around, his stash of possessions that is in constant change, but Diaval is rarely there at night. He might hop to whomever might hold his interest and invite himself along to their room for the evening, in either a platonic sort of way or not depending on his mood, or he might wander outside. He enjoys sleeping in trees, loves that high vantage point on the world.

He never felt much in the way of honest kindness growing up so he covets it more. With his intense amount of confidence he could be a real jerk to those who aren't as bold, but he tends to mother hen them. Maybe they remind him of the little sister he'll never see again, or maybe he just hates the way the world destroys good people. But for all his snapping commentary he'll step in when it's obvious someone isn't fighting fair, he might not care to be involved in most of the foolishness around him but he's not a bully, nor does he like them.

[im-abanana]

“Meant to Belong” [1/3]

Wanted to write a fanfiction about BATIM (Bendy and the Ink Machine), and especially about my new ship Bendalice (Bendy x Alice). I just put it on AO3 too, but whatever, I’ll post it here too! :P 

This first chapter is Angst, but the next two will be Angst, Fluff and Smut, so be careful with the next ones and, if you don’t like it, don’t read it. Said so, I hope you’ll enjoy!

Summary: Hidden very deep inside his soul for many years, there was a shocking emotion that made the little devil realize that the fallen angel wasn't just a simple co-worker, or a friend, or a rival, or a family member to him; but more, so much more. Their peculiar bond was a little more... complex, unique, maybe genuine. In other words, somehow they were meant to be together, drawn and designed to truly belong to each other. But all the pranks, all the fights and all the teasing sometimes made everything difficult, especially after that particular night.

The thick door of Alice's private dressing room slammed loudly behind her back as the fallen angel walked towards the huge mirror on the wall, sitting in front of it and sinking her aching head in her gloved hands, sighing out deeply and trying to calm the raging thoughts that were invading her mind. “Why can't Bendy just understand that he isn't the only one working on this show? Why can't he be friendly, or at least kind to me and Boris? Why can't people and kids realize how much of an arrogant, spoiled brat that demon is? Why do they...” a wheeze escaped the girl's black lips as the last part of the question carved its way inside her brain, forcing her to feel a sort of guilt, even shame, in the core of her chest. “... why do they love him more than me?”.

She shouldn't have been jealous of Bendy, Alice was aware of that, and somehow the realization that she envied her co-worker made her feel sick in the stomach. Yes, that perfect little angel, the character supposed to be a perfect and gentle creature, envied a stupid, mischievous little devil; she envied the joyful sparks of light in the children's tiny eyes when he would walk on stage with that smug grin of his, she envied the praises Joey and the parents would give him after every single set, while she and Boris would just stay silently behind the curtain and compliment each other, she envied the larger quantity of “Bendy Merchandise” the creators sold every month, she envied... everything.

She envied his whole fucking existence and, very deep inside her heart, no matter how much she desired to become a star and shine at least half as bright as him, Alice knew she would have never reached Bendy's popularity. “Especially after tonight... how could I be so careless?”.

Tripping over Bendy's stupid tail, right in front of dozens of yelling kids while she was singing and dancing on stage side by side with the devil in question and the poor naive Boris, had been mortifying enough, definitely... those brats' ruthless laughter still echoed in Alice's offended mind, and the worst thing was that even the previously calm and uninterested parents completely lost it when the angel made that single mistake! And all because of that stupid step, that one slip! Com'on, it wasn't her fault if that idiotic demon cut her off all of the sudden; he always wanted to be the center of attention no matter what, and Joey knew it very well! But despite everything she said or her sincere apologies about her rash actions (“You could have injured Bendy as well!”, they carelessly said.), she was the one who got severely scolded backstage by the whole crew, except the sweet and generous Boris, of course. “And in an hour I'll have to perform once again in front of those people. Just great, fantastic, exactly what I need to feel better... I'm sure that “The Butcher Gang” would entertain those children way more than me, maybe I should ask them to cover for me. Ugh, but Joey would be furious, I have no choice it seems.”.

The only reasonable thing to do was sucking it up and walking tall and proud on that stage, not caring about the stinging criticism or amused gazes. As long as she didn't have to bear Bendy's wiseacre grin, everything would be fine.

At that exact moment, the wooden door behind the angel squeaked, sign that it had been opened by someone, without any warning, and then discreetly closed again with a silent thud. Alice's muscles tensed for an instant, and when she slowly turned around to see the mysterious visitor's face, she had to hold back an irritated groan and a few insults that came to her mind incredibly fast. “Aww! Don't give me that sneer, toots! I came here to check on you!”.

“Get lost, Bendy. I'm not in the mood to put up with you and your childish games.” the young woman replied with pure hatred, staring at the tiny demon standing right in front of her, as usual not scared or intimidated by her enraged expression; the devil's black jacket, the one he was elegantly wearing during their performance, was rapidly tossed away as Bendy made himself comfortable, sitting on a chair and relaxing, as if everything was his private property. And he still had that idiotic, conceited smile on his face... “I said get lost! I did not invite you inside!” Alice repeated with a snarl when she realized she had been completely ignored, getting up and clenching her fists. “Did you hear me, you stupid devil!? This is my dressing room! These are my things! That is my chair! And I want you out of here right now, you understand!?”.

“Woah, calm down Angel Cake, no need to be so snarky! I just came here to congratulate with you... for the perfect landing on the stage, especially on your butt! Seriously sweetie, after tonight the creators should change your slogan in -She sings! She dances! And she falls on her huge ass!-!” Bendy simply replied with a small shrug and then with a coarse laugh, smirking in response and turning in “his” chair, his pitch black eyes blinking joyfully as Alice got even angrier and grayer on her smooth cheeks. Oh, how he loved to tease that angel! “Uhh, someone's mad, toots? Eheh... ehy, com'on Angel Face, put that hairdryer down! I'm just playing aroun-! Alice... please, put that thing down. N-no, don't! Boris, Joey! BORIS AND JOEY, HELP ME! Alice wants to hurt me! AHH!”.

The black haired girl threw at the short demon the hairdryer, a spray can, a shoe, a thick book, a desk lamp and even a small table she found in a corner, managing to predict his erratic movements and scoring at least three perfect hits in the face with the last objects. “Golly toots, calm down! Don't ruffle any feathers, and just sit do-! Umh... ops, right, I'm very sorry! That was way out of line, I admit it! Forget what I just said and... no, stop with that stuff!” Bendy hid behind the nearby couch and bit his pale lower lip as he immediately recalled that Alice, in fact, didn't have wings. Sometimes the spiteful devil would call his graceful co-worker dumb names, like “Angel Cake”, “Angel Face” or “Toots” when he simply wanted to flirt, but the most hated of them all was definitely “No Wings”; being a horned fallen angel, an imperfect creation that represented pride and betrayal by nature, had always made that talented woman feel uncomfortable on stage, almost under constant pressure: after all, that kind and good-hearted angel was supposed to be a perfect and beautiful artist, but it was clear to see that, when all eyes were locked on her, she felt worse or maybe in danger, despite she tried to hide those nasty feelings with sweet smiles and a strong character. “I swear, this time I didn't mean it! I shouldn't have said that and I apologize for that, ok?”.

“Get. The. Living. Hell...” Alice hissed and lifted a pretty big wooden nightstand with both arms, her dark and shiny irises glowing red for a moment as she literally shouted the last part of the phrase and hurled that piece of furniture to him at the same time, not caring about destroying her refined sofa or anything else, really. She just wanted that intolerable cartoon out of her sight, once for all. “OUT! I've heard enough from you, Bendy! Go away!”.

Dodging the violent hit with a nimble leap, the tiny demon raced towards the dressing room's exit at full speed, his pointy tail tightly pressed between his shaking legs in defeat and pure terror. “You got that toots, leaving now, goodbye, see you in one hour, get ready and beautiful and prepared for the big show, babe!!!” Bendy nodded with great vigour, desperately crawling outside and closing the white door behind his narrow shoulders, giving up and choosing to live. Damn, what a jerk, he was just having fun!“Phew... That was too close indeed... jeez, what's wrong with Alice tonight? I was just kiddin', she is too overly-sensitive! Bah girls, I'll never understand them!”.

But that's when Bendy heard a quiet noise, an easily recognisable sound that filled his careful ears and made him freeze in his shady track when he realized what he had just done: his usually joyful and positive co-worker was silently sobbing behind the layer of wood that separated the duo, her slim face buried deeply in her tapered fingers. He, with his unintentionally cruel and selfish words, had made Alice cry and had probably hurt her already damaged spirit. Sadness, nervousness, humiliation, insecurity, fear, incomprehension and rage merged all together, causing a painful weep to escape from the angel's wet lips and a couple of heavy, inky tears to stream down her soft and marked cheeks.

Well, damn crap. Good fucking job, you made Alice cry, you stupid little dancing moron. You... you made your co-worker upset right after an important performance, very well done.

“She never cried before... or did she?” Bendy asked with a gentle huff, mostly to himself, dropping down and pressing the left side of his artificial skull against the thin drywall, guilt and sorrow filling his short limbs and spreading quickly along with an empty hole, consuming the energies of the middle, throbbing spot of his incredibly gaunt chest. “Did I ever... even notice?”.

Of course you didn't notice her feelings or Boris' ones, you idiot. You're just a egotistical little shit, you only care about yourself and your popularity, and no one else. Right?

No, wrong, so wrong. Of course he cared about that kind angel and about Boris, they were his best friends. Well, his only friends, to be fair... and making Alice suffer or breaking her heart was the last thing Bendy wanted to do, despite how much he loved to tease her, underline his own attitude or sometimes fight with her, verbally and physically. That little demon thought that everyone knew that he was just kidding, that all he liked to do was playing around and having fun, not only with the kids, his little beloved fans. But now he evidently took a bad step...“You fucked up Bendy, you hurt one of your own friends.”.

You shouldn't lie to yourself like that, you know?

Yeah, he shouldn't have indeed. Hidden very deep inside his soul for many years, there was a shocking emotion that made the little devil realize that the fallen angel wasn't just a simple co-worker, or a friend, or a rival, or a family member to him; but more, so much more. Their peculiar bond was a little more... complex, unique, maybe genuine. In other words, somehow they were meant to be together, drawn and designed to truly belong to each other.

No matter if they were living and thinking creatures, capable of taking their personal decisions and freely express their temperament, the innate attraction they shared was still there, impossible to remove or ignore. Was it because of his purpose, for the audience, was it just a trait he couldn't erase from his artificial DNA? Or was it because after all, it was a real feeling, spontaneous? “No. She is my rival, that's what we truly are, that's what we both chose to be. Joey might tell me that Alice Angel is my official love interest, but we both know this won't happen. I am the number one, I must be on top of this whole show, I won't give up the place I've earned just for love!”.

So, you're even admitting that you're in love with her, uh? Nice move, you idiot!

That wasn't good, oh no, that wasn't good at all! He had to fix the situation as soon as possible, no matter what, even if the idea of facing her again in a few seconds was rather scary and intimidating, so much that Bendy had to rub his throbbing temples with his white gloves. “Grow a pair Bendy, you're the boss here! Yeah, you're the big star! Now walk into that room and deal with Alice!”.

Damn right he was! And besides, he still needed to get his black jacket back.

[cm-sheridan-writes]

Good Neighbors - Chapter Two

Lana soon expected a visit from Mrs. Pack every other week; she suspected that her neighbor was dosing with the herbal tea more frequently than her recommendation, but she shrugged that off. Cinnamon and anise were for taste, and the other herbs hidden inside weren’t likely to harm the nosy woman.

Their conversation at the party had been quiet, but somehow, news spread that the garden was going to be opened. From then on, packs of children were found hovering at the hedge walls, unconcernedly playing ball games and extended games of tag. They all seemed focus on their play, but their bright eyes were constantly straying to the large gate in the hedges. They’d heard the stories from their parents, how the Gellers had thrown a party each year and how the windows on the back of the house were always shrouded with heavy curtains. Snoopers were kindly but firmly turned aside as soon as their itching fingers touched the heavy fabric, so close to lifting it and peeking beyond. Rumors insisted that some succeeded, but those stolen glimpses were always of darkness, with strange lights twinkling softly as if from a great distance, even if it was bright day outside.

The rumors grew and cycled through the neighborhood, and all reached Lana’s ears. She’d laugh in the privacy of her room, and then walk downstairs and step through to the backyard, gazing around in thoughtful silence.

It took a few days, in the middle of spring, before anyone noticed that the large gate had acquired a small hand-painted sign:

Spring Garden Hours

Sunday 10am-4pm

Monday-Friday 6pm-9pm

Saturdays by supervision only

If you climb the trees, you must help weed.

Everyone wondered what “by supervision only” might mean, but the whispers were suddenly silenced when, the following Saturday, the gate opened. Lana walked through and watched the neighbor children who’d been warring on her front lawn for a moment before tying her hair back with a bandana and said, “Well, if your families are interested, I’m going to give a tour.”

All imaginary battles were put to truce, and the children scattered, some shrieking in excitement as they tore down the sidewalk and threw themselves through their own doorways. News of the garden brought the families out in force; a crowd gathered at the foot of 634’s old driveway. Lana pulled on a pair of dirt-encrusted gardening gloves, hefted a shovel, and beckoned the crowd with a smile.

The few steps through the gate took the visitors from spring to the heat of midsummer. The sun hung high in the sky, and the air was warm without humidity; it hummed as heavy honeybees flew sleepily from plant to hive. The path from the gate into the garden was paved with smooth grey rock, intercut with wandering spirals of polished river stones of different colors. Soon, the visitors realized that the shades of color split and would lead to various parts of the garden; the shiny black pointed to extensive flowerbeds that were the source of the heaviest scents. Despite the time of season, the beds were in full bloom. Voluminous orange and white roses and large crimson marigolds ringed the outside of the flowerbeds, which were soon revealed to be interlocking circles that bled from color to color. Lana explained that the raised beds were to separate soil types as needed, and the visitors very quickly lost track of all the flower types she named off. Nestled in each bed were painted clay pots overflowing with bright green leaves that gave off a light mint scent. Lana smiled as she ran her fingers over the frilled leaves. “Catmint. Keeps away most plant hazards, except for cats. We’ll see how they take it if I get any in here.”

The black stones wound into the center of the flowerbeds, where a canopy of ivy had long covered a small pagoda with small windchimes tinkling lightly from its arches. Ornamental rock gardens framed with glass mosaics set in cement surrounded the pagoda, as well as small fountains and ponds framed by miniature, intricately-carved and painted wooden trellises. At cardinal points around the pagoda were benches shaded by ornamental trees; sugar feeders hung from cast-iron hooks were planted nearby. As they watched, hummingbirds with jewel-like feathers hovered and zipped through the pagoda and flowers to stop at the feeders before moving deeper into the garden depths. Butterflies of all shades flitted from flower to flower and lazily sunned their wings.

Trickling water interspersed with the chimes filtered through the air, and the flower’s perfume gave the whole area a lazy, sleepy atmosphere. The cushioned benches looked more comfortable by the second, and even the grass surrounding the stone path seemed to invite the visitors to stretch out and doze like so many sun-drunk cats. Before she lost her guests in the soporific garden, Lana gently shooed them back down the path to the clearer air by the gate.

Back at the head of the path, a light blue path crossed to a grove of willow trees, through which were orchards of fruit trees. Unable to contain themselves and now free from the flower garden’s influence, the kids broke away from the group and started swinging from the lower-hanging branches. The more adventurous started to grapple up higher and higher in the grove, and laughed as Lana called out sternly, “I will remember this! Each of you now owe me weeding time!”

Their laughter echoed through the whispering branches, and the tour paused a while as families dispersed. Parents watched with anxiety as their sons and daughters worked higher and higher, some emerging flush with victory from the top branches. Stronger teens were able to coax the more nervous who clung to the lowest limbs with wide eyes, and with assurances that they would be caught, they would be okay, they settled against the sturdy trunks. No fruit had appeared as of yet, but Lana kept a mental note of which children climbed the highest, as the fall harvest would require an army of helping hands.

Certain of the neighbors wandered through the rows, vaguely wondering how such an extensive orchard could share space with the flowerbeds and still all be contained in the block that the Gellers had taken over those decades ago. The garden had an overwhelming sense of space; all of the pollen from the flowerbeds should have made the air heavy, like too much cologne in a small room. Surely the perfumes would have carried through the hedges to the rest of the neighborhood, but even here in the orchard, the only smells were of bark and the blossoming fruit trees. It was as if all the scents were dispersed over miles of land. Even more strangely, the heat and bloom of the flower garden should have been mirrored by a well-fruited orchard, and yet here, the trees were only yet coming into bloom. Lana’s garden seemed to operate on different time scales.

The brown stone path led to the ranch house that used to be 634, and stood next to the corner that 602 occupied. It had been converted into a workspace supporting the garden’s operations, with the floors being stripped down to the bare cement base below. The front sitting room had been fitted with extensive shelving that Lana intended to section off for each of her new little gardeners, along with outdoor furniture in case a gardener needed a break. What might have been the dining room held crates of the small stones from the various paths along with various sacks of sod, soil mixes, and mulch. The back bedroom had large double doors that led to the garden itself, and had been completely gutted and served as storage space for pots, pallets, and more gardening tools. The garage was maintained as a carpentry space, with handheld circular saws, hammers, and drills hung above a heavy wood worktable. Any maintenance to the flowerbed walls were supported here; wooden walls could be cut and drilled, and smaller baskets along the back of her workbench held bits for the jigsaw that was currently next to a flat slat of pine.

“I didn’t know you did woodworking,” Edgar Ford remarked, bending close to the pine and tracing the penciled lines and swoops that covered the pine’s surface.

“Not as much as I garden, and not as intricately. This is a bit of an experiment,” she confessed. “I want to try a small lattice cut from a single piece of wood. If it ends up having to be small, that’s fine; I want to put it with the succulents.”

The succulents laid at the end of the green stones, where the grass had been completely stripped out, and the ground was heterogeneous with sand and gravel. The largest of the plants were cacti that had grown to the knee, and were blooming with bright, singular flowers above crawling green pearls and split stone plants. Parents kept firm grips on their children, who were largely uninterested after being told that they could not in fact test the cacti spines. Many huffed and proclaimed that they were going back to the orchards, and teens promised their parents that they’d look out for their siblings. Some of the adults thought that they should turn back and watch the children, but Lana was at the edge of the succulent garden, where the greenhouse stood.

Tall, white-painted railroad ties housed thick green glass in the space where the 604 house had once stood. The top of the greenhouse barely cleared the top of the hedge wall, and the glass itself gleamed dully in the sunlight. Lana put her hand on the doorknob before pausing, and turning to her expectant group. “The greenhouse generally isn’t going to be open to the public,” she warned. “The plants here have to be closely monitored and cared for.”

With a click, she turned the knob and swung the door open. The air was moist and warm here between the shelves, and Lana insisted they follow her instead of wandering on their own. “Please don’t touch.” She seemed a little nervous, and that tension permeated her group, who crawled cautiously through the rows.

Here, it was quiet except for the quiet buzz of colored lamps. The open shelves of seedlings soon gave way to glass cabinets, which had temperature gauges and other digital readouts suctioned to the doors. The cabinets housed the plants which required climates that she couldn’t create outside, or were meant to quarantine any sick plants she found in her garden. Someone noticed tiny cameras hung from the cabinet roofs, and with a satisfied smile, Lana pulled a small tablet from a pocket in the smock she was wearing, and let the reverent group cluster around her as she opened the camera feeds, flicking through view after view. “I can keep an eye on them while I’m at work, adjust the water, and pump in food as needed,” she explained, her shoulders squared with pride. “I spent the winter setting this system up; I have to be out more than my parents were, so I can’t be in this room all the time.”

Against the back glass wall were the shelves and cabinets that she was most eager to show off. Here, she let the group spread a little so they could peer at the various pots kept here. Someone exclaimed suddenly, noticing the little label set in the shelf -- Bridget and Lila Pells, Christmas. “Lana!” Bridget cried, pushing her way to that shelf a little more forcefully than Lana would have liked, but bending forward with the utmost caution. “Lana,” she repeated and met the gardener’s dark eyes. “Is this--”

“This is where my family grows our gifts,” Lana confirmed, grinning as if it were the holidays already.

The hushed whispers gave way to increased excitement as everyone jostled to find their own label. Lana refused roundly to give specifics, but she did give hints to maintenance tips for the miniature trees, maturing bushes, and growing stalks in the clay pots. Soon, though, she ushered everyone out of the greenhouse doors, saying she’d given away too much already.

The breeze carried laughter and shouts from the orchard as Lana pointed everyone on the path signalled by small reddish stones. This one took its divergence from the blue orchard path and led to neat rows of vegetables, vines, and flowering herbs, including more of the catmint that stood around the flowerbeds. Once again, a few on the tour wondered just how large the garden was, for they could see the ivy pagoda and the sturdy succulents, but neither the arid heat nor the heavy pollen seemed to reach the rows and rows of cabbages, squashes, tomatoes (“heavily pruned,” Lana said, shaking her head sternly at the tomato vines waving innocently in the breeze), and herbs. Mrs. Pack was among the tour group, and she thought of the little bag of tea mix in her kitchen with excitement. Since the advent of spring, her sinuses had been blessedly clear, and she’d come to admit privately that she’d likely been reacting to something other than the Geller garden. The air outside the hedges even smelled differently than here in the garden, and she felt more energized than she had in years.

This change wasn’t reserved for Mrs. Pack; Lana encouraged her neighbors to try (“very small!”) samples from the herb garden, and slowly, bothersome aches or old injuries eased. Lana guided Mrs. Exeston to a cluster of tall flowers with short white petals and a large yellow center, and a few sniffs eased the headache that had been plaguing the woman for the last few days. The Kleins’ son had come in to visit his parents that weekend, and as he ran his fingers over the long leaves of the lavender, his anxiety about the upcoming shareholders’ meeting seemed to fade. Mrs. Pack, meanwhile, asked Lana about the components of her tea, and was led to a four-yard-square section where clustered sprigs of white flowers capped the long stalks and the air was permeated with licorice and mint.

After this, the group moved back to the orchard, and parents rounded up their children. The sun was starting the dip in the sky, and many were surprised to realize how much time they’d spent in the garden. Lana refused the many invitations to dinner, saying that she needed to get ready for her work week, but she’d be grateful to take rain checks, if they didn’t mind. One last trip was made to the work shed, where she had a large calendar hung on the inner wall of the front room. Reminding the young people of the sign, she got names assigned to various days to help with weeding and maintenance of the flower and vegetable beds. The parents agreed that this was a splendid idea, privately thinking that if the kids were going to run wild through the neighborhood, at least part of the time would be spent in such a beautiful landscape as the Geller garden. And who knows? Maybe they’d pick up on some of Lana’s personal tricks and apply them to their own flowerbeds, and the fall harvest loomed promisingly on the horizon.

Work day division was followed by shelf assignment, and it turned out that Lana had small, personal gardening shovels and hand hoes to spare for each of her new helpers. The excitement was absolute, and she had to eventually raise her voice and announce that the garden was now closed; she was sorry, but she was very tired and needed to make dinner for herself. Goodbyes were made, and the external garden gate closed behind the last straggler with a decisive click. Families moved slowly to their own homes, subconsciously aware that the air outside was cooler and moister than within, and almost seemed more sterile. “I’d sure like to visit the flowerbeds again,” one said to her husband wistfully, her daughter’s hand firmly grasped in her own to keep the child from turning back.

“I believe I saw pumpkin vines,” another mused to his brother. “The leaves were enormous; how big do you think her take is?”

“Can’t believe they’ve been caring for that themselves all this time. It must have taken years to build up.”

“The greenhouse! My plant looked like a little tree; I wonder what it’ll be!”

“WILL SHE LET US EAT THE APPLES CAN WE MAKE PIE?”

From behind the hedge wall, Lana listened to the voices fade before she pulled off her gloves and shoved them in a smock pocket with a sigh. There at the beginning of the path, all of the colored stones intermingled in bright patterns. There was one path that no one had noticed, and it did not run along through the large, smooth grey rocks split off through the grass that grew among the willows. This path was marked by smaller grey pebbles that she could just see through the tall grass, and curved lazily through the willow grove.

The external gate stood outside the garden’s work shed, and the path ran between the land between that building and Lana’s house on the neighborhood block. The work building itself stood north of Lana’s house, with the greenhouse to the east. In between, the flowerbeds and vegetable garden started and extended out in loose, rather bulbous wedges. The willow groves and orchard served as the outer ring to the whole system, and could be reached by any of the inner garden portions. Some of her visitors had noticed that the willows had completely ringed around the orchard in thick rows, but all were too enthralled with the garden itself to notice the inner hedge wall that stood beyond. It was higher than any of the walls near the house and almost seemed to stand in a haze. She hadn’t drawn attention to it, as she didn’t intend for any of her neighbors to access it. The willows and the orchard served as a practical barrier to that particular hedge, which had been allowed to grow thick and only necessarily maintained with wild briars and bushes. The willows here between the orchard and the wall itself were older, and much interspersed with other tree species that gave the impression of a natural forest, rather than an artificial grove.

She walked along the hidden grey pebble path past the orchards and through the far tree, which clustered closer and closer until the the sunlight only filtered through dimly. The end of the path led to two willows arched to each other, forming a curtain with their drooping branches. She reached deep into an inner pocket and withdrew a small key ring, staring meditatively at the small wooden door framed in that inner hedge and curtained by the willows. This was the only place in this hedge wall that she maintained with any regularity, to ensure that the door was always accessible. The wood was grey with age and weatherworn, but the knob and lock plate were as burnished as the day they had been installed back in 1953. Her fingers separated a small, copper-colored key, and she carefully inserted it into the lock with a smooth click. With a last look over her shoulder, and assurances to herself that everything outside was locked tight, she turned the key.