#golden hour : aurum

[felonsmojis]

neutral / happy / scared / box GenLoss!Ranboo emotes

[some-bunniii]

— self indulgence time, say howdy to my hellaverse oc! [+ a fic]

Kokabiel, one of Hell’s original celebrities and fashion icons [art by mamma_hisa]

I have a 6k word fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for awhile, and i worked long enough on it so i think it deserves some sunlight

i wrote the first chapter to a lucifer x oc story in an AU where Lilith leaves when Charlie is a baby and Kokabiel accidentally becomes her maternal figure, and it was going to be long but then I never touched it again ☠️ she was made originally made for the fic but she’s so gorgeous and mommy i spent days fleshing her out as my main bbyg.

working on a few things so take this for now to get a taste of her and some morningstar love! no romance, just introductions.

“Charlie, please go to sleep” The pearlescent figure next to the small bed begged the toddler, who was trying to scramble out of his grip and away from the covers that were wrapped around her waist.

The man’s platinum-blonde hair was disheveled, dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep that was quite evident on his features as he tiredly pulled the girl back onto the bed, holding her still as she whined against his hands. 

His mouth opened in a wide yawn, his shark-like teeth glinting in the soft light that emanated from the bedside lamp next to him. He blinked slowly, trying to rid himself of the exhaustion that was trying to overtake him, his eyelids beginning to droop even as he continued to wrestle his daughter. 

Charlie shot her father a nasty glare, brows furrowed as she frowned deeply. The bright red spots that graced the chub of her cheeks lowered as her lips curled downward. They were one of the many features she shared with the pale man before her, including those soft, sun-kissed locks and snow-bathed skin. 

She also shared the same tired eyes that met hers sternly, but her mind was too active to allow her body those much-needed hours of rest. 

The rest her father, Lucifer Morningstar, also needed.

“I know you’re sleepy, sweetheart! Just lay still so daddy can get some shut-eye too, hm?”

“No!” Charlie whined, lips puckered in distraught as her strength began to wane. Why would she sleep when she could be playing with her stuffed goats instead?! It just wasn’t fair!

“Yes!” Lucifer commanded, before he growled softly and lifted a finger towards the small child, a glint of golden light lit on the tip of his claw as he pressed it softly against Charlie’s forehead. 

For a moment it flickered against her pale skin, and Lucifer removed his finger as Charlie froze at the sudden tingling sensation.

Her mouth was in the shape of a small o as she tried to get a look at whatever her father had placed on her, but the only clue in her vision was the twinkle of aurum light. A warmth began to seep into her skin, emanating from the magic blooming across her face.

Like a firework launching into the night sky, the tiny orb shot from her forehead up towards the ceiling, before it burst into a flurry of sparks that glimmered in the darkness, casting the walls with their vibrant hues.

The golden light danced above Charlie’s head, her eyes wide and in awe as the golden sparks began to melt into rippling waves that spiraled across the ceiling.

Lucifer flicked off the bedside light, the room darkening slightly as the magic above basked the room in a subtle warm glow as it pulsed rhythmically.

He still sat beside the bed, hand resting limply against Charlie’s chest as the interest in her eyes soon turned to sleepiness, and her eyelids began to droop.

Lucifer watched with a small smile as a magical display began to lull Charlie into sleep, and it only took a few more minutes before her face relaxed into a peaceful expression and her breathing swallowed.

Roughling rubbing a hand down his face with a sigh, Lucifer stood from the floor. His fuzzy pink robe drooped from his shoulders just enough to expose his bare, finely chiseled chest.

Quietly, he tip-toed across the bedroom, stepping over dolls, stuffed animals, and other trinkets that littered the floor. As long as he was careful, he wouldn’t risk waking the child.

Lucifer’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, before he waved his hand in the air, and the golden light dispersed, showering the room in shadows once more.

Cracking open the door just a tad, he slipped into the hallway. Lucifer’s back hit the door’s solid, oak frame as he exhaled a sigh of relief. The fallen angel felt like he could slide down onto the plush red carpet and hibernate right there, but he was the King of Hell, he had too much self-respect for that.

Raking a hand through his disheveled hair, Lucifer began to drag his feet down the hall, fatigue gnawing at his mind as he passed by the large paintings that hung upon the dark red walls, a perfect backdrop to the fair-skinned figures that posed elegantly inside the gold-framed portraits.

A man, his apple-red cheeks practically brushing against the edges of his face as he smiled brightly. A woman stood tall beside him, a dark purple dress hugging her curved figure as she posed regally. Her fingers entwined with her counterpart, their intimacy evident.

Lucifer would take that down, eventually. It only ever reminded him of painful memories, of that violet, sultry gaze through which she would send him as they basked in the warmth of the large fireplace in the large lounge in their castle. 

Wine glasses emptied again and again as the King listened to her gentle humming, her fingers laced with his as she pulled him closer. Her lips left wet, sloppy kisses against his chin. The faint trail of black lipstick as her mouth connected with his in a passionate embrace of body and soul, intertwined.

Lilith, the previous Queen of Hell. Lucifer’s ex-wife, Charlie’s mother.

How long had she been gone now? Lucifer knew the exact day, he practically memorized the minute and hour when she left. When Lilith had sent him one last look from the open front door, her gaze unreadable through the black shades on her face, her honey-colored hair flowing like water around her figure as the two lovers locked eyes for the final time.

“Goodbye, Lou,” Lilith had whispered, her voice like silk against his ears even in such an anguished moment. Strands of hair covered her features as she spoke, shielding her expression as she turned her head, her back facing the fallen angel as she stepped through the threshold. 

Out of his home, out of his world. 

And, Charlie’s too. It’s hard explaining to a child that their mommy went on a very, very long vacation. He’d have the courage to tell her… eventually. Except, that meant she might one day blame him, too.

What could Lilith have been feeling, happiness, sorrow, anger? Lucifer would never know, he had tried so desperately to even understand why she had left in the first place. Had there been signs? An argument of some kind he had forgotten? What had he done wrong, that his first love and the mother of his child, would leave him to care for Charlie and the realm, all alone?

It was Lilith who held most of the influence when it came to the lower-classed demons, her words and songs enlightening the residents of Hell, cultivating the realm like a garden as she watered the needy and uprooted those with dark intentions like invasive weeds.

To the people of Hell, Lucifer was the epitome of complete, ultimate power. The embodiment of pride, and the reminder of who would always have control. 

He was rarely seen in public, especially in his own Ring, full of the very demons he despised the most. Sure, he had his covers on magazines and face plastered all over LuLu World, but that was where it ended.

Instead, the King kept his duties strictly to those most loyal and most powerful. The rest of the Deadly Sins, the Ars Goetia family, and once in a while joining on an overlord meeting. 

As long as they understood who not to cross, the safety and security of his family would never be at risk, if one could even try and pose any threat to one of the first creations. The Morningstar that shone before Lilith, before Earth, before everything.

In all honesty, Lucifer didn’t really do… anything, when it came to his subjects. 

It was Lilith whose appearance was imprinted into the minds of her subjects through her many concerts and powerful political influence. It was she who had given them the confidence to defy Heaven, to stand against their exterminations that plagued the Pride Ring once a year.

Now, Lucifer was left to hold up face, to keep the realm from divulging into chaos, as the stability of the hierarchy of Hell slipped slowly and slowly through his fingers. No matter how many demons he could smite with the snap of his fingers, the sinful on Earth would always be sent to him as punishment, for the both of them. 

He needed to keep them all in line, as respectfully as possible.

Which meant Lucifer was alone to take care of Charlie, who was insanely active and needy for attention, like any demon her age. She couldn’t stay out of trouble, and Lucifer had to juggle her, his own volatile emotions that had been causing him to skip more and more meals, and the piling events that always filled his days this time of the year. 

The annual gatherings with the Ars Goetia that he had to attend symbiotically to keep their unwavering loyalty, the meetings to make sure the rest of the Sins were keeping their rings afloat, and flaunting a little bit of his power to the Overlords in Pentagram City that liked to stir trouble in his own ring.

Hell needed a future so that his daughter would have something to rule over when she came of age and wisdom. No matter how he tried to push the thoughts of his little girl growing up and leaving him, sooner or later, the fledgling would have to leave the nest.

Lucifer could see it, clear as day, his spirit and creative spark deep in her gaze when she listened to his many ideas and visions of what could have been and what surely will be. The way she giggled quietly as he presented her toys of his creation, her soft gaze looking at each little trinket with adoration and inspiration.

If she was anything like the man Lucifer used to be, that meant she would no doubt rebel against his views of Hell and his subjects, and that scared the King. 

Lucifer continued to pass more portraits, dimly lit by the warm glow of the wall lamps dotting the hallway. Pictures of his daughter, the other Sins, and the grand opening of LuLu World. The final portrait next to his bedroom door was a small painting, an almost-perfect recreation of the only Heavenly creation he still held close to his heart. 

The Morning Star.

The large ball of bright, white light illuminated against the oily-black backdrop that was also speckled with smaller, glittering stars. Some shone in vibrant, multi-colored hues that lit the painted night sky with a soft celestial light.

Except, none of those stars shone as bright as his star, the star specifically created for him by a face whose familiarity had been long lost in time. A face that still gnawed at the edge of his mind every time he stared at that painting, those long-buried memories slowly crawling from the depths of his soul.

Maybe, one day, he’d have the strength to remember.

When the door to his room was pushed open softly, Lucifer’s eyes hit the digital clock on his nightstand. It was one in the afternoon, and Charlie would only nap for a few hours before she awakened with renewed energy. 

The toddler has grown restless lately, anxious to see a new face, to take a peek outside of the confines of their large home. No matter how many magical displays Lucifer presented the child, she always grew bored, and that frown was becoming more permanent on her lips as the days passed.

It must be tiring waking up and practically seeing your reflection almost every minute of your day.

There was no one Lucifer could trust in the presence of his daughter, though. No one he could see fit enough to care for her, not even himself. He struggled, being a father, for his little apple pie.

Parenting was not easy, especially when you had no idea what you were doing. It was especially hard when you were too afraid to upset your daughter with stern words and an authoritative voice, which meant the toddler ran the house.

The most powerful being in Hell would have to put his foot down to his little girl… eventually. After this quick nap, maybe. 

The large bed, much too big for only one person, beckoned Lucifer with an irresistible invitation. His legs moved with renewed strength before he fell face flat into the soft, cool duvet that welcomed him kindly. His muscles relaxed instantly, his feet dangling limply from the end of the bed as he finally opened his mind to the idea of sleep.

Slowly, Lucifer’s consciousness began to ebb, and his snores echoed around the room as his mind stilled into blackness.

What he wasn’t aware of, as the fallen angel sunk deeper into the plush, red blankets, was that the small bed on the opposite side of the hall was empty. Its previous inhabitant was currently tottling towards the door to his workshop that had been slightly ajar just across from her bedroom.

With wide eyes, Charlie scanned the room as she poked her head through the crack in the doorway, her little button nose twitching as she drank in all the little knick-knacks and prototypes of fantastical ideas that would never see the light of day.

It was dimly lit, save for the faint red glow pouring in from the large circular window above the desk across the room. There was nothing of interest on its smooth, wooden surface to the tiny awe-struck eyes. Instead, it was the soft, chromatic light that caught her gaze on a low shelf right next door. 

Floating elegantly above a short, circular pedestal were seven glowing rings, stacked above each other a few inches apart with zero gravity. Each held a unique hue, from green to pink, as they lured Charlie with their ethereal glow. If she could lift her little body just slightly onto the chair against the desk, she could reach them. 

What could they be, so pretty just floating like that? They looked just like glow-stick necklaces! Would Daddy think she was pretty if she put them on and showed him?

With a large smile and slightly unsteady steps, Charlie crossed the room, her tiny feet pitter-pattering against the soft carpet as she beelined for the colorful display. When she reached the wooden chair, her chin barely grazed against the cushioned seating as she placed her palms gingerly against its plush surface.

With a mighty heave and a sharp inhale of breath, the toddler began kicking her legs wildly as she tried gaining momentum to hoist herself onto the chair. 

Charlie sputtered for breath as her grip loosened due to her sweaty palms, but then her leg hooked onto the seat railing, which gave her momentarily support to pull herself farther up until her knee grazed the top of the cushion. 

Placing one arm underneath her for support, the toddler reached the other out towards the ring. Her fingers splayed out, the whites of her eyes glowing red as they reflected the ring’s vibrant hue. 

Charlie held her breath, beginning to tip over just as her index finger grazed the very edge of the ring’s surface. Red energy shot down her spine, sending her hair to stick out with static 

The girl barely got a squeak in before she vanished in a burst of lightning that barely resonated a sound as it zapped her away. 

The red ring flickered once, faltering above the rest for only a moment, before it stilled into place.

And the room was empty once more.

⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀🤍🤍🤍

On the outskirts of the Pride Ring was a small, white villa nestled against a rocky cliff face, surrounded by tall, black fencing that ended in sharp, spiked ends. Purple magic sizzled off of the tips, a clear warning to anyone who wanted to enter: They would not be welcome.

Inside the powerful barrier, was a large garden filled with a surreal combination of beauty and decay. Vibrant flowers bloomed amidst twisted, blackened trees that seemed to reach out with gnarled branches like skeletal fingers. 

The floral scent that wafted from the blossoms permeated the air, mixed with the slight tinge of sulfur of Hell’s odor.  

Nestled among the dark purple bushes and other hellish flora, were tall snow-white sculptures of men and women, their stone eyes staring lifelessly across the garden’s expanse. 

A diverse cast of figures, short and brawny, too tall and lanky. Each unique from the rest.

Except, for their facial expressions, in which they each held a similar look of terror. As if they had been frozen in place during a time of anguish, of a terrifying encounter that left them to rot inside their pretty stone casks. 

They were positioned across the lawn in a perfect, meticulous manner. As if someone spent day in and day out holed up inside the black fencing, with nothing to do but continuously cultivate their blooming garden. 

One particular statue, which held the image of a goat-like man, staring up at the sky as if in one final prayer, was currently being inspected by a gracefully poised woman standing before it. Painted on his frozen cheek, was a small black lipstick-stained kiss.

From a distance, you’d think she was human. The silky, black dress that hugged her curves was reminiscent of ancient Greek fashion. Her shoulders were fully exposed, garment held up by a high neckline that tickled at her throat as she leisured, a glass of alcohol in her hand.

Her rich, deep brown skin stood out among the pearlescent, marble statues. Practically shimmering against the red hues that basked her home with the midday light. 

An ethereal radiance seemed to seep from her skin, giving her silhouette a faint, golden glow that made her skin shimmer like light on morning dew.

Her hairstyle was similar to a ponytail, a partial updo that sat at the top of her head like a bun, before the long, white locs cascaded down her back.Along with two large strands that framed the sides of her angled face.

The big differential between her and a woman strolling down the street? The horns that graced the top of her head. They curved to end just above her forehead, a black crown that cemented her place as another resident of Hell.

Travel a bit farther down her figure, and you’d find those large, white tendrils of hair that swished as she turned slightly had a funny texture to them that most would mistake for thick braids. 

Except, braids aren’t made of scales, are they? 

At her ankles, a multitude of snakeheads stuck out their tongues, tasting the air as their beady red eyes scanned across the grassy scape. 

They twisted around each other, curling into themselves to keep a tighter form as they wriggled against the woman’s back, interest peaked at their surroundings as their tongues flicked in and out.

Once in a while, a head would spot some small, hellish critter skittering across the yard looking for food. And, before one could blink, its jaws would open wide as it shot forward, pulling slightly at the woman’s scalp as it clamped its maw around the tiny creature.

It would slink back near her ankles, trying to gulp down the tasty delicacy as the other snakes around it poked and prodded for a taste. They hissed and snapped at one another, fighting for a morsel.

The woman turned her head, shooting the reptilian mass a glare as they wrapped around her legs. Milky white pools met multiple red, glowing eyes as they slunk back slightly at her scolding, giving time for the one snake to finish gobbling up his snack without fuss.

The two smaller serpents that framed her face weren’t as long as the rest of their siblings, instead reaching to her breasts as they lazily rested on the fabric of her dress. 

Tenderly, the woman lifted an arm, and her shorter serpent curled delicately around her hand, until its head rested gingerly on her palm. 

Gently, she brushed a thumb along its snout, and it hissed softly with pleasure, its eyes closing shut as it nestled farther into her warm skin.

“Jameson, another margarita, please.”

“Yes, Lady Kokabiel,” a small imp butler bowed, his cropped, curly white hair bouncing slightly as he lowered his head. 

Turning, the imp trotted towards a shaded area underneath a weeping willow tree, its low-hanging branches that grazed against his shoulders were dark red, shielding the large mixture of alcohol from the heat of the day as he poured another glass of the blue liquid.

When Jameson returned, Kokabiel handed him the empty glass before plucking the margarita from his grasp. She sent him an appreciative smile, her white freckles sparkling like starlight as they curved with her lips.

She swirled the alcohol in the glass, watching the small vortex for a few moments, before lifting it to her lips and taking a sip. 

That’s how Kokabiel spent most of her days in Hell, nowadays. Getting a buzz off of fruity liquor and fawning over her snakes, as she lounged in her garden with no one to bother her. 

It had been a long time since she left the spotlight, previously a fashion and sex icon, Kokabiel had flaunted her good looks and curves to promote all kinds of products and events, dominating the biggest runways. She even starred in a couple of A-list movies, growing her until she reached the peak of stardom.

Kokabiel had earned her place at the top of the pyramid, right next to many older, successful celebrities in the industry. Lilith was a big name, even bigger than Koko’s with how beautiful of a singer she was, pulling in fans like a siren with her honeyed voice. 

Even with such cutthroat competition, Kokabiel never felt that she was fading out of the audience’s vision with how fast her mailbox would fill with writings from her fans

Fanart, declarations of love written in sparkly pink ink, and invitations to large parties and prestigious events. Even now, she still received fan mail here or there, although they were usually left unanswered. 

She had never wanted to retire in the first place, her plans for the future only confining to grow bigger by the day. Until one night, during a party hosted by the overlords of the city, was Kokabiel confronted with an ultimatum. 

“I know your secret,” he had smiled devilishly. That flat-faced, know-it-all smirk the man sent her one evening, as he confronted her in the darkness of a hallway. 

“What secret?” Kokabiel laughed dryly, shooting him a question glare. 

“Oh, you know,” his pixelated eyes lifted to the darkened sky through the ceiling-high windows nearby, Heaven’s white glow cascading through the panes, “The one about where you really came from, not the Lust Ring lie you like to spin to the audience.” 

The alcoholic buzz in Kokabiel’s system faded in an instant, and her snakes coiled against her back, hissing loudly as she shot him a deathly glare. It had seemed he had chosen to give the news from a safe distance, too far for her snakes to reach. A smart man. 

How did he find out, and what did he plan to do with that information?

That smile of his had only widened further, giddy at the fact he had her in his grasp. He could pull the strings, keep her away from his industry. This secret, that he had only stumbled upon accidently, was going to make sure she stayed gone.

Kokabiel had never caused trouble, never flaunted her power to rise up Hell’s hierarchy, never made any public displays of how easily she could rip demon’s souls out of their bodies if they got too close. 

Nor did any demon claim to be owned by her, as they were too busy being decorative pieces to tell their tale. 

Kokabiel’s presence was a mystery to her powerful counterparts. Her aura was too clean, too ethereal to be a sinner or an average hellborn. But, she had never actually said the words ‘Yes, I’m from Heaven.’ 

She didn’t need to, anymore. After that little conversation, the talking TV had made a deal. Keep that pretty face away from the cameras, and his lips were sealed for eternity. 

Kokabiel had announced her retirement a day later, not answering a single question about why or where she was going. Those cameras and microphones that had gotten shoved in her face received no words as received hurried into her limo. 

How could Kokabiel, someone whose face was once plastered onto entire sides of buildings, fall so hard because of some up-and-coming overlord with the intent to control the masses? She’d had bigger spats with the paparazzi on the side of the street than this!

Now, she didn’t have to worry about those annoying flies anymore, with their constant flashes that always anguished her snakes and the peppering of questions.

Finally away from any prying eyes and those awful, bright flashes that plagued every step Kokabiel took out in public. Here, she could do and say anything, without someone waiting to jump at the opportunity to sell a shitty, non-contextual picture to the highest tabloid bidder.

Solitude gets boring, though. Even with her snakes to crawl over and her garden to tend, one could only vent to the marble figures for so long before they felt their sanity slipping.

That was until an imp had squeezed his way through the thick pickets of her fence, those short white curls singed at the tips from the magic that stung him. 

Whatever was chasing the small man was more dangerous as he continued to beeline toward the bushes that could shelter him.

The imp had turned his head, catching the sight of his pursuers as they reached the fence. Three burly, tall shark demons roared as his tiny frame sped off.

That only led him to meet horns first into the stomach of the owner of the fence, and the land he was currently trespassing on. With an oomph he landed on hit, gaze darting at the being standing above him.

Kokabiel had quirked a brow, unamused as she wiped the dirt from the front of her dress. It wasn’t until one shark demon rammed into the fence, did she lifted her head and a dark frown played on her lips. 

He had seen it, the power behind her gaze, when the loan sharks blew up one of her favorite rose bushes as they broke through the gates.

“How dare you,” she had hissed, her white gaze boring into the thugs, glowing with a much fiercer intensity as she bared her teeth, “Get out!” 

The imp had flinched, but Kokabiel’s anger was not directed at him as she stepped right above his quivering body, and he could feel the soft grazing of scales against his raised arms before he turned to watch the woman continue to meet the loan sharks halfway.

“Not without our little friend there,” one sneered, his teeth glinting as he gave the woman a silent warning of his strength.

“Unfortunate that you aren’t the one making the demands,” she retorted, putting herself between the sharks and their prey. 

With a loud, collective hiss, the bodies of her snakes lifted, encircling her head, and they opened their maws with extended fangs, displaying their own grim warning with bright red eyes.

The aggressor didn’t like that so much, as he opened he pulled out a large, glowing steel-laced ax and charged right for the duo. The imp squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the killing blow. 

The Kokabiel’s pupils shifted from that starlit glint into black pools of emptiness, and the air sizzled with a powerful energy right as the shark-faced man swung his weapon to connect with her shoulder. At the last moment, the fallen angel ducked and backpedaled, right as one of her snakes lashed forward, jaw wide to reveal twin, deadly fangs and struck the demon right in the eye. 

The scales of her snakes pulsed with a golden shimmer, and the demon’s mouth opened in a painful scream as his feet took on an ivory color, hardening to stone. 

The other sharks near him tensed, the rage on their faces instantly draining as their comrade's feet cemented to the ground, that stone plague creeping farther up his waist as he writhed in place, clutching his eye as black blood seeped from the large gash. 

They took a step back, then another, and another as the only blubber left on the struggling man was his large head. His teeth gnashed in mixture of anger and pain, but his good eye only showed fear, right as it was glazed over by white stone.

After that, the rest of the loan sharks had fled, huffing and puffing as they tumbled through the broken fence. 

Then, the snake that had bit the demon began to convulse, writhing with an open maw like it had something stuck in its throat as black blood from its victim landed on the grass below.

Like some hellish form of mitosis, the scales of the serpent began to stretch and split, revealing a mirrored version of the reptile that began to take form and separate from its twin. 

With wide eyes, the imp watched the two snakes finally , this new, fresh face shaking its head in confusion, before the rest of the scaly follicles began to surround and inspect their new friend with flicking tongues.

Kokabiel only watched the demons scurry off, before she sighed and adjusted her dress. Pivoting, she turned to face the imp, her arms crossed as she regarded him curiously. 

The scrawny demon gulped as he stared wide-eyed. Was he next?

“What’s your name?”

“W-what?” The imp replied hoarsely.

“Your name. You have one, don’t you?”

“it’s… Jameson, madam,” 

“Thank you, and I assume they’ll kill you if you try and go back into the city?”

Jameson nodded slowly, rising tentatively from the ground to look up at the woman. 

“Well, it seems you are out of options, Jameson,” Kokabeil had quirked a brow, a small smile on her lips, “but, it appears I’m in need of a butler. What do you say to free room and board in exchange for your services? I’ll let you keep your soul, I promise.” 

He had looked at her, suspicion in his gaze as his eyes darted to the snakes that coiled around her, shooting him hungry glares. How could someone with power like that be so… nice? If it were any overlord back in the city, they’d have taken his soul and his free will.

But, the offer didn’t sound too bad, and she didn’t look crazy. Just… lonely. Maybe, staying here would be so bad.

That’s how Jameson had begun working for the retired celebrity he now called master. Weirdly, he didn’t do many things a butler would do.

Sure, he cleaned and was at her beck and call most of the time, but Kokabiel did most of the things on her own. She cooked, tended to her garden which was slowly growing by the day, and kept up on the juicy rumors that circled the city. 

Usually, Jameson spent the day as entertainment for her. As an ex-clown in the circus, Jameson had a few tricks up his sleeve he’d showcase for the fallen angel, and she seemed to eat it up with amusement.

Kokabiel’s thoughts towards him? He wasn’t exactly sure. Obviously, she was much kinder to him than anyone else he’d worked for, but her zipped lips on anything related to her past or what kind of demon she was made him unsure.

There were times she got… sad. That was the best way to put it. Jameson never saw her cry or have a tantrum, but sometimes she’d get so sullen even her snakes seemed rather depressed.

And, once a year there was a day that Kokabiel would lock herself away in her room, and would not call for him at all the entire day. Not even for food to feed her snakes. What could make her so depressed for that one day? A lost loved one? Her death day, perhaps? 

She rarely mentioned her influential era as one of the largest fashion icons and models Hell had seen, although she didn’t need to with her collection of the seductive, sultry gazes she on the many ripped out pages of magazine covers she had framed on her walls. 

The few times he did go into the city, heavily disguised to run errands for Kokabiel, he’d pick up the newest tabloids or fill her ears with the latest gossip circling the entertainment industry.

“That’s what that old fart is up to now?” She had chuckled about an old acquaintance as she moisturized her snakes with a scale-safe lotion, “He used to be an A-list actor, and now he’s selling retinol cream? Ha!” 

The snakes had hissed with a chuckle-like sound, mirroring their mother as she coddled them. They still made Jameson nervous, even after all these years, they had a mind of their own, each individual one it appeared. But, they all seemed to have the same thoughts when it came to him: hungry.

Watching the snake finish its snack made Jameson a little uneasy as Kokabiel turned away from the statue and she took another sip of her drink.

“I’m getting tired, Jameson. I think I'm going to go inside, maybe take a nice, warm bath to relax.” 

“Would you like me to get the water heated?”

“No, thanks. I can do it myself.” She said, beginning to walk towards the patio doors. 

Jameson’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, at the very moment the statue began to sizzle with a powerful energy that even made his curls stand on end. 

Red sparks erupted from the front of the statue, right on the pedestal it was standing on which raised a few feet in the air. Jameson could only stare in disbelief as the sparks began to swirl like a vortex, until they burst and sprayed like confetti and a figure materialized an inch off the marble surface.

The tiny stranger landed with a quiet oomf, before she stood on her feet with a slight wobble, her little hands held out in front of her for balance. 

Jameson’s eyes flew open at the sight. It was a child! Her platinum-blonde hair disheveled, and her large eyes were darting around the area with confusion and fear. 

When her eyes landed on him, she took a tiny step back, her eyes growing wide as she stared nervously at the new face. 

“M-m-madam!” Jameson finally croaked, his finger pointed towards the girl with a slight quiver as he tried to get the words out. 

“What..?” Kokabiel quirked an eyebrow at his stammering figure. Jameson’s eyes never left the strange girl, and she slowly followed his gaze to the statue.

The toddler and the fallen angel locked eyes, before Kokabiel’s mouth fell open and she stood there silently for a few moments. Charlie’s eyes widened, and she pulled her arms to herself in comfort at the shocked faces.

“What…. is this?” Kokabiel finally spoke slowly, eyes trained on the little being standing awkwardly on the statue. Her snakes lifted their heads slightly, tongues flicking the air as they tried to get a scent of the girl.

“It’s a child, madam,” Jameson whispered.

“I know that! But, how did it get here? What’s the point of having a magical fence if everybody can just walk right through it?!”

“She didn’t get through the fence, madam!” Jameson squeaked, shaking his head furiously as he explained, “She just… appeared here, like out of thin air! I saw it all!”

How could that be possible? There’s no way a child could harness such strong magic. It must be some kind of illusion, trickery by a powerful demon trying to use her empathy to get the best of her!

“You!” Kokabiel pointed an accusatory finger at Charlie, taking a small step forward “How did you get in my garden?”

“Um…” Charlie started, but her words—of what little she had—died in her throat. She only took a step backward, trying to escape from the attention 

“You’re trespassing on private property!” Kokabiel continued to stalk forward, she was only a few feet away now, her snakes becoming antsy as they curled around her, hissing softly.

“Oh…”

“Who are you?” 

Charlie took another step back, her hair grazing the leg of the marble figure. Where was she? 

“…Char—eep!”

Charlie’s heel hit the foot of the statue, and she tripped, her back hitting its leg as she slid awkwardly sideways. Her tiny fingers grasped desperately at the smooth, white stone, but to no avail, as she tumbled right off the edge of the pedestal.

Jameson squeaked in terror, before throwing his hands over his eyes to protect him from any grisly sight. He heard Kokabiel gasp, but no sickening thump or terrible crack of bones meeting the firm ground.

Slowly, he splayed his fingers and lowered his hands, his eyes widening. He stood there gobsmacked at the scene, mouth agape in silence. 

Yes, Charlie had been unable to save herself, falling helplessly in the air…. right into the arms of a shocked Kokabiel. 

Kokabiel stared wide-eyed at her own reaction to the split second of instinct that propelled her to catch the child. Charlie was tightly secured in her hands, being held at arm's-length as far as possible. 

Charlie blinked, before her eyes met those glowing white pupils with a slowly growing smile. She had one hand wrapped around the wrist of the taller woman, as she lifted up her free hand and sent a small, shy wave.

“Hi!”

[art i commissioned for the chapter by ruspettaa]

woahhh nice little(ha!) introduction to my oc, with some cute art of charlie! If I were to ever continue writing this fic, the relationship would be more focused on charlies than lucifers, at least at first. Slow-burn/co-parenting kinda thing bc Koko can def exist without being a relationship with our handsome king. she’s sipping margaritas free as a bird rn.

kokabiel is a loosely based version of the biblical figure with the same name who created the stars and constellations. One of the reasons she fell was for teaching humanity astronomy. A few others fell with her too, but she instead melded into demon society instead of her heavenly counterparts.

the only people that know of her true identity are Hell’s royalty, and Stolas probably has a signed autograph of hers somewhere around his office seeing as his duties are closely bound with her creations.

she’s a business woman too, though i am trying to figure out whether she sells snake-skinned accessories as a fashion line or diluted venom that’s a psychedelic drug which makes you feel all euphoric and stuff. l

I also have no idea who her voice claim is 😭 i imagine it being smooth and buttery like Beyoncé, but i’m sure there’s other voices similar to hers that I haven’t found yet.

i’ve got a comm [by wkyarts51243] in the works that will be styled closer to the show, so here’s a sneak peak i guess ☠️ I’d say her height is slightly shorter than charlie (not counting her horns lol), but I haven’t settled yet.

i have more art (one of her and luci hehe), which i might share either. but you can have the full version of the first art pic, with an extra piece from the same artist 🤭

also making this post so i can cement her backstory and stop changing it up ☠️ it’s its writing officially now yall

anyway, enough rambling, back to writing!! have a great weekend 🤍

[owlespresso]

the golden ivy which clings

omega!luocha/beta!reader you are a beta courier. one of your clients is more interested in you than you'd like. tags: blackmail, coerced intimacy done as a part of @lorelune's a/b/o collab.

Your legs ache. Your muscles twitch with the extended exertion. The last five hours spent on your feet are catching up to you. It’s a trapping of the occupation. Being a courier on the Luofu means you regularly bounce up and down its many layers and areas, rushing from district to district, from the boughs to the canopy. After three years, you’ve long memorized the thin corridors and hardly beaten paths, mapped every vein and pipe and ligament in your seemingly endless pursuit of planning the optimal delivery routes.

Faces blend together in your line of work. You doubt your clients remember much anything about you. You’re a muddy sparrow flitting from branch to branch, a bee gliding from flower to flower, as nameless as any other customer service worker. You earn more than most of your peers, but that’s mostly because you’ve extended your services to stations and ships beyond the Luofu orbit.

…And also because of your status as a perfectly even beta, liberated from the debilitating symptoms of heats or ruts. You have no need for bimonthly off days, and needn’t fear the voracious gazes or grasping claws of wayward alphas. No one is likely to notice a lone, scentless courier, even in areas where the Cloud Knights frequently patrol.

Today’s business sees you on the far ends of Aurum Alley, where night has slipped over the artificial skies like silk over skin, streets steeped in deep shadow. You stick to the walls, underneath awnings and through narrow side paths. Silvery moonlight dapples through a canopy of sunset orange leaves, touching the aged stone path, the askew benches next to the food stalls.

On the furthest side, mist billows from the waters and onto the red wood docks. Quiet, still. Hardly a customer to be seen. It’s been the very same every other time you’ve visited. The only people you’ve seen have been members of the IPC. They’re surely thrilled at the minimal returns the businesses here are receiving. Filthy hawkers, intent on contaminating every locale unfortunate enough to make contact with them. You hope they never see another coin in their entire lives.

Not that it’s any of your business. You’re just a courier. It’s in your best interests to keep your head down and keep your eyes from wandering, lest you attract their attention… or the attention of any other governing body who would disprove of the wares you ferry from place to place.

Near the docks, where the wind churns the briny waves, stands the blond man. A repeat customer, a man you’ve come to know as ‘Luocha’.

“You didn’t have to wait out here,” is the first thing you say to him, adjusting the straps of your heavy bag. Your shoulders have started to ache from the strain of the day's long treks. “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he assures you. He has a delicate kind of beauty, the kind you see in fairytale picture books or depictions of soft omegas in gravure magazines. His cheeks are thin, set of his nose regal. His lips are soft rose, petals curled into a winsome smile. His lashes, thick and blonde, fan against his cheeks every time he blinks. It’s all at odds with his imposing height and strange, cold aura. “Shall we head inside?”

“It’s whatever you want,” you reply drolly.

“Inside, then. You look... tired. Have you been on your feet all day long?” Luocha’s hair sways when he turns and bobs which each sway of his hips. Dim lantern light catches on the ornamental pin which holds his strands in place. Just as striking as the rest of him. You really don’t know how he’s come this far without finding a mate. He surely turns the head of any alpha who catches a whiff of him. Even with your muted sense of smell, you still detect undercurrents of that delicate sweetness. Frosted finger cakes and clean face powder. It’s buried under something bitter and medicinal—only able to be caught in the tender hours of the night. After his work is long done.

“That’s just the job. It doesn’t bother me,” you assure him. The apartment building is darkly lit and nondescript. He doesn’t look like he belongs here, in all his whites and golds, pristine and put together and perfectly pressed.

“Still,” he glances back at you. “You won’t be able to do your job at all if you don’t get enough rest. And I would hate to be deprived of my favorite courier’s company.”

You don’t know what kind of face you’re making, but he takes one look at you and laughs quietly.

“My apologies. Given my occupation, it’s practically second nature for me to be concerned about these sorts of things.” He says with a small shrug. You don’t reply, lips nettling into a frown. If you were kinder, perhaps more naive, perhaps you would have mistaken the sentiment to be genuine. 

He doesn’t live in the hollow apartment he leads you to. It’s too ramshackle, mostly undecorated space with a couch, a table and a mismatched arm chair when you walk in. He’s dressed too nicely to tolerate moth-eaten curtains and layers of dust.

“Pardon the state of this place—I don’t actually live here. If it were up to me, we would hold our meetings in a nicer place.” he sighs. You don’t know why he feels the need for small talk. He hasn’t always been like this. During the first few months of serving him, the only words exchanged between you both were basic greetings and fleeting formalities.

“It’s fine. ‘S not like you live here,” you wave him off and deposit your bag onto the leather. It’s an earthy green, the color nearly the same as the worn upholstery. It squelches at the impact, and you tug it open by the zipper. The vacuum of created space is chilled around your arm, goosebumps rolling over your skin. A square package wrapped in plastic, off-worlder medicine banned aboard the Luofu, favored by certain members of Sanctus Medicus.

“Are you a member of Sanctus Medicus?” you’re not sure why you ask.

“Oh? I can’t recall you ever asking me such a personal question,” Luocha observes, a mote of mischief in his voice. “Why? Would you dislike it if I was?”

“No. It’s not my place to police anyone's beliefs—but the members I’ve met seem…” you trail off. It isn’t like you to give your opinion so freely, but you can’t imagine someone so discerning falling in line with those quacks.

“Sanctimonious? Self-righteous? Gullible?” Luocha lists for you, leaning against the back of that dowdy couch. He doesn’t move to accept the package, even when you pointedly zip the bag back up. His smile is unreadable.

“All of those things,” you agree, making the three steps it takes to reach him. “Though, I can’t really blame them.”

“And how could you? The long-lived of the Luofu will be roaming the galaxy and enjoying its many fruits hundreds of years after they’re dead and gone. It’s only natural to pursue that which they feel has been hoarded from them.” Luocha plucks the package from your waiting hands, eyeing it with mildly fond intrigue.

“I suppose,” you hum. You’ve already spoken too much. This isn’t a discourse you should be involved in. Sanctus Medicus, despite their incompetence, is still a faction of individuals with enough outreach to meddle in your business, should this conversation get back to them. 

Long fingers wrap around your wrist. Your eyes blow wide as you stumble into his chest—sturdy, so different from what you’d expect from someone so beautiful, built well beneath his layers. There is no presage, no forewarning.

Underneath the chamomile slides forth the tender, ambrosial scent which betrays his status as an omega. Your pulse hums in your ears, body frozen stiff—but you remain unblemished by the adrenaline.

“Mister Luocha?” you say.

“So steady, even now,” he observes with infuriating tenderness, breath warm against the shell of your ear. “I suppose I should have expected that from an emanator of Harmony.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, unable but to be proud of how steady your voice remains. Every meeting you have ever had with him replays in your head, rolls by all at once like jittering strips of old-timey film as you pull them from the rusty bank of your memory. What could have given you away in the brief moments you’ve shared together? What in the way that you’ve handed him his contraband belied your true nature? Nothing, you’re sure. He’s discovered this piece of you on his own, and that worries you the most.

“Come now,” Luocha coaxes, the euphony of his voice slipping into something softer and sweeter. “You can be honest with me. We’ve already shared so much with each other, haven’t we?”

“The only thing I’ve ever shared with you are the poisons you order,” you inform him, hands braced against his chest. He tuts at you, and his scent grows all the sweeter. Even you can recognize the excited pheromones he pumps into the air. Your senses are replete with him, tongue made sticky by the devious croon of his voice.

“And you give so much of yourself with that alone,” he insists. “Your willingness to pass illicit drugs into the hands of your customers tells me far more about you than any small talk ever has. A shame, really. You have such interesting thoughts, whenever you deign to share them.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask flatly. Your eyes narrow with undisguised suspicion.

“A great many things, but to start...” His fingers tap a gentle drumbeat atop your shoulder. You shrug him off. A contemplative sound hums deep within his chest, quiet but loud in the dusty still of the room. “Share more of your thoughts with me, Courier.” he beseeches. “You’re always so quiet, when we’re together. I think we’ve known each other long enough to hold better conversations.” His hands slide off of you, smooth and quick as oil slick. It’s a concentrated effort to not bolt out of his reach like a startled fawn. 

His gaze bores into your back as you take several measured, extremely normal and calm steps over to your abandoned bag, zipping it back up with renewed zeal.

“I think that was extremely inappropriate.” you share generously.

“I apologize. I only meant to tease, but it seems I’ve pushed too far,” he confesses, genuinely contrite. There is something else about his inflection. Something which sparks alive the long distant urge to soothe. “I don’t often forget myself like this. You must bring it out of me.” 

You frown. The feeling dies. It’s not your responsibility to comfort this weirdo. He’s done nothing to earn your sympathy. Pesky biology, however, would dictate otherwise.

“You’ll be delivering to me again tomorrow, won’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. Your internal discourse snaps to a halt, instinct shafted to the side to make way for the sacred tradition known as “doing business”.

“Of course. Same ingredients, same amount?”

“Yes—and a Core Esse, if you’ve the means to procure one—”

You give him a look, but you nod regardless. “Understood. I’ll meet you at the docks, tomorrow—” It’s not professional to walk away while making arrangements with a client, but you very badly want to be out of this stuffy apartment and away from the new, bizarre scrutiny he looks at you with.

You typically avoid knowing anything about your customers beyond the bare basics. However, you can no longer afford Luocha that same distance. Just how much does he know? And where exactly has he pulled your precious secrets from? 

The investigation begins tonight. You’re hesitant to call on her, but you may very well need to reach out to a particular contact.

—

Hours worth of feverish research inevitably lead to you just calling the Stellaron Hunter who owes you a favor. You have not the slightest clue where Luocha procured such private information, or how much of it he has. Penacony’s travel logs will be the first place to look. If your bothersome merchant has been there before, it’ll be no mystery where he figured you out. Does The Family still talk about you? And do they look back on your brief term of leadership with nostalgic fondness or embittered hatred?

You care not. Those mistakes are long behind you. The Luofu is a kinder place, somehow easier to navigate despite its Abundance soaked innards, where only the engineers dare wander. Without the protections they are outfitted with, you suppose you’re more vulnerable to mara exposure and all it entails, but you never dwell longer than half-an-hour at a time.

Roots and vines cling to the aged metal paneling and jutting pipes, green and gold particles sour the dim air. The pipes rattle and groan, portions of something neon yellow shooting through the complex web of them at irregular intervals. Flowers sprout from the ropey greenery, some bulbs shut and others agape. Pale petals of pink and white and periwinkle peeled wide open against slick silver and rusted brown. The closed bulbs look oddly wooden, but you’re not stupid enough to touch one.

Luocha could surely excuse you for being mara-struck. The Cloud Knights, on the other hand…

Well. It’s not worth thinking about. The overworld welcomes you back with a gust of fresh wind, washing away the acrid tang of the tunnels. The shallowest of them have several discreet exit and entry points. Crevices in the walls swallow you whole and deposit you in nondescript locations across the Luofu, random alleys and average apartment buildings where it’s easy to sink into the crowds.

Today, it’s a high end district, populated by the high-end homes of diplomats and ranking officials from the Luofu’s sister ships. They come to roost in these behemoth manors a few times a year at most, meaning the streets are emptier than you’re accustomed to. There’s not a soul to be seen or heard, not one resident there to share the wide open road with you. The houses leer at you with wide windows and lacquered doors, sat fat and happy behind their tall gates and gaping lawns.

Luocha calling you here, after all of those clandestine exchanges in that dowdy shell of an apartment, is a statement in itself. Is he threatening you with this obscene display of opulence? You can’t begin to fathom why he’d bother with bothering a simple courier. What does he possibly hope to gain?

The address he sent is among the smallest houses you’ve seen so far. One of the least extravagant, which is to say, still pretty fucking extravagant. The latticework fence is wreathed with delicate cotton roses and the yard is a veritable Eden in comparison to the other lots. The path forward is lined by patches of vibrant wildflowers.

The air is cleaner here, and for the first time since entering the district, you can hear birdsong echoing from the tops of the trees.

How much of this did he plant himself? And how have his neighbors handled living next to a miniature forest? You reach out, palm sliding over the closest oak’s trunk, the bark coarse under your cold palms. Beyond the path, to your left, you hear the babbling of flowing water. The yard isn’t large enough to have a creek, you reason, and the time of your appointment looms close—but you figure you have enough legroom to at very least sneak a glance. Your curiosity for once gets the better of you, sending you through the thicket of green, beyond a copse of trees lined up like appointed sentinels, and over an emerging path of flat stones.

The forest opens into a small clearing. A massive, rock-lined pond nests at the center, surrounded by cattails and watergrasses and other waterfaring plants. The babbling, as you expected, comes from a filtration system stealthily hidden amongst the many reeds.

Sunlight shivers across the gentle waters, stirred up by the afternoon breeze.

A chair has been left unfolded beneath the low-hanging branches of a stout, red maple—a splash of crimson among earthy greens and cool browns.

Cautiously, you pick your way down the slope to the pool, squinting at the fish which flicker and dart between rocks and lotus stems. Mostly koi. Pretty, glimmering things which likely cost an arm and a leg. You’ve been to many aquatic markets, even ferried a few live specimens yourself. You settle by the edge, elbows resting on your bent knees. Cautiously, you extend outstretched fingers towards the water, dragging along the silken smooth surface.

A hand lands on your shoulder.

“My, my—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says. One moment you’re above water and the next under, your startled flailing sending you straight over the lip. 

Luocha is at very least apologetic about your unfortunate (humiliating) spill. He shows you to the washroom and closes the door with a contrite little smile. You run up the water bill for your trouble, the shiver chased from your drenched frame as you step under the hot spray. The shower has room enough for three people, easily. There are two heads and a bunch of silver knobs and dials you don’t feel like fucking with. Rich people and their needlessly complicated household appliances.

You don’t know exactly how long you spend in there, but the mirrors have fogged over by the time you get out. Only once you’ve properly scrubbed the pond water from your skin and tended to your hair do you turn the shower off. The mist sticks to your skin even after a decent toweling. You go through two until you give up and throw on the plush robe he so generously provided. It’s as fine quality as the porcelain tub you spy nestled against the western wall.

The brass glows near gold beneath the warm light. The entire bathroom is all golds and black. Utterly resplendent, but it doesn’t really seem his style.

Is this even his home? You can’t help but wonder as you stroll out the bathroom and into the rest of the house. Most of the interior chambers are linked by wide circular arches. The furniture is cream cushions paired with lacquered dark wood. A sweet smell hangs in the air, but you can’t tell if the potted white lilies on the table beside the sofa are the source.

Luocha stands by the window. Beams of sun hit his face and cast his hair in vibrant gold. He’s ethereal in those shades of sun. He looks delicate, somehow, curves of his body lean under the flowing press of his silken robe.

He looks at you. The dreamy green of his gaze clears your brain of the remaining fog, leaving you cold and alone with the fact that you are alone, together, in an empty house. In a mostly empty neighborhood.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” he smiles. “They’ll be clean in around an hour. Once again, I apologize for startling you—”

“Don’t. I shouldn’t have been skulking around in your front yard in the first place.” The sooner your humiliating slip is forgotten, the better. “Let’s just get down to it. You wanted something delivered, right?”

“All business with you, even now,” Luocha sighs, forlorn disappointment wrinkling his brow. “You don’t have to be so uneasy around me, you know. Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll brew us some tea.”

You do not sit. “You called me here for a reason. I deserve to know what it is.”

“Is your company not reason enough?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. He’s closer now, close enough for you to see how glassy his eyes are. The cloying, sweet smell grows stronger with each step taken, reckless pheromones enough to send a shudder down your spine. Is he… “What if I said I simply wanted to see you?” he breathes, gently cupping your chin. “Should I admit that you’ve haunted my near every thought for the past month, or would that be going too far? Would it frighten you?”

A ruddy flush paints his pale cheeks, cracks in his composure beginning to show. He’s always been the perfect picture of composure, to an irritating degree. The certain grace he moves with used to almost annoy you. So steady, in a world contaminated by constant disruption and imbalance. The very pinnacle of perceived harmony. Perhaps you envied the way in which he carried himself or the freedom he enjoyed as an interstellar merchant, but now—

Now you can say you hardly envy him at all.

“I would say that you should wait until your heat is over before making any confessions,” you observe, resisting the urge to swallow and make the problem worse. Omega or not, he still looms large over you. 

“I’m in pre-heat, where I’ll most likely stay for the next few days,” one of his hands graces your right shoulder, thumb rolling delicate circles there. “I won’t ask you to… service me through the heat itself, but your company would help soothe the symptoms.” The touch wanders down your upper arm, a smooth, repetitive caress. It feels more like an unconscious gesture or a nervous tic than anything else. A self-soothing sort of motion.

“I’m a courier, not an on-call heat partner,” you inform him. How desperate must he be, to seek out the assistance of a courier of all people? “And I’m a beta. I can’t help you in the same way an alpha could. You know that.”

“And how do you know what will and won’t satisfy me?” he replies cooly, haughtily, as if he did not just sing your praises and plead for succor by your hand. “Betas are known to be particularly adept heat and rut partners due to their versatile nature—”

“I too have read the ‘Galaxy Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dynamics and All their Intricacies’. You don’t need to quote it verbatim to me.” you reply flatly, sounding as unconvinced as possible. Luocha is—dangerous. He is handsome, and he seems very sweet, and always seems well of manners, but you know he hides his daggers deep in his sleeves. The moment you realized you are considering his offer, you feel apart from yourself. Because it is ludicrous an idea.

Luocha’s eyes close. His bright lashes fan against flushed cheeks. “No sexual intimacy has to be involved. While skin-to-skin contact is the most effective method to ease the pain, simply being in the same room as you will suffice.”

The heat of him slips onto your skin, the layers between you thinner than you realized. An absentminded hand roams to the sash tied ‘round your waist, idly toying with the knot. His palm, after a moment of fidgeting, settles on the round of your hip. He gives you a gentle squeeze, but it reminds you more of a cat flexing its claws than a gesture of simple appreciation. He inundates you with scent and touch, pins you like a butterfly to a board, wings splayed open for his searching eyes. 

Not that you’ve really tried to fly away at all. A flush of newfound heat encompasses you, unbidden as his scent washes over your palate. You draw him into your mouth and swallow, thighs pressing tight together. It’s ridiculous, really. Inane. Who is he to make you feel so unbalanced?

You find him so utterly vexing. No other man could do this to you, you think. You wouldn’t dare step foot into anyone else’s private home. You wouldn’t consider breaking the strict code of propriety you keep with your customers. But for Luocha, denizen of the Abundance and keeper of your most precious secret, you fear you may do anything.

“I’m a beta,” you repeat quietly.

Luocha remains undiscouraged by your disquiet. Baffling creature, bold beyond reason and reckoning behind his steady, at times coquettish mien. “You can still help me, if you would like. I’m not in the practice of taking unwilling partners.”

You let a poignant pause settle between you, as if you are legitimately considering his request. He leans in, ever so slightly, as if leering at you from three centimeters away is any better than leering at you from five.

Then, finally, after remaining silent for at least thirty long seconds. “Do you prefer blackmailed ones?”

He smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle with it, entire face lighting up with genuine fondness. So utterly vexing, this man.

“Do you really want an answer to that question?” he asks. When you don’t answer, he presses a kiss to your temple.

—

It isn’t as awkward as you thought it would be. Perhaps it’s because Luocha seems to lack shame in almost everything he does. True to his word, he doesn’t touch you without permission. The rest of the day is spent sitting together in the lounge. He reads a book while you sit on the couch, half-paying attention to the news program you’ve put on. Dinner is takeout. The conversation is… bearable. It helps distract you from how close he is, pressed tight to the side of his body.

You stay in the living room until the sun sets, vivid orange light descending to dusky twilight. Eventually, Luocha stands to head to the washroom. A chill replaces the space he once occupied. You don’t allow yourself to mourn the loss. Instead, you haul yourself onto your feet. Black spots swim at the corners of your vision as your body lags a few seconds behind your brain. 

It’s just more time wasted, as far as you're concerned, so you push yourself. You stagger until your eyesight clears, intending to make a break for the guest room that certainly must exist. Somewhere. A house this extravagant must have a guest room.

You manage to peek into two rooms, one a particularly extravagant closet and the other a sunroom. 

You sullenly retreat back into the main hallway and head for the next door. Luocha slides out of the bathroom and fixes you with a questioning stare. “Where are you going?” 

“Isn’t there a guest bedroom?”

“Ah,” he stands there and looks at you for a long moment, like you are a stranger in his home. Which is partially true, you suppose. You are little more than strangers. “There is, but I was hoping…” he looks off to the side with a pointed sigh. “you would spend the night in my bed.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a new head. He stares back, completely unrepentant.

“Because skin-to-skin contact helps?” you supply wryly.

“Right,” he smiles, as though glad you understand. “During pre-heat, an omega craves the constant companionship of a trusted person, preferably a mate, but that label doesn’t apply to our arrangement. Remaining isolated during this time could cause anxiety, depression, feelings of worthlessness, headaches, migraines—”

“You’ve gotten all the pity you’re gonna get out of me.” you inform him crisply. You relent anyway. The wooden floor is chilly as you pad towards him.

Your stoicism “Wonderful. Thank you for accommodating,” At very least, he seems to know that he’s putting this upon you. Luocha’s bed, you think, is far from the worst place you could spend your night. He’s far from unappealing. He smells good. He’s been weird to you, before, but he’s also unwaveringly polite and currently weaker than usual, hazier. 

Not like you have much of a choice.

He could easily leak your location to your former allies. The Family’s connections span the universe wide. They could easily track you down and cause you all sorts of trouble, maybe even get you kicked off the Luofu. It’s best to cooperate with him, for the time being. And it’s not like he’s terrible company. He holds the door open for you even now, when you’re here for his sake. 

His bedroom is as luxurious as the rest of the house. The floor is dark wood and the walls are black with golden accents. Tapestries hang over tall windows, blocking out the moonlight. A porcelain vase sits atop a combination dresser-vanity, its knobs and gnarled claws a warm bronze. The rest of the furniture is similarly colored, and of similar quality. 

What draws your attention the most is the bed. It’s a wide mattress held aloft atop a platform. Gauzy black curtains hang from the top of the thin gold frame, parted to give you a good look at the mountain of pillows and blankets stacked atop of it. This, you recognize.

“Ah, that’s…” you begin, not quite sure how to phrase it. Aren’t some omegas super touchy about their nests? You haven’t the slightest clue as to which compliments to pay and to which part.

“A nest. I typically don’t indulge in the baser instincts that come with heat, but the urge was stronger than usual,” Luocha informs you, padding over to the mattress. He flops backwards on it, swimming through silks and satins like a minnow up a stream. Soon enough, you’ve lost him in the pile. “There isn’t much else for me to do besides twiddle my fingers, and I can only watch television for so long. So I thought: why not? It’ll be as good a way to keep busy as any other.” 

There’s a small pause. Luocha hesitates by the vanity, drumming his slender fingers atop the hard wood. There’s something uncharacteristically fretful about the gesture. “What do you think?”

“It looks comfortable,” you nod sagely.

“What glowing praise,” he says, almost beaming. You’re kind of annoyed at how… no, you won’t call him cute. Not even within your own internal dialogue. “I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you join me?”

He rests up against the headboard, lines of his body lean and lithe. He looks like something out of an old painting, long locks and pale limbs flowing over the dark sheets like 

The green of his eyes is startling in the dim of the room. He looks you over, haughty like a monarch on a gilded throne, until his eyelids dip and his head tilts.

“Come here,” he beseeches again. “Please.”

And you do. You cross the threshold of the room, slipping past the open curtains and into the bower of his bed. The mattress dips plush under your hands and knees. Once you’re halfway across, you sit back on your knees—but this is not close enough for him. He needles and pleads with you until you’re close enough to grab. One of his hands wraps around your upper arm, the other at your hip as he tugs you to him, fitting your back snuggly against his front.

You still, but the tension remains wound tight in your shoulders. You’re more amazed at your own stupidity more than anything else. Wasn’t it you who insisted on keeping your clients at arm’s length? All of that haughty professionalism was tossed out the window the moment you succumbed to his pleading—if it could even be called that. He asked nicely. 

Your eyes flutter shut. You lean backwards into his chest. His wide hands slide over your body, thumbs rolling circles onto your hips. A soft and sticky feeling settles underneath your skin as his thighs (bigger than you imagined) cradle your own, silken fabric of his robe pooled over the sheets. A low sound rumbles in his chest, suspiciously close to a contented purr. 

“I’m so glad you decided to spend time with me, courier.” he coos. His hand glides up your arm to cup your own, long fingers interlacing with yours. A contemplative hum rumbles within his chest as he turns it over. His thumb traces the lines and creases of your palm. “You have no idea how much this means to me.” 

“I suppose I don’t.”

“And that’s why it means all the more to me that you stayed,” Luocha murmurs. He reaches over to the nightstand, and the lamp flickers off. The room is plunged into matte darkness, hardly a glimmer of moonbeam slipping in. “I think that you’re more considerate than you pass yourself off to be. Does that frighten you?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to talk this much,” your brow wrinkles. “Aren’t you supposed to be too horny to think?”

“I’ll remind you that I’m currently in pre-heat—a process my body uses to prepare for the actual heat.” he says with a light sigh. “Believe me. If I were in heat,” his breath brushed against the shell of your ear, a warm and heady caress. “You would know.” He delicately presses the shell between his teeth, nosing the space behind it with another pleased sigh. 

You shudder, and close your eyes. “And what’s the difference between heat and preheat?”

“Ah, I suppose you wouldn’t be able to tell… The pheromones for one,” Luocha squeezes your hand. “Are different. They’re similar to the ones we give off when under threat, a signal that we’ll need help soon… Not all omegas go through it—only an estimated forty percent.” 

“I see.”

Luocha smiles, the curve of it pressed against your throat. You don’t like not being able to see him. A predator looming in the dreary dark of his den. “The desire is still present. Less a raging storm, more the gentle lapping of the waves.”

“Poetic. But I still don’t get why you picked me. They have services for this kinda thing. People who know more about it than I do.” If you doubted his sanity before, you certainly do now. What kind of sane omega enlisted the help of a postwoman above paid professionals? 

“I would rather you than an unfamiliar alpha some service decided would be an adequate match. Even if vetted, a stranger is still just that. A stranger.” Luocha idly toys with your fingers, thumb rubbing circles onto your palm. It’s a touch too familiar, too tender for what you are. But Luocha permits himself to it, and the rest of your body, with a natural ease. You can’t help but feel lulled by it. 

“I see. And you feel safe sharing a bed with your dealer?” Tempting as the siren song of slumber may be, you retain enough wit to pry. The whole thing is too absurd to not badger him a bit more. The arm wrapped around your waist tightens in reply.

“I trust someone who has never been late, never sold my personal information or purchase history and has been nothing but courteous to me.” Luocha lists off your credentials with ease. They feel like they’re straight out of an EULA, or some sort of contract. Out of place in a situation as delicate as this. You could easily tell him as much, but he’s starting to sound sleepy. You would rather he get his rest. And be quiet.

“Of course,” he squeezes the space above your hip, making your pulse spike. “Having the endorsement of an Aeon helps. Especially if said Aeon rules over the Harmony. What a lovely and orderly path to tread, courier. She chose you so well.”

“You should have told me that this thing was gonna make you delusional,” you grumble, writhing in his hold to simply signify your displeasure. A part of you wants to come clean and ask where the hell he learned your secret. It’s obvious that he won’t change his mind, or be swayed by your protestations. But you’re still too stubborn to admit he’s right.

You’re almost annoyed by how comfortable this is. He laughs, breath brushing the crown of your head, but he says nothing else, perhaps sensing that he’s reached your tolerance threshold for silliness. His breathing evens out a few minutes later, chest rising and falling beneath you.

You adjust yourself, settling into his side. Over the next few minutes, he contorts around you, the weight of his arm settling around your waist. Time slips away from you, after that.

The rampant pounding of your heart at last begins to slow. You’re almost calm, wedged between the blankets and body. Your sleep shirt is still wrenched upwards, his bare arm pressed against your stomach. The contact is a boundary crossed, a spark to a hunger you didn’t know you had been harboring. You don’t like it. Some part of your hindbrain rejoices at seeing this man’s needs met, and that delight worries you more than literally anything else Luocha has done or said today.

You stare across the room at the covered window. Slowly and steadily, you untangle your legs, curling them to your stomach. Outside, a frog croaks. The pond babbles in the distance. The air above the blankets is cool on your face and legs as you gently kick the covers back. The chill caresses your skin, sneaks between your robes to give you bumbling gooseflesh. The walls of the nest vent out the worst of the cold. Maybe you’ll ask him about cracking a window open tomorrow. Just a little bit.

—

You wake up a few hours later, and blink into the dark. Luocha stirs next to you. He’s awake. You don’t know how you know, but you can tell. His finger curl ever so slightly against the soft core of you. A shiver ripples across you, robe parted just enough for his fingertips to touch your bare skin.

“...Did you plant the garden outside?” you don’t know why you ask, but you do. 

Luocha hums into the crook of your neck.  He strokes your stomach, petting you.

“I did,” he answers after a moment, a contented sigh ruffling your hair. “Now get some rest.”

—

You leave the next morning, without breakfast. Luocha is a surprisingly deep sleeper, though perhaps you owe that to his current affliction. You’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re also not going to be lured into skipping work by your own foolish sympathy. He can take care of himself for a miserly ten hours.

The day goes as any other does, at first. You take the shortest route you can find through the Luofu’s abundance-ridden innards, starting at the lower decks first. Packages and envelopes pass hands with little delay.

One of your clients, a buxom woman who owns a silk shop, covers her giggling mouth with an oversized sleeve. You eye her with suspicion. She notices, and giggles harder.

“I don’t mean to offend you, dear courier—it’s just—I hadn’t taken you the type to so openly… wear that kind of perfume.” she says, as if elaborating. You don’t understand what she’s talking about, and you don’t particularly care. You leave her to her frivolities and spirit away, merging back into the crowd with casual ease.

The next few clients each make some degree of face at you. One goes wide-eyed, before schooling his features into his typical, customer-service smile. The next looks at you like you have just thrice cursed his family line, nose wrinkled and eyes narrowed into a beady glare. You resist the quite mean-spirited urge to remind of the legality of his purchases, shoring up your mental fortitude by recalling the sumptuous tips he usually gives.

Your seventh customer meets you beneath the crimson awning of a local cafe. You’re glad to be out of the beating sun. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” she says with a smile, nursing a cup of iced tea and ah—you realize, something about you has really changed.

“Thank you, but may I ask what you are congratulating me for?”

“Oh!” she looks startled, and then sheepish. “On the relationship? I didn’t mean to presume….but your scent, today…” she trails off, looking awkwardly to the side.

Fortunately, you don’t need her to elaborate. The context clues snap together with sudden, startling clarity, the peevish behavior you’ve endured all day granted perfect context. Of course, evidence of your business with the merchant would be more apparent to those with keener noses. Your cheeks blood with abashed warmth. You resist the urge to shrivel like an old apple peel, overwhelmed all at once with humiliation, with indignation at yourself and the man who cast this misfortune upon you. 

Heavens, how outrageous you must have seemed, walking into the esteemed establishments and parlors of your clients bathed in that ridiculous fellow’s scent! It’s but another consequence of yesterday’s poor decisions. You fume silently as you leave, making a beeline for your apartment. It’ll delay the rest of your deliveries, but that can’t be helped.

Your phone jitters in your pocket as soon as you step through the threshold of your dwelling. 

You drop your bag onto the grey throw rug. It lands with a mighty thud, loud enough to make you silently hope the downstairs neighbors had not been enjoying an early afternoon nap. Your jacket gets tossed onto the sofa, keys thudding onto the upholstery. Then, you roundabout to the door. A row of locks catch stray rays of sun. You swiftly latch each one and give the door a rough, cursory shove. 

Then, and only then do you check your messages.

You left without saying goodbye.

Your brow furrows. You’d never taken him to be this needy. Every other message above this exchange is polite, but ultimately curt. Most of his recent prying has been done in person.

You were still asleep

It’s alright. When will you return?

After work. Around 8 hours

That long? Could I persuade you to return sooner?

I can’t just skip out

I’ll buy you out. How much do you earn in a day?

Honestly, the nerve of this man! You type a series of poignant expletives out before tactfully deleting them.

It’s more than the money. my clients are powerful. i cant lose those connections

A few poignant moments pass before his reply comes.

Alright. I’ll see you later.

The tension drops off your shoulders. You expected him, in truth, to let loose a most potent threat to ensure your immediate return. A part of you, small and illogical, fears he’ll do his worst regardless. The thought of The Family learning your whereabouts nauseates you, bile churning at the very base of your throat, but surely a man possessed of his many sins is too wise to open his mouth about yours. 

Without even realizing it, you have completely trapped each other. 

What did he ever do with that Core Esse?

It’s better not to think about it. You have hours more left to move, and your line of work demands utmost focus, lest you drop an organ into the wrong customer’s hands.

Fifteen minutes, you afford yourself. The water chases the sweat from your skin, soap and sponge raking your skin raw. The evidence of him washes down the drain with the suds, leaving you remarkably less agitated. Because, really, who gave him permission to linger on your skin and on your clothes and in your thoughts—who gave him leave to evoke your fear and sympathy and intrigue and misplaced affections? Not you, that much is for certain!

You determine yourself free of the vexing beast’s cloying scent and return to the Xianzhou’s busy streets.

—

Arrogance is one of humanity’s most populated wheelhouses. Next door, its foundations built by fools and geniuses both, stands proud senselessness. If you had to name a tenant they share, then with abrupt acuity, you would surely name the Stellaron Hunters, who, as far as you can ascertain, base their stratagems off the ravings of a lunatic. As you wander to the edge between land and space, you cannot help but wonder what his credentials are, and if anyone has ever laid eyes upon them. 

You don’t care enough to ask, though, when you reach the jagged edge. The end of the cargo hold, where the Xianzhou’s artificial sky breaks. Fragments of pale blue and white float amongst the void, growing smaller and sparser until none remain. The ground ends in a series of jagged, shiny edges, as though the metal had been cut clean through. You duck underneath a smattering of ships and starskiffs and cranes and cargo containers. Cold, silvery chrome gives way to the cold, open empty. That is where the man in black waits.

“Blade” is his name. He is a vision against the star-scattered expanse of the empty. Stood beneath a bright, red star, unbothered hy the thin oxygen levels and freezing temperatures. Tall and looming and perhaps irredeemably beautiful. It could be the lack of air talking. You like him more than you like Silver Wolf. She wastes your time with always unnecessary and often personal questions.

“Here for Silver Wolf, I assume?” you ask, already rifling through your bag for the cables and strange, circuit-board devices which she has ordered from you.

“Yes,” he nods, and you appreciate how he says nothing else. 

“Alright. Here you are, then. Make sure she knows that she owes me another favor. These things were hard to find. She’s getting the discount of a lifetime.” you hand him three small boxes and he leaves with a nod. A polite and concise interaction. As distant as mostly-strangers should be.

—

“Home” is after that. The skies have gone a bright gold, nighttime looming in the near distance. 

Luocha’s home is not your home. You refuse to identify it as such, for doing so opens dangerous doors and implications which are most inappropriate for what you have. You make a brief pit stop to your apartment to gather a night bag, changes of clothes haphazardly crammed into the black canvas alongside a toothbrush and other necessary toiletries. 

You nudge the door open with your hip. Pale orange light falls across the threshold and into the dimly lit living room. Luocha sits on the couch, or rather, he lounges. The silken collar of his robe drapes over his right shoulder, exposing a frankly indecent amount of his chest. You pay his naked skin no heed, plonking your bags onto the floor. It’s a welcome weight off your shoulders. You wish you could lay on the floor. A good sleep on that fine, polished wood would fix you.

“Welcome home,” he greets you, daintily depositing the book he’d been reading onto the side table. “I never realized just how long your hours are. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m used to it,” you reply, but you flop onto the opposite end of the sofa regardless. A heavy sigh punches out of you, weary eyes shutting. 

“With how much you charge me, I would think you could afford to shorten your shifts,” he says, with sympathy you know is feigned. You crack an eye open to cast him a cursory look—but the room shifts around you in a blur as long fingers curl around your wrist and pull, tugging you onto his side of the couch.

You land with a disgruntled squawk. Your hands curl into silken fabric. and you realize belatedly that you’ve all but been dragged atop of him, left laid out between his legs. You twist, top half of your body turning to the side to level him with a nasty glare. 

He’s flushed, is the first thing you noticed. More so than yesterday. His cheeks are dusted in pale pink, a delicate blush that runs all the way to his shoulders. He’s warmer, too. You can feel the heat of him pressed along your body. 

“You didn’t have to do that. You could have just asked,” How does someone who looks so willowy have such a strong grip? It’s beyond you, truly. 

“Forgive me,” Predictably, he looks completely, and utterly, unrepentant. “You were just so unsuspecting, I couldn’t help but want to surprise you…” You make a point of looking as surly as possible, and the fiend laughs. Quietly, and behind his oversized, crimson sleeve. Unbidden comes to you the shape of his lips around that euphonic sound, what they might look like when parted by soft breaths and dulcet moans— “Ah, please don’t make that face. It only makes me want to tease you more.”

“Enough of your insanity. ” you bite out, pointedly pressing your elbow into his side. You wriggle in his arms. His grip curls tighter around your waist and he sighs, pressing his face into the crook of your neck to take a long inhale. “Let me up!”

“Just a few more moments?” he asks, words mouthed into your skin. You feel hot all the way down to your shoulders. You muster all your resilience with a swallow, but it isn’t enough. A hush falls over the living room. 

Against your better judgment, you find yourself lulled by the gentle sound of his breathing, by his warmth at your back. Nearly ever part of you aches. Your legs throb, the tight muscles of your thighs worn and throbbing from a long day’s labor. The scorching pains dig deep into your shoulders and your back—you’re due a nice, long shower, you think. 

The dappled sun against the adjacent wall writhes and shifts with the artificial breeze. You can hear the winds shifting through the canopy outside. A songbird sings a trilling little tune. It’s easier to focus on these things while you indulge him and wait to be let up, even if he is being unusually quiet. You’re wise enough to not necessarily be glad for the silence. 

His hand cups your hip, shifting you even closer. It’s only a centimeter or two, but it lets you feel the pointed hard thing jutting into your back in greater clarity. Unbidden, your cunt throbs between your thighs. The arousal and exhaustion makes your mind sticky, concrete thoughts difficult to come by among the haze. 

“Luocha,” you murmur, and he moans softly, breath brushing against your tender skin. Goosebumps flare across your shoulders and arms despite the heat—the sound the shock you needed to get moving. “This is—” you cut yourself off with a swallow as his lips press to the column of your neck. Your already flagging resistance whimpers out into nothing. Each heavy inhale draws him further in, the scent so sweet and cloying in spite of your muffled senses.

“You must have had such a hard day. Doesn’t it hurt? Always going home to that empty apartment?” he purrs, voice indulging, dripping with a delirious sort of fondness. And isn’t that always the trouble with these sorts of situations? Does he want you, or are you the closest warm body available for him to rut into? How strong is his grip on reality? You writhe in his lap and he gasps. His grip tightens in response, holding you fast with surprising strength. “You must be so lonely…”

“I’m not, really,” you nearly snarl, finally losing patience with your clinger’s affections. Your voice, alongside the elbow you jab into his side, jars him from his twisted reverie. He chokes, and muffles a groan into the collar of your jacket, at last lifting his lips away from your skin. The breath whooshes out of him at the force of the blow, but his grip barely loosens. “Behave. Or I’ll leave.” 

He inhales quietly, and shudders.

Over your brief stay in his lavish home, you have perhaps twice (or thrice) wondered if keeping to your principles was worth it. Why not sink into his touch? Why not drink deep of the physical affection he saturates you in? The fact that you’re contemplating the subject at all is deeply ruffling. Little less than two weeks ago, you would have scoffed at the idea.

Alas, the creature at your back is more siren than man. It wounds your pride. You aren’t just any beta. You’re a prime beta, a beta noticed and beloved by Xipe herself. The gift of Harmony should allow you to smother the scents around you completely. It should grant you immunity to the bothersome urges which so often get in the way of business. He weakens your shored-up defenses, somehow. 

“Of course… My apologies.” he sounds contrite, and despite yourself, you soften. Just a tad.  “It’s just—well, a little difficult to hold back when you smell like that.”

“Like what?”

Luocha evades the question, without even pretending to humor it.

“Your last customer was an alpha, wasn’t he?” He lifts his head from the hollow of your throat, looking down at your intertwined fingers over your shoulder. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand before he flips it over. His fingertips brush over yours, before curling into a fist around your pointer and middle, giving a gentle tug. He idly toys with your hand while he speaks. Voice a light, low murmur. “A tall man. Black hair, pretty red eyes… They look like candle wicks, don’t they?” He says it fondly, and your heart sinks into your stomach.

Of course he knows Blade. Why wouldn’t he? 

You’ve never bought anything from Luocha, but you can tell from what he orders that he’s a merchant who idles in the same, seedy markets as yourself. A man who had asked you to trade him an organ brushing shoulders with a Stellaron Hunter somewhere in the darkest corners of the Luofu sounds completely and utterly plausible. A group of little coincidences which occurred just to be a thorn in your side. How did they meet? You can’t help but wonder. How well do they know each other? What kind of relationship do they have?

You don’t ask any questions. It’s not your place. Getting involved anymore than you already are is just asking for more trouble. 

“And if I did meet him?”

He pauses, and laughs a little.

“Well. I am almost in heat. Perhaps I just became… a bit defensive when you came back, smelling just like him. Omegas in heat can be just as territorial of their dens as alphas in rut, though that's often overlooked in the social narrative. We’re supposed to be weak, dainty little things, you know?” If he feels self-conscious about this, he doesn’t show it. He has a tighter leash on himself, now. He sounds more contemplative than resentful. 

“You, weak and dainty? I have to laugh,” you don’t. 

“I appreciate how open-minded you are,” he says sweetly. 

A brief silence falls over the room. You take in the soft sound of the breeze outside. The steady shifting of the trees’ canopies. The steady breathing of that small ecosystem he has birthed and nurtured. 

He’s hesitating. A question hangs in the air, tangles on the tip of his tongue. You can’t see his face, but you have a sixth sense for these sorts of things. That, and it’s typical of him to demand more than you’re willing to give. No more ground will you cede to him. If he begs again for you to remain during the duration of his heat, he’ll find himself succinctly refused. 

Still, you’d rather not have to go through the uncomfortable hassle of rejecting him. But he clearly thinks better of it, because he stays quiet—only breaking the contemplative quiet to ask you what you would like for dinner, his thumb rolling circles onto your palm.

[boxesofnoxes]

seven snippets , seven people

( thanks @cosmic-opossum !! here's his post )

Doing the same thing shx did bc I also haven't written anything much lately since sai'm focusing on worldbuilding and research for a personal project ( idk if it's going to be an essay or slideshow or who knows ) on critical theory and nationalism.

[ 1. chronicles of dust ] - Just another epic fantasy story. Part of my Turalinverse multiverse. MC Khanyi is a the favorite of the deity of cruelty and malice , war between factions , old magic , and a fallen empire she tried to place her hope in reviving ( but it's really and truly dead ). Lots of themes of duty and one's purpose.

[ 2. skyfall ? ( undecided ) ] - Also part of Turalinverse. Postapocalyptic adventure with lots of philosophy in which the two ( m/f ) mc don't fall in love :)) Also a not-so-subtle critique on capitalism and exploitation of labor , along with fighting monsters , and existential dread. Ends with the nihilism of the mcs prompting them to destroy humanity.

[ 3. under the mountain ] - Turalinverse. Cults and old gods and the politics of colonialism ( wooo ). A small colony town on the border of the Arinthar empire struggles with warring factions of monks , Arinthari envoys , and the town guard. One day , two defectors from the Arinthari armies come to the town with a vision to revive magic ( which is suppressed by the Arinthar ) and chaos and betrayal ensues.

[ 4. golden voices ] - Turalinverse ! The legend of Aurum Vox , the golden voice , a being that calls itself the chronicler , and seeks the end of knowledge. Gonna try to write it as an epic poem.

[ 5. just before dawn ] - Basically more philosophy but absolutely ridiculous at the same time ( think waiting for godot ). Set in a rural southern california town , a group of 3 teenagers meet in the dark hours at their favorite grocery store parking lot to process their lives. Nothing comes of any of it.

[ 6. tacit and filigree ] - Turalin. The story of the courts of magic and an exploration into Dalan's ( the main plane in turalin ) magic system and the politics surrounding it. Idk i came up with the title before the plot.

[ 7. unnamed ] - Another story in verse ( in epic poem ) threading together a couple poems i've written. It's bloody , it's dark , it's utterly incomprehensible.

Tagging : @julystruck , @orionsworldbuilding , @eccentric-kalki-talde , @revenant-chaos , @ponygirl-izzy , @local-yurei , @reptiles-of-the-mind. BTW ! I feel as though this can also work for art ocs ( like a lil description maybe ) , poetry , and anything creative.

[runner-owen]

The streets were cleaner than they were when he arrived in Theria as a boy, but that didn’t say much. Owen exhaled, and the wind caught the mist of his breath, carrying it off into the night. He wrapped his arms around himself, pulling the coat of the Knight Hunters tighter around his body. A precious gift from Lord Aurum, one he would not part with any time soon, especially not as the nights grew chill and dew froze on dead branches. 

Around him the crystal lamps flickered, blue-white light illuminating the veins of the city. The old cobblestone streets stretched beyond sight, and Owen knew almost every little crevice and crack within them. They glinted with tiny shards from the lamps, like ice crystals of magic frozen in time. He winced away from them as he passed, angry bits of pain shooting up from his grayed fingertips. His gloved hands gripped the coat tighter.

Despite the early hour, the buses should still be ready, for those like him, who needed to get across the city before third moonrise. Soon life would return to Theria’s streets, and he needed to get to work before then. Lord Aurum waited. The thought warmed something deep within his core. Owen forced down the smile spreading over his freckled face.

Shivering, he lingered at the stop. It would not be long, he told himself, standing beside the four-crested iron pole. The bus ride, cold and bumpy as it would be, was just what he needed right now. The unpleasantness could not compare to the suffering he’d gone through in the past. And he’d overcome that pain, just as the Goddess had. Owen touched the locket around his neck. This trip would be nothing compared to that.

Claws clattered on the cobblestone. A draconic keened in the distance. Owen raised his head, watching the shadow of the bus as it emerged. The wood and dark metal groaned, the six red glowing wheels guiding it through the muck towards him. He smiled anew, adjusted his newsboy cap. He’d gotten lucky tonight. This one sat two floors of people within its lacquer red body. Red as the mane of the draconic that pulled it, red as its eyes…

Owen frowned.

The driver tipped his hat to Owen as the bus came to a stop, and the navigator hopped down. As the man passed in front of Owen, the young detective pressed his lips together. The scent of copper and incense caught on the wind, smothering all the rest of the world. Still, the man smiled at Owen, his dark clothes well pressed and ready for his work.

“Evening sir,” the man said, no accent in his words. “No fare today.”

Owen flinched, his hand still on his pocket, reaching for his coin purse.

“Excuse me?”

“No fare!” the man said, and gave a warm smile. “By order of our boss!”

Owen lowered his arm. “I… I wasn’t aware…”

The navigator chuckled. He turned towards the doors of the bus. The metal shuddered, snapping open at his touch. Inside, people packed the rows, tight together, shivering. Owen swallowed. Drained faces, wide eyes, none of them even looking up at the sound or the chill of the opening door…

He looked to the navigator, who still smiled.

“There’s room for one more,” the man said. 

His eyes did not leave Owen, and his smile did not reach them. His eyes, dark red, like old bloodstains on the history of Theria.

Owen’s throat closed up. Vampires.

He stepped back. The smile dropped from the man’s face.

“Smart little bug,” the man hissed, fangs flashing. His hand lashed out, gripped Owen by the front of his coat. Owen could not scream in time, had no chance of fighting that strength.

He hit the floor of the bus, the impact knocking the breath from him. Owen gasped, gagged on the dirt he sucked in, looked up in time to see the doors slam shut. 

“No!”

His shout did not leave the bus. The navigator jumped up beside his fellow. With a click of the tongue, the draconic fled the scene. The bus vanished into the night.

In his office across the city, Lord Aurum raised his head from his books, the warm glow of the fire illuminating the tiny golden stars on his dark cheeks, the line of magic running down his bottom lip.

“Owen?” He spoke into the night, and the silence told him everything.

[uniquedestinationsenterprise]

Unique Destinations Enterprise has a website update! 7/31/2023

UniqueDestinations.org has posted an open letter to both chambers of the United States Congress. The Letter may be found on the Director's Den page, found off the About Us page. We are reposting the Letter below, for transparency.

To: the Honorable members of the United States Senate, and House of Representatives, with special acknowledgements to Senators: Schumer; Gillibrand; and Kelly. And special acknowledgement to Representatives: Jeffries; Raskin; Garcia; Porter; Ocasio-Cortez; Goldman; Schiff; and Swalwell.

(I forgot about the ‘summer break’,… this small business owner has not had a day off in 942 days, so vacations kind of slip my mind.)

What would I have Congress be aware about?

This letter/petition/address is about as unusual, as unusual gets.

Please,… indulge me – and read the following words. I am an American citizen. I am a U.S. Marine veteran. I have connections to 14 post-secondary institutions – (so far.) I am a past collegiate valedictorian, and an ‘Employee of the Year’,  but that is not to say that I am not without faults, and failings. – I failed out of my first college. I've spent a long time, learning – hard (and expensive) lessons. I am the small business owner of: A Urumalli, U Macinasar, G Entum – Unique Destinations Enterprise EIN: XX-XXX3096 an online company that has been available for the world to view, without any financial burden being incurred by the public, since December 31. 2020.

56 months ago, while virtually exploring this beautiful planet, as I was taking ‘snapshots’ of many interesting places – for possible future scrutiny and potential rock-hounding/exploring – I captured an image – I hadn’t counted on observing.

At first,… I had been intrigued – by a possible 15 C. ship wreck,… – and I had been moved to reach out to communicate with a local university, regarding a possible expedition. It was only after several days, that I came to notice, the object – that has come to occupy – all – of my mind.

It took me two years of deepest (and solitary) – contemplation, (and working with three web developers), before I was able to turn my website 'on'.

The funding for the website had originally come from my mother’s ‘pin’ money, as she did not want me to part with my most valuable rock specimens on eBay. And,… the last monies I had needed for the website – she had given me on January 18th, 2020 – two hours before she fell – and broke her femur – and began a three-month horror of agonizing pain, in three nursing homes, before succumbing at home, as I watched her – helpless – knowing she passed needlessly – for a simple – lack – of water.

She was a WONDERFUL woman. A wife, mother, nurse, artist, gardener, and my sounding board. She was a ‘Super Woman’.

My mother had believed in me – and I had dreamed such dreams -for – my folks.  I had been envisioning, a happy old life for them, (what with my ‘amazing‘ news, helping make affordable – a wonderful enriched sunset) to pass their days!

Now,… my dad carries on – like a battleship,… tough and durable – yet slow to move. I have taken over his care – from my mother – and – besides making sure that he is fed, clothed, kept clean and comfy,… I am left – (self)tasked – with trying to bring ‘change’ to the world.

I formed a company around an idea – intellectual conceptualization – aka intellectual property. The ‘idea’ that I could inform the planet, of – something – truly ‘remarkable’, and – that, in the doing,… I might be ‘elevated’ financially – into the class of deep-pocket philanthropists.

This has been my dream – It is in my company’s name. A Urumalli, U Macinasar, G Entum – Unique Destinations Enterprise – Aurum Allium Acinas Argentum / Golden Onion Seed Money.

It was my ‘projection‘ that with my company’s financially ‘successful’ roll-out,… I would have other interesting places to offer for exploration,  but now – will also – have the wherewithal – to assist others – with their – dreams.

I was contemplating have the funds to help provide for a Nursing scholarship/ school/ hospital wing/ (something – to honor my mom.) I foresaw helping with business start-ups, education assistance,  homeless assistance programming, and those with birth defects and physical handicaps.

I have entertained such extravagant dreams, and spent long hours – ‘imagining’ without restrictions – wondering what could ‘be’ – if money – was not an object,  (as a lottery winner, might dream upon.)

This dreaming has not been empty. I have been able to dream to the maximum, aided by the ‘mojo‘ contained in my IP data.

The challenge I face now – is moving beyond just words and images on a page, and moving into –  purposeful, productive, progressive action,  – and – financial evolution.

My company emphasized only being able to point to where to look. What actually is – ‘there’ –  at the coordinates – has yet to be determined.

This information, has lived in my skull for 56 months. At present, my company has only incurred expenses. It had been known to me that I currently reside on the far-left side, of the ‘economic’ bell curve, and the ‘potentiality’ of my intellectual property,… would have me relocated on – the opposite ‘shore’. (I foresee no ‘in-between’.)

I have long felt like I am living in a fairy tale – on the order of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. I believe I have a golden goose – a gift – that keeps on giving,… and,… I am left,… finding a way,… to get – to the market.

Let me reiterate, my company and I know nothing  of what was testified to at the House Oversight Committee meeting on UAP, that was held on 7/26/2023.

I know nothing about what is being reported – being seen moving around in the sky, these days – the ‘tic-tacs’, cubes, or fuzzy balls.

What my company CAN PROVIDE UNDERSTANDING UPON, regards – something – that looks to have happened  – AGES – ago.

This is the intellectual property, that has shaped my Unique Destinations Enterprise.

I offered the ‘directions – to a dream’, and the ‘coordinates – of copious cogitation‘.

I offered the GPS coordinates that could give a well-heeled adventurer – an ‘experience of a lifetime!‘

My Presentation was not without hiccups, but We sought, (and have made), improvements, over the time –  striving to permit clearest comprehension – in 104 languages – the words, that have been written – and the imagery, I have been able to post.

My 1st GPS Sale attempt, lasted 775 days, closing on Valentine’s Day, 2023 – (with me retaining the IP data.)

While trying to ‘sort-out’ my ‘next’ step,… I have had to compose two open letters to NASA, create social media posts, mow the lawn, weed the garden, and to get a small merchandise item available for offer to the public – (potentially permitting me the first income from my 56 months of laboring!)

As I had stated before, I cannot talk of things – floating around – today.

I can only provide insight – into something that (maybe) happened – Yesterday – – something – of interest – to everyone – ‘ancient‘ – as History – (maybe).

The information that I can impart – is something – for all people, not only to those living in America.

This was my construct – to SHARE new information with everyone, – to permit humanity, a ‘chance’, to move into ‘tomorrow’ – (in a forward, up-lifted fashion.)

I have recently communicated a letter to NASA regarding their AARO UAP Inquiry Development Framework meeting that was presented on 5/31/2023. This letter, was actually the ‘second’ note created, to discuss that meeting. I have posted this ‘open letter’  – on tumblr, and on Our website on the Director’s Den page, found on the About Us page.

I am well aware of the phrase – ‘not wanting to sound the fool‘. – I have little tolerance for ‘BS’. My experience with asthma has left me with zero tolerance for folk who would purposely spew false or inflammatory nonsense. I would rather spend my precious breath trying to speak as clearly and truly, as possible – than to be thought of – as one who spouts – ‘gibberish’.

Unique Destinations Enterprise and UniqueDestinations.org can put the eye upon something very interesting – I (believe) some ‘things’ that can point US – (all humanity) to a place of new understandings, growth and development, or,… it will point – to one of the biggest fools – to ever ‘self-disclose’. Sincerely, The CEO/COB of Unique Destinations Enterprise and UniqueDestinations.org

@arimelber @neildegrassetysonofficial Gentlemen, I am including you for continuity, (and because you might be able to point some important eyes, to Our website!) - (Thank you in advance!)

[loveanddeepspacefans]

👉 Get Love and Deepspace Diamonds / Crystals & Coins here! GENERATE ALL RESOURCES! 👈

Love and Deepspace is a 3D dating mobile game that uses various in-game resources to enhance the gameplay and the interaction with the characters. One of the resources is crystals or gems, which are the premium currency in the game. Another feature is the Aurum Pass, which is a monthly subscription that grants various benefits and rewards. Here is a 1000 word answer about the uses of crystals / gems and the Aurum Pass in Love and Deepspace:Crystals or gems are the golden tickets that can be used to buy rare items, unlock exclusive content, and access special features. Crystals can be obtained by completing achievements, participating in events, or purchasing with real money.

The price of crystals varies depending on the amount and the package. For example, 60 crystals cost $0.99, while 6480 crystals cost $99.99.Some of the uses of crystals or gems are:Wish: Crystals can be used to buy Deepspace Wish tickets, which are used to pull cards from the limited banner. The limited banner features cards that are only available for a certain period of time, and may not return for a long time. The cards from the limited banner usually have higher stats, better skills, and more exclusive scenes and dialogues than the cards from the standard banner.

The limited banner also has a pity system, which guarantees a 5-star card after 100 pulls. The price of a Deepspace Wish ticket is 180 crystals, and the price of a 10-pull is 1800 crystals.Galaxy Explorer: Crystals can be used to buy Silver Galaxy tickets, which are used to explore the silver galaxy and obtain rewards. The silver galaxy is a feature that can be found within the Wish screen in the top right corner.

It takes 8 hours to complete and grants rewards such as coins, memories, evol, and stamina. The price of a Silver Galaxy ticket is 30 crystals, and the price of a 10-ticket is 300 crystals.Memory Resonance: Crystals can be used to buy Memory Resonance tickets, which are used to activate the memory resonance feature and increase the bond and intimacy with the male protagonists. The memory resonance feature can be found within the Memory screen in the bottom right corner. It allows the player to use memories to unlock special scenes and dialogues with the male protagonists, as well as increase their affection and trust levels. The price of a Memory Resonance ticket is 30 crystals, and the price of a 10-ticket is 300 crystals.

[unlimited-dark]

FFXIV Write Day #7 - Noisome

Fioel stealing my show again! This time with Hades in their AU. Also in the Aurum Vale since I hate that dungeon with a burning passion.

“Did we have to take this request from the alchemist’s guild?” Hades grumbled, trudging amongst the golden floors.

The putrid scent of his surroundings, with the sheer amount of vilekin that stood in both their ways was utterly disgusting. The Aurum Vale was known to hold a toxin called “Goldbile”, home to many creatures mutated by the toxin. 

“I wanted you to come in here for once, Hades,” Fioel sneered, piling through the coiling vines and whatever mutated vegetation there was. “My clothes are going to smell horrendous after this!” “You can burn them once we get a change of clothes. That’s why I came in these rags,” she said, pointing to the set of old adventuring clothes she was wearing. 

Sighing, Hades recalled the rumours of this particular location, an old mineshaft for mythril that was affected by sulphur, turning into a toxic waste that would affect all life in it. He wasn't sure how this could have occurred in Etheirys, but the sundering did affect some properties of the planet. Though an average person would find difficulty breathing in the area for long hours, their goal was to procure a few morbol vines from the toxic morbols to be used in alchemist research. 

Fioel was excited to bring him along, claiming that it was a place that “he too, had to suffer through” for their adventures. She was taking the lead, seemingly used to the place while he could only hold his breath and gag.

They soon arrived at the morbol nest, finding several of the tentacled abominations in the area, laying their disgusting eggs. 

“What in the name of the planet are these creatures?!” he exclaimed, close to gagging at the sight. “I too, wish to know what creature on Etheirys morphed into these gross organisms, Hades. Care to educate me on them?” “If I had an answer for that, I would not be grumbling, my dear Fioel.”

Rolling her eyes at him, she smirked as she spoke again.

“We can’t burn them, or the vines won’t be fresh to cut off. I’ll defeat them with my physical attacks and cut their vines. Just watch my back, if you would please do so.”  “And why should I? This has been the most awful ‘adventure’ we’ve had so far.” “Please, most eminent Hades?”

Sighing, he shook his head as he turned around to watch Fioel’s back. She grinned, quickly moving to take down the several morbols. Hades gagged once again at the sounds that he could hear of the vines being cut, deciding not to look at the likely putrid sight behind him.

The job was soon done as Fioel shoved the several vines in a sack, returning to the sorcerer waiting for her.

“Many thanks for waiting, Hades. You’re free to burn the hellscape behind us down? “And I would be pleasantly glad to do so,” he said, casting a simple fire smell on the rotting morbol nest behind them. Flames soon overtook the creatures, incinerating most of them until they were gone.

“They’ll probably come back again, but this will do for now. Hopefully,” she groaned, starting her trudge out to the exit.

“I’ve also had enough of this place,” Hades said, exasperated, as he grabbed ahold of her hand, pulling her close to him. Startled by the sudden forwardness of him, her heart was tickled as she realised that the sorcerer was simply casting a teleportation spell to bring them back to Coerthas.

As they both landed in Camp Dragonhead, amid the snow, Hades continued to hold onto her as the spell resolved. Fioel had a slight flush, quickly deflecting the affection for him that grew in her again with a usual quip she had.

“You can get off me now, Hades. You stink.” “And so do you,” he snapped, “Not even a word of thanks for the quick exit from that nasty cave?” “Yes, yes, thank you very much, my most eminent Hades.” 

She smirked, walking off towards the Gates of Judgement, where they had gotten an inn room to stay for the evening.

“Though, couldn’t you have teleported us to somewhere closer to the Holy See? It would have been much more convenient.” “And walk through the city smelling of rotten food? We could at least remove traces of the goldbile with the waters here, cold as they are. Though, I do not see any reason to wash these clothes when they smell awful.” “I told you leaving our belongings at the inn was a good choice. We should get to the inn to change, then burn these rags. There���s a wonderful hot spring in the city that is free to the public too, and we should get a soak, old man.”

Groaning at her to show his disapproval once more, he nevertheless followed along behind her, taking her hand as they trudged through the snow. It was another adventure accomplished and seen together, after all.

[24-hours]

hey! can i get names and neos for a c!Dream kin?? with themes of revival, gold and maybe some kinda divine ones?

Eyo Dream! Hope these vibe, hope they’re good or whatever. Not sure how well I got the theme of revival but uhm yeah I tried my best. Pronouns under the cut as always. -The most 24 of all the hours, Mod Boo

Names

Ambrose

Nova

Phoenix

Anatole

Auryn

Asier

Janus

Aurum

Blaine

Ladon

Osric

Lazarus

Emrys 

Elysian

Caelum/Caelus

Neos

cae/caem/caes/caeself

dae/daem/daer/daemself

dei/deim/deimself

holy/holys/holyself

di/div/divs/divself

wing/wings/wingself

ala/alum/alis/alis/alumself

lux/luxs/luxself

au/aurs/aurself

ely/ely or elym/elys/elyself

gold/golds/goldself or gold/golden/goldself

soul/souls/soulself

revival/revivals/revivalself

rev/revive/revives/revivedself

reve/nant/reves/reves/reveself or revenantself

[felonsmojis]

various DreamXD emotes!!

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

Motion Sickness Chapter 63

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"Well, are you?" I asked Jasper.

"Am I what?" She returned from her place by the counter.

"Going to shut down the strikes. She made some pretty good points about the Grimm," I said. I leaned on one of the tables, my massive sword handle extending over my head.

"No… I told you we aren't even in charge of the strikes really. It's a bit of an avalanche that's carrying us along. And if we don't get on board we'll be left behind," Jasper returned. "I'm not saying that she didn't have any good points. And maybe the only way to get real change going is with the elections. And Robyn Hill is basically a shoe in over Schnee. Especially down here in Mantle. Money can only buy you so much. Might be for the best if things were to die down."

"But you're not sure," I affirmed.

"How can I be? Nobody's sure. It's the Cetra condition. The Happy Huntresses are about defending Mantle, though. They've been at it for a while and they've done some real good. Maybe they're right about this too. I certainly don't think the military will shoot on the crowd but if they do it would be bad."

"The Happy Huntresses don't seem to like me which is a point in their favor."

"Oh pssh. None of that. You do fine."

"So, I'll just come by again later?" I asked.

"Yeah, really sorry about this, cutie." She winked. Her fox tail swished around in the air behind her in a brownish-red and white flare.

I ignored that last bit.

Neo tugged on my sleeve from her position by my side.

"What?" I asked her. "Want one of their drinks?"

She held up a finger to her lips as though deep in thought. Then shook her head.

"Then I have no idea what you want." I turned back towards Jasper. "We'll be back later. I'm going to go scope out this Adam Taurus and the protests. I might end up having to kill him after all."

"If you say so. See you later tonight."

"Yeah well no promises, especially if I end up in a fight."

Neo and I strode out and mounted my motorcycle. "You are being a needy bitch today, Neo. What's up with you?"

She shoved a finger in out of a rounded hole made of her other fingers. "Not happening. Didn't happen. I would remember something like that."

I was like seventy-five percent sure. Maybe a hard seventy.

She shrugged at me, somehow making the gesture teasing. An 'if you say so.'

"I do say so." And I did. It did not happen.

No matter what she herself implied. I would remember. I would know. Sure the night before was little more than golden blurs. And sure I somehow ended back up at the motel with all my armor and gear.

Anything could have happened after I really started drinking and the morning when I woke up. Anything but that, that is. The warm memories I felt were probably from The Den not from you know… sex… with Neo.

I rubbed a hand over my face hard.

"Neo you're fucking killing me. You know that, right?"

She grinned and nodded.

"Yeah well even if it happened once it's never ever happening again. I'm too fucked up to be doing that level of drugs again, that was a mistake. I don't know what I was thinking. I'm also too fucked up to be having sex with you."

I looked down at her as she frowned and slapped me on the arm.

"No points against you. You're drop dead gorgeous. But, well, tough shit," I returned. "For me and for you."

I revved up my motorcycle. Neo straddled behind me and flickered into a disguise for while we were driving. She was wanted, more so than my own form. No reason to give some patrol-man a reason to pull us over and start calling for backup.

And she couldn't exactly cover every camera we came across while driving. There were too many on the main roads and we went by too fast. So this little disguise helped.

She was still gorgeous in her double, with bright green eyes and dark black hair, just as long as it was when she was in her normal form which was to say waist length. Neo had that otherworldly angel-esque appearance some hunters got after a few years with aura.

It was a cure all to wrinkles and blemishes and left the user looking out of this world. Neo was no exception with her tight stomach being exposed and her muscular, relatively long smooth legs in those heels propping up her butt. Her short stature didn't detract from her beauty.

Huntresses, man. They were just like that. Like they came from another planet. Maybe I was a bit like that too, though. If I could be so arrogant. I'd had aura most of my natural life. Tall, blonde, and huntsman, I recalled a conversation in GaiLong I had with an old man about it. He told me not to be dense. I attracted more than my fair share of looks. More than my fair share.

Ruby had been like that. Beautiful like a little angel. Her hair and eyes stood out unnaturally even amongst huntresses. Yang, of course, was staggeringly gorgeous with her blonde mane of hair and lilac eyes. Weiss had a sort of pristine crystalline look to her that had drawn me to her immediately. Like she was multifaceted. Like a cut diamond. Blake had that bookish appeal but translated over to the huntress side of things it made her stand out in any crowd.

Pyrrha… well it went without saying with Pyrrha. Her emerald eyes and bright red hair flashed behind my eyelids every time I closed my own. She haunted me, Pyrrha Nikos did.

Even Jasper had started to have a bit of that. Stomach and face like a supermodel and long legs to boot.

Huntresses, man. Ain't nothing like 'em. Aura was a hell of a drug. It turned people into angelic beings.

But Neo was no exception. When I first arrived at Beacon I thought I'd have been lucky to have sex with someone as gorgeous as she was.

Now the thought only filled me with a slight sense of dread. A mix of betrayal and hurt welled up from deep inside me. Even though I had no right to feel that way. My feelings about it weren't valid. Not then when I'd first arrived at Beacon, all my feelings from then were fake. And not now when I was cruising around like a monster.

I rolled up on where the miners were picketing. It was near the open pit mine I'd been at for the bombing. They'd lined up around it, eight or ten people deep. They were armed with  protest signs and little else from what I could see. They had no weapons.

Could Ironwood really open up and fire on a crowd like this? Would that really solve the negativity problem or just make it worse? I could see it now, a swarm of Atlesian Robots mercilessly breaking up the protest with sleek assault rifles.

I thought it would make things worse. For sure, for sure but my opinion hardly counted for squat, did it.

By the crowd there were police officers lined up around the perimeter. They probably had standing orders to leave the crowd be but break up any fighting. They looked nervous. As they should before a mob like this.

The people were baying for change.

From the protestors' signs they were demanding safe improvements to their work and higher wages. Nothing crazy, at least in my opinion. In my estimation they would get it. They deserved it. These people weren't hunters. They hadn't signed up for danger. They wanted their working environments to be safe so they could go home and see their families every day.

There was nothing crazy about that. Nothing insane. These people already should have had that. Mining should be one of the safest occupations. It could be done right. It didn't have to be a dangerous, well, a minefield. Save that for the hunters.

I guess the collapse of this mine, artificial or not, had been a bit of a breaking point for the people. I trolled around the crowd for a few hours. Traffic was ground to a halt in places as the protest spilled out onto the streets, blocking vital arteries of city flow beyond the capacity to reroute. It backed up traffic for miles and miles. It was unbelievable.

It was a mess. I could confess that. But it seemed like an easy enough decision at the top level. Capitulate, and nobody would have to get hurt. Of course if old man Schnee cared more about people than the profits his company could pull in, then people wouldn't be protesting, would they.

It was hard to see him winning the election to the council with open picketing happening against his company but Atlas got a vote too and they were separated from all this. One of the benefits of keeping the people of Atlas and Mantle segregated.

It was gross but effective. Keep the different stakeholders in different places and there would be no need to capitulate. I didn't hide the disgust I felt and let it roll out onto my expression. Jacque Schnee could keep his company rolling the way it had been and become a council chairman. He could have his cake and eat it too.

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I never found Adam Taurus.

It wasn't exactly a point of shame for me either. The entire Atlas military couldn't find me but then again I was driving around in broad daylight with my own illusionist. It made me wonder if Adam had his own illusionist. Like maybe someone like Emerald Sustrai. She was an illusionist too.

What I managed to do instead was drive around and observe the absurdity of the crowd for a few hours. If I needed to find Adam Taurus bad enough I would use Aurum. Not drive around lost.

Still it was good for me to see the crowd and feel their negativity for myself. It was easy to talk about it and have it all get lost on you what ten thousand angry people really felt like against your skin. Or aura. Whichever. They felt mostly the same to me. Maybe it was my short lifespan with a relatively long period of having my aura activated but I could hardly tell a difference.

I could feel Neo riding behind me with her cruel cold. I could also feel the crowd. Blazingly hot. Burning me up. Throngs of people fired up over a common reason. A common goal.

I wasn't much of an empath but even I could feel the negativity. Ren had always been better than me at that. Ruby had been too. What did it say that I was able to feel the negative emotions rolling off the crowd like a tsunami?

It meant that even a layman could probably notice it and pick up on it. The walls of Mantle had probably been under twenty-four seven assault by the Grimm. Meanwhile Atlas rested above, safe and sound. Connected to Mantle only by shallow guide wires for the gondolas and trams.

A shallow spider web that connected the two cities. Never crossing, never overlapping, but allowing the transference of people and ideas.

They probably felt none of this rage. Atlas was an island in a sea of negativity and Grimm. Albeit a floating island but an island nonetheless.

How could two places so close together feel so disparate? Was this how the segregation had remained mostly in place for so long? How long has things been like this with Mantle's red hot rage and Atlas's grey cold apathy?

It unsettled me, the stark difference between the two.

I shifted on the bike and Neo scooted down closer to me. She kept a single arm around me and under my plate.

"Well Neo, what do you think? Think we should cut this off and kill Adam Taurus?"

Was I just hunting for a reason for me to kill someone. Maybe. Salem was driving me mad. I at least had that as an excuse.

"Of course killing Adam Taurus won't end this. We'd need to get that Dyne guy. We started this, though. We're responsible for it, to one degree or another."

"I feel bad. Last night I was getting wasted in The Den and this shit was happening down here. You couldn't even tell how bad things are from up in Atlas. All the people down here, if you even care to look and see them, just look like ants."

I rolled back up on Seventh Heaven in the evening. There were more cars parked outside than normal. I marched up to the place and walked inside with a jingle of the bells.

It was relatively crowded. It had all the members of Avalanche inside, looking as they did before with their red bandannas. Then it had another man in a white mask, red hair and a long katana. He had the horns of a bull on him.

There were two more guys inside. A taller white skinned gentleman with a white shirt, green trousers and a green vest with red trimmings. He had only one arm. The other was cut off at the elbow with red bandages around the end. He had a wiry tail like that of some kind of big cat.

Another man was in there but his opposite arm, his right, was cut off at the elbow. He was taller, taller than me, with black skin and black hair.  He had thick brown boots and a brown vest with green trousers and a darker brown under shirt. He had a thick bushy bear tail.

Everyone turned to look at Neo and I as we walked in. We were the only humans in the room.

"Cloud…" Bisque said in greeting.

"What're these humans doing here?" The man in the white mask gestured his blade forward at his hip towards me.

"We invited them, before we knew this meeting was going to happen," Jasper said.

The man with the katana growled at me. I stared him right down back. It would be inaccurate to say nothing scared me, but not this asshole.

"He worked with us. He's a mercenary who helped us blow up the mine. He fought the Turks. He's cool," Wenge said.

"You did that?" The taller dark skinned man asked.

"I did." I nodded.

"Why would a human do that?" The masked man asked.

"Money. Information. Take your pick," I shot back.

"I don't like your attitude. And I do recognize her. She's Neapolitan. She used to work for Roman Torchwick."

"She works for me now. You got a problem with that then we can take it outside."

He growled and stepped forward towards me. A hand held him back and his chest from the man without his left arm.

"I'm Dyne. This is Barret," Dyne introduced. "We could use the help of a skilled merc. The picketing is losing steam already. We need to set a fire under Schnee's ass."

"Avalanche was telling us about another operation, one to sink an SDC freighter," the man without his right arm continued, Barrett was his name. "Make them beg for the miners back."

"They told me about it. I recommended that they wait," I said. "I take it you gentlemen want the operation to go ahead?"

"That's right." The man with the sword said. "If you think you're up for it. If they think a human like you can be trusted."

"Avalanche has one of my retainers." I pulled my pipe out and lit it. I made myself look comfortable.

"Oh Cloud can I get you anything to drink?" Jasper asked.

I looked down at Neo. She nodded. "Just one of those house specials for Neo. I'm good." I'd had enough to drink the night prior. "And who's this?" I nodded at the man with the Katana. "The rest of you were polite enough to introduce yourselves."

"I'm Adam Taurus."

"Ah," I said. "The man on everybody's mind. I might get paid to kill you tomorrow."

He grabbed his sword but he didn't draw it.

"Is that a threat."

"A little." I exhaled smoke in his direction. "It's the truth. Think you can take me, Taurus? Wanna dance?"

He growled at me.

"I, for one, like you, Cloud. What was your last name?" Dyne asked.

"Strife. It's Cloud Strife."

"Well I think we just may be able to work together. Avalanche has your fee? You'll do this op for us?"

I smoked and nodded. I looked over Dyne's head at Avalanche. They were giving me pleading and grateful looks.

"Should be cinch," I said. "We can discuss my payment later."

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-WG

[nabrizoya]

Theories, maybe.

So, Cortana burns Cordelia when she tries to wield it/ hold it. Why?

First off, we do not know whether this burning phenomenon begins to happen in the middle of the book or has already begun to occur during the four-month gap—which means that by the time the book opens, Cordelia is weaponless. It is a detail worth noting. 

Keeping that in mind, let me elaborate on what theories I have about Cortana and Cordelia.  

Cordelia has made that oath with some mysterious power, as a result of which, the sword does not answer to her. 

This is a possibility. Cortana is an angel sword, with the feather of one of the Angel’s wings in its hilt. There’s a very good reason why it can reject Cordelia, despite already being her sword. Especially when Cortana is keen to sense that the bearer’s ideals no longer align with the true meaning of the blade–of goodness and mercy. It has been disrespected to before by Zara Dearborn, who could barely use it because one, she didn’t know how to and two, she couldn’t respect it. 

John Carstairs mentions in Lady Midnight to Emma that she put her trust in the sword and Jem. Steel and Temper, Daughter, her mother repeats to her. The sword is extraordinary– it is not a mere weapon; it is an extension of the bearer herself. 

So, if Cortana rejects Cordelia... what could or should it mean?

The sword has been poisoned/contaminated/tampered with etc.

Why not? Adamas is being toyed with, thanks to Tatiana and Belial (and other secret powers) agendas. Tatiana is being royally escorted to the Citadel, the very heart of Shadowhunters’ faith and strength.  The Iron Sisters refresh the power of exhausted or depleted seraph blades. They are the key to a Shadowhunter's identity. So, you can see what a dangerous ploy Belial is constructing. 

Not sure if a blade as legendary as Cortana can be contaminated. I say this because Cortana has not been carved by the Iron Sisters, but has been crafted by Wayland the Smith, who is believed to have no association with these craftswomen. 

But do remember: Cassie mentioned that Belial isn’t the only Prince of Hell who is going to make an appearance in The Last Hours. There’s all good reason for Belial to ask for one of his brothers to do the job for him and for the brothers to agree too.

It’s all in good possibility. 

The blade has been tampered by a spell. 

So, we don’t know if the blade already burns Cordelia when Chain of Iron opens. The reason this is a separate point is because the ones who already have a keen eye on Cordelia and her Cortana are Tatiana & Belial Crackhead Co., some other shadowhunter (or warlock mmm) who could be in league with Belial or is acting on their own personal plans for their benefit and... wait for it... faeries? And they may have tampered with the blade in secret during the events of TLH2 or during the 4-month gap.

1. Look, they're all prospective leads. We did see Cordelia interact with the fey in one of the snippets. My theory is that the fey, especially Mother Hawthorn, is still intent on killing off the Herondales. *cough* Matthew *cough*. There’s nothing to say that she does not have the accurate data on whether or not the Herondales are still living. So yeah, the fey. 

2. The warlock. No, not Malcolm Fade. Or, who knows, it could be him too. But I am more inclined to believe that as of 1903, dude is still a good guy who does not yet know the truth to turn into a bitter person. That means that there can be another warlock in play. Someone whom we do not know. Yet.

3. Shadowhunter. Obvious explanations as above. The Italian girl and Belial may or may not have a connection. Belial’s character card has stuff that mentions Roman coins. 

And yes, he WILL rise again, btw. 

4. One of Tatiana’s minions who could have performed the spell to repel the bearer from wielding the sword. Or, could that minion be a ghost...? Not who you are thinking. 

I'll wrap this up with the Iron Sisters’ motto. Interesting to note how their motto directly relates to what Cordelia is commonly represented with:

Ignis aurum probat | Fire tests gold

So, Chain of Gold is Chain of Iron now, because Cordelia's golden sword has been rendered useless for some reason. 

► Iron means metal, that hints towards James' unique ability to use guns. 

► Also could be referring to Christopher's keen interest in gunpowder and tracing runes on mortal weapons. 

► The bracelet with a spell (akin to the idea that a spell might have been placed on Cortana, not by Grace though). 

► Could directly mean Seraph Blades and Adamas themselves, because they are depicted in silver hues. 

Thanks for reading!

[iamthespineofmybook]

Team GRAY

Back in Volume 2, I decided to make my own OC team on the off chance that there was going to be a character contest. Apparently, there was one, but I only learned about it yesterday.

Either way, I do like the team I made, who are meant to be foils for Team RWBY themselves. I don’t really know if there’s a standard template for this, so I’m just copy-pasting from my document on them.

The basis for the team is Final Fantasy classes, so each of them has an “Overdrive” ability that takes them beyond their limits, but has some backlash (unlike actual limit breaks from that series).

Team Leader: Grey Veyon Appearance: Shaved head, silver goatee. Grey eyes. White hoodie, grey pants. Tall and slight of build. Bio: Grey Veyon is a gentle man, so his choice to become a Hunter surprises many. Indeed, when fighting Grimm he tends to hang back, letting his team take on the creatures in favour of using his Semblance. However, this does not mean that he is incapable of fighting. He carries a quarterstaff that seems to be made of wood, but it is actually a cleverly painted miniature rocket launcher. His fighting style could safely be categorized as “staff aikido,” where he uses weapon and his opponent's momentum to safely turn their attacks against themselves. Weapon: Hibiscus Rod. A mini-rocket launcher disguised as a wooden quarterstaff. Incredibly sturdy. Semblance: Healing. He can knit the wounds of anyone within three meters, though the amount of healing decreases with distance, barely being able to knit a paper cut at maximum range, but being able to reattach limbs (if they're well preserved or freshly cut) while touching the target. “Overdrive”: Holy Light: A pair of angel wings appear behind him, then bright light covers a six meter area, healing everyone within it. Grey then falls unconscious from exertion. Aura Strength: Medium-low. Dust Use: Medium-high. Inspiration: White Mage (FFX)

Second Member: Roan Ghaelach Appearance: Short reddish hair. Blue eyes. Red robe over grey clothes. Average height and build. Bio: Roan Ghaelach is a prodigy of a Dust scientist who once worked alongside his father, Xanthos, for the Schnee Dust Company (his mother, Amber, is a roboticist for a different company), but was sent away after one too many attacks on their laboratory by White Fang. They repelled all attackers without injury, thanks in part to his unique inventions. He is somewhat rash, though his actions will have thought and planning behind them. Roan acts arrogant and condescending, flaunting his intelligence at any opportunity; he does this in reaction to being bullied as a kid for his natural genius, cloaking himself in the very thing he was being hurt over (“I'm a genius, I don't need friends.”). In truth, however, he's desperate for friends, but he's been pretending for so long he finds it difficult to let down his shields. He fights best at long range and utilizes certain Dust mixtures to escape from foes that close in on him. Weapon: Triple Duster. A custom weapon created by Roan, which uses special bullets full of Dust. It has the shape of a regular gun, save for the fact that it has three barrels and chambers for up to nine bullets at once. By manipulating a dial on the side of Triple Duster, he can fire one, two, or all three bullets in the firing chambers, creating bigger or combined effects. Semblance: Dust Augmentation. Roan is capable of augmenting the power of Dust's effects, whether it be empowering the reaction or damping it. This power cannot completely de-power Dust. For example, making Fire Dust only as potent as a candle flame. At full power, however, Dust becomes ridiculously dangerous. “Overdrive”: Omega Blast. Roan loads three different Dust Bullets into the Triple Duster and augments  them to full power before firing. Capable of levelling a skyscraper, this attack also destroys the Triple Duster, requiring a rebuild. Aura Strength: Low. Dust Use: High. Inspiration: Black Mage/Gunner (FFTactics)

Third Member: Aurum Bracchium Appearance: Golden-brown hair in a ponytail and a full beard. Hazel eyes. Golden armour over tan clothes, with a wolf pelt cloak. Average height with heavy muscles. Bio: Aurum Bracchium was raised by Faunus his whole life, and considers himself one as well, even though he's a full-blooded human (his adoptive family, a bear-faunus (Dwyer; paws) and hawk-faunus (Lucia; eyes) told him so, having found him near the bodies of his birth parents). He wears his wolf-skin cloak in an attempt to reconcile his beliefs and his blood. And although he thinks of himself as a Faunus, he dislikes White Fang due to the negative light they cast on the Faunus people. He fights up close and personal with every foe, barely thinking of his own defense as he attacks in a pseudo-fury. Weapon: Grimm Reaver. A tricked-out, two-handed battleaxe. Each of its two blades can fire a bullet to either deal extra damage or speed its swing as it bites into an enemy. As an additional utility, it can fire the spike between its blades as a grappling hook, allowing the wielder to reach far places. As one last surprise, it holds a similar mini-rocket launcher as Grey's Hibiscus Rod in the bottom. Semblance: Undiscovered as of his third year at Beacon. (Animus Shroud. Similar to the Schnee summoning ability, but instead of calling upon the foe in question, he takes on its qualities in gold. Initial form is only parts, intermediate form is full shroud, final form allows him to mix-and-match those parts.) “Overdrive”: Master Blow. Aurum puts every ounce of his power into a single attack. Capable of taking out dozens of Grimm in one swing, this attack renders him completely helpless and unable to move for another hour from sheer exhaustion. Aura Strength: High. Dust Use: None. Inspiration: Berserker (FFV)

Fourth Member: Yin Dàlǎohǔ Appearance: Messy short black hair. Red eyes. Wears heavy, spiked, black armour, including a helmet, when on a mission, but his casual wear is a black longcoat over a red shirt and black pants. Short and slight. Bio: Yin is so quiet and reclusive, many people believe him mute. In truth, however, he speaks only when absolutely necessary. Why this is is unknown to many, but he is fiercely protective of his allies, taking every blow to them as a personal failure. He fights with a shield and sword in close quarters combat, but isn't averse to long range combat when necessary. His dedication and silence both stem from a traumatic event, where he and his friend, Whyt Veyon, were attacked by Grimm; she died and his Semblance and Aura both activated. Weapon: Death Lotus. A sword and shield combo. The sword can fire bullets from its tip, and the shield has a compartment of Fire Dust that can be utilized through a nozzle on the front in the form of a flamethrower. For storage the weapon and his armour merge into the shield, which he carries on his back. Semblance: Blackfire. Yin can utilize of some sort of dark energy that explodes on contact with a surface in a manner similar to a crushed Fire Dust Crystal, but black in colour. However, using his Semblance causes damage to himself due to his trauma (this damage can thankfully be healed by Grey's Healing Semblance). “Overdrive”: Rage Demon. Yin's Semblance merges with his Aura, cloaking him in a destructive shroud of dark energy. This merger empowers everything about him, but prolonged use can outright kill him. Aura Strength: Variable. It's stronger when he's defending others, and weaker when he's fighting for himself, becoming practically non-existent outside of combat. Dust Use: Medium. Inspiration: Dark Knight (Bravely Default)

[runner-owen]

Forgetting the Sun [vampire/human - non-explicit/fade to black]

Set within the Runner Owen universe this blog is based around. Not canon but involves canon elements. Basically rated R. I honestly don’t know what I need to say to introduce this so... Here’s a story where a vampire priest fucks his vampire hunter rival’s lover in a church. The vampire priest is called the Scarred Man. The lover and pov character is Owen, the protagonist of the series. Note: I wrote this intending it to be dubcon, but some have read it as more noncon. Either way, tread carefully or skip if this is an issue for you.

Enjoy, you kinky bastards.

---

It must’ve been desperation that forced me through those carved doors. A realization of death that swept over my skin like a cold breeze. The memory of the gold in Aurum’s eyes fading back to brown, his blood cooling on my hands as the healers rushed him away. I’d long washed myself clean of him, but I still felt it, heavy and slick, life and magic weeping off my hands to the dirty grass at my knees.

Stupid of me. I thought he was invincible. That no vampire could get the better of the Hunter Knight. But one cunning strike from the Scarred Man, and everything crumbled just like Aurum’s body to the floor.

And now what could I do but pray. There was no place in any religion for me, but for him… oh, what I would do for him, to keep his hand entwined in mine, so warm, so alive.

So, I crossed the old stone floor. They’d taken up the rugs, hung them on the walls, over the windows, as if that could keep the cold sight of the undead from peering within. As if a vampire could not cross into the ground that worshiped their ancestral mother. I walked between the candles, under the soft, sad eyes of the goddess in her dozens of paintings. I carried myself into the sanctuary. My footsteps echoed. The goddess watched me through the eyes of her statue, and I lowered my head.

I dropped to my knees before the altar, and I prayed. Goddess deliver my guardian from death. Goddess bless him for his work in defeating your mistakes. Goddess forgive me, I have coveted, I have forgotten my place, I am lost. I am lost. Spare me from your child, Goddess. Spare me from the fate you suffered yourself.

“What are you doing here, child?”

I should have looked up. The darkness shifted behind the altar, but all I saw were the dark robes of the priest. I did not know the voice in my distress.

“Praying, father,” I said, feeling the movement of my lips.

“It is late.” Shoes clicked on the stone tiles. I let my eyes close, let the breath rush from my body. “Aren’t you afraid?”

“No,” I said.

“Not even of vampires?” The shoes clicked and clicked closer. I did not look up. Maybe I understood already, on some level, and had given up. Maybe I’d already surrendered. 

“Doesn’t everyone fear them, child?” He said. “Don’t you know what they can do?”

And I said, “What can they take from me that they don’t plan to already?”

“Indeed.”

A hand curled into my head, yanked my head back. My eyes snapped open, and he smiled down at me. Dressed in the black robes of the priest, the goddess’s symbol on his chest, the fangs glinting in his mouth, the Scarred Man smiled down at me. And the silver blade that struck my Hunter Knight down pressed against my throat.

“Hello, Runner,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

“Come to pray for your master?” The blade pressed close against my throat, cold as the grave. “Come to beg the Great Mother for his life?”

“You didn’t have to do that to him,” I said. I did not reach for my gun, I lost it hours ago. The golden blade on my side, useless against a weapon like he held, like he was, in the pose he’d trapped me in. And my mouth could not talk me to freedom, like it couldn’t talk him into mercy.

“I had to,” the Scarred Man said.

“Why?” My voice shook.

“Because he would never give you up,” he said.

He pulled the blade away. Threw me against the altar. I hit the cloth, didn’t need a moment to recover. I turned, I stood, I was ready to run. There was nowhere to run. The Scarred Man moved with the moonlight and pressed against my body, pressed me against the altar.

“Did they tell you about our rules, Runner?” He said. His gloved fingers dug into my shoulders. “I had the right to challenge your master for your body.”

“He is not my master,” I said.

“Not anymore,” he said. “Now I am”

My stomach dropped.

“No more of these games, Owen,” he said, and his hand cupped my head. “No more chasing each other down dirty streets, no more blades and bullets. The war is over, and I’m going to take my rightful prize.”

“No,” I said.

“I’ve pulled a lot of strings to have you,” he said. Gloved fingers pressed against the skin of my neck, my pulse pounding against the fabric. “And no one else ever will.”

“No,” I said, my voice weak, my denial desperate. “He won’t let you.”

“When I’m done with you,” he said, “You won’t want to be saved.”

His mouth covered mine, stole the breath from my lungs. He bent my back over the altar, forced himself between my legs. He ate me alive. Into his mouth, I moaned. I sobbed. 

He unbuttoned the black buttons of my crimson vest, I shook my head, I did not fight. 

His fingers found their way over the exposed skin of my chest. I pleaded, “no,” but did not fight.

He kissed my body, the scars on his face grazing me. My back arched, and tears fell. I thought of Aurum, and his kind hands. I thought of his lips. I thought of the magic that surged through him like forgotten sunlight.

And in the Scarred Man’s control, I once again, forgot the sun.

[lumikatdraws]

#2: Sway

(Heavenly bodies that held her in their influence.  “Let me help you.”  Rating changes to "E."  Multiple relationships, several snippets from pre-1.0 Calamity to [ShB spoilers] pre-patch 5.3.)

cw: 18+, consensual OCxOC relationship with [in other depictions, unhealthy] BDSM overtones; rough sex, mention of Zenos (scars and injury), Estinien & Samantha being actual animals. Otherwise fluff and feelings.  Many POV shifts, mostly wide third-person POV with eyes belonging to: Raphael, Minfilia, G'raha, Estinien, Aymeric, and Samantha (WoL).

- - - - - - - - - -

- ✧ ☄ ☽ - 

Rain pit-pattered the window.

She swallowed the breath of fragrant mist rising from her teacup—took a scalding, half-steeped sip.  Past the glass, out in the garden, the rosebushes hung their pretty red faces, the downpour making the blossoms gleaming and leaden.

A hum from his desk—that soft, commanding timbre—and she looked up as though summoned or beckoned.

Bewitched, bedazzled, besotted.  

He was thumbing through papers, grim-faced, unsmiling.  

“Come,” he murmured.  He sounded tired.  The word fell from thinned lips like a drop of cool water from storm-laden petals. She rose from the armchair; padded, barefoot, past polished wood floors.  Her long nightgown whispered behind her, a white, frothy slip of a thing—a gift from him.

He stirred at the sound of her subservience.

When Raphael Lemaitre lifted his eyes, Rosalyn Floravale was lost in them.  They were green and golden and haunted with hazel, arcane and enchanting as the aurum of his hair.  He wet his lips and tipped his quill in its stand; pushed his chair from the counter to allow her to perch in his lap.  “Sit.”

Her heart stuttered with butterfly flutters as she climbed astride.  He allowed her one rare moment of abandon, to stroke her hands through his long, flaxen hair.  She pulled it loose of its ribbon.  “You look tired,” she said, timid fingertips tracing his resplendent cheekbones.  She cupped the sharp angle of his jawline; kissed the side of his mouth.  “Let me help.”

He wrapped her wrist in his hand and closed his eyes.  Raphael turned his face to press the hard slash of his mouth against the lines of her palm, the arch of his regal nose caught between her fingers.

“You always do,” he whispered.  It was quiet enough to vanish—to disappear into the grumbling of the rainfall and the wind.  Whether she heard him or not, before he could intercept it, she snatched the bridge of his glasses.  Through his defenses slipped the first flicker of a grin; she cackled as he slipped very cold, very clinical fingertips up the front of her chemise, stiff against her skin.  

Thumbs stained by ink moved directly to her breasts, his feather-light touch nonetheless kindling.  She arched to fill his hands; to beg him, silently, to cast aside pretense.  But Raphael Lemaitre was stern as a statue and nothing could sway him.  As always, he looked up through bronze lashes, knowledge implacable, a stronghold unspeaking, unsmiling, unyielding.  

After long hours lecturing students, he preferred quiet.

She writhed, impatient, in his lap.  He watched a moment in silence.  Hands primed for reading and writing moved, very slowly, down the outline of her body—found her hips and eased into a calculated shift.  Their bodies moved together, and an ugly cry tore from her lips.

“Shh,” he hushed, unlatching his belt.

She held her lip between her teeth to stifle all sound as she watched him.  Unbuckled, unbuttoned, he pushed the immaculate press of his trousers down just low enough to—

Her hot, greedy fingers snatched his length into her fist.  Always so hungry to take him, she hitched herself up, and he hissed to see she was bare beneath the nightdress—completely unhindered.

They were practiced.  So rehearsed, now, she knew the best fits of their bodies; made the frantic struggle of sex into something graceful and efficient.  Her desperation always left him breathless, and in the midst of that rainstorm, his dignified lips fell soundlessly open as she sank to sheathe him inside in one stroke, riding him, unruly and ruthless.

Had her eyes been open in the blinding breath that he filled her—had they been open, not closed for the thrill—she would have seen incomprehensible adoration in his face; the brief, broken instant his chiseled façade collapsed.  But the mask of power clicked back just as quickly—the need to restrain her, outlast her, and conquer.

She clapped her own palm over her own mouth to stifle her ragged cries and he kissed the valleys of her knuckles; let his eyes glitter like sunbeams in springtime.

Good girl.

- ✧ ☄ ✧ -

The Antecedent’s laugh caught, half-through her throat, and she stifled it.  

“What?” Thancred’s scoff was both merry and biting.  He stumbled to a halt, dragging the flabbergasted Hero beside him.

“The two of you look so—” Warde cut herself off.  “Forgive me—” Her sky-pale eyes glittered, filled with bald amusement. The Warrior—Samantha—pushed her dark hair back with both hands, a fiery blush on her swarthy, sun-blemished cheeks.

“Are you laughing at us?”

A giggle escaped the Antecedent’s lips.  She coughed back the cascade that threatened; pinned Waters with a gentle stare.  “My dear Thancred—stand aside, if you please?”

Both of her sentinel's ash-blond eyebrows rose and he lifted both hands, play-acting a couerl-burglar at knifepoint.  “Fair lady,” he drawled, reversing three paces.

Samantha watched in some blend of horror and unabashed fascination as Minfilia swept into the center of the room, reaching for her with unassuming, outstretched hands. “Allow me,” she offered, keeping her voice soft and tranquil, hoping it offered some solace.  “Our friend here of course is an unrivaled tutor, but—” and she prayed her eyes, then, were soothing.  Floravale was full of fire, but skittish, so much promise, so much wild.  “Ascilia remembers the basics far better.”

From her guardian, she felt the heat of his exasperated affection—stern and probing cross-examination—and passed him a heartening glance.  

Stay.  

Samantha crept forward, still possessed of that caged-animal stare.  “Ascilia?”

“My name,” she said, very quiet.  A tiny smile curled her lips.  “The true one.”

“But,” came the instantaneous mutter from the watcher, “If you so much as breathe an onze beyond this chamber—”

His interruption was disrupted.  “I trust her,” said Minfilia, holding the Warrior in her eyes.  Samantha had a fierce and determined appearance—a woman, to be certain—but despite over two epochs of namedays, the sorceress yet moved with self-doubt; exuded a muted and hushed lack of confidence that Ascilia, for all her abundant misfortunes, comprehended very well.

“That would be the Blessing,” offered Thancred, benevolently unhelpful.  

“No.”  Warde beheld Floravale with tender evaluation. They stood close, now; close enough to twine hands.  “Somehow,” she wove fingertips together; locked eyes, light to dark, “I would trust her regardless.”  Minfilia’s voice came out small and wondering, like a child.  

Samantha responded in kind.  “You would?”

Thancred cocked a resigned hip against the well-worn desk and sighed; watched as two would-be schoolgirls burdened by the weight of the known world swung into silent metronome rhythm, the Antecedent’s surefooted actions rendered clumsy by the Warrior’s ineptness.

Ascilia had been told, from the first of her years—admittedly mostly by Thancred, Twelve bless him—that the shine of her grin held the warmth to melt winters; that, perhaps, if she met all of Coerthas with her gladness, she could thaw even Dalamud’s harshest aetherical chill.

She aimed her finest smile at Samantha.

“I would trust you in twelve thousand lifetimes.”  She used her chin to point to their toes, and Samantha tripped across the floor to follow. “Excepting yon loitering observer,” another admittedly unnecessary glance to reassure him, “Rarely have I met a soul I found—so suddenly familiar.”

Samantha’s complexion was olive, dark-freckled, but not deep enough to obscure the hot red of her blush.  “I feel the same,” she babbled.  “Familiar, I mean—as though I knew you long before we ever met.”

Warde spun the two of them to trace the empty Solar.  “Marvelous,” she said gently, and Thancred’s eyes followed them both, serene and tempered.  “We might make a proper friend of you yet.”

Minfilia pretended not to notice how her partner’s breath stoppered—looked away as Samantha cast a nervous glance to Waters.  Warde was aware of the role he assumed on her arrival in Ul’dah; camouflaged the elation she felt at his aura of pride and protection.  So you adopted her as well, my secret-keeper.

"Scion and associate,” he grunted, feigning indifference—though the look in his eyes was anything but.

The Warrior huffed. “I would love nothing more than your friendship,” she muttered, and the words were rough but honest.  She was catching on to one bar of the dance—Tataru would be delighted.  “But—” She laughed then, nervous.  “How can I presume to join in?”  

Her dark, delving stare flicked to Minfilia’s—smoldering and shy.

“Why,” and the Antecedent lifted both arms to guide her in a pirouette.  “You join in the same as this.”  The Warrior twirled and her uneven skirts whirled in tiers to hug her calves, catching on the buckles of her blonde spinner’s boots, tickling the trims of leather-embellished leggings.

Rosalyn and Ascilia met each other eye-to-eye, the hybrid mage no small margin taller—

And then the woman the Antecedent hoped might fill the old soles of an Archon tripped all over herself and they were entangled, slip to surcote.  With an exaggerated sigh, Thancred bustled over to unravel them. “So much for hoodwinking the Syndicate.”

Above their sudden, wild laughter, Samantha barked.  “I trained in natural magick, not parlor tricks.”

Minfilia was breathless.  “I’ve been cured of misgivings.”

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

His tail swayed back and forth as he looked at the Tower.

There in the distant yawn of that crystalline throne room, the Void yet stretched—and there beyond, through that rift in time and space and aether, Nero—

G’raha Tia balled his hands into fists and squared his center of gravity; felt the heft of eons past and future ghost to settle on his shoulders.  There was something, something—something he was missing.

Something he yet needed to finish.

Like Nero, he hungered for Allag.  For all G’raha knew that his colleagues might deride him—the lash of Scaevan sarcasm was, after all, something far harsher than biting—he almost, quite often, related to the defector; met cold eyes the color of midwinter mornings and saw something brittle tucked behind them.

Brittle, and bitter—substratum primed to crack.

“Raha?”

The barest sound of her voice pooled to tug at his navel.  He turned before she could see the way the dense hairs along his tailbone stood up; loosed a casual grin like a mockery of an arrow.  “You found me.”

“Of course I—” In the darkness, she almost looked frightened.  The plucking sensation dropped inconveniently lower as she trudged up to glare down at his face, a worry line creased between her brows.  “You—” She pursed her lips and spluttered.  “After all that happened—” She flicked one frustrated hand toward the looming, glittering spire.  “Tell me before you run off like that.”

Oh, she was furious—furious and terrified.

For him.

Pleasure stirred in his heart and down between his legs before he could ignore it.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Worrying after me?”

She scowled harder. “You—” Her hands were balled into fists so tight he could see every ridge of her knuckles and half-gloves. “Of course I worry after you, Raha.”

A tremor itched down his back and he ignored the sudden, feral urge he felt to pounce. “As you see,” he said instead, gesturing to himself.  “Whole and hale.”

“Uncharacteristic,” she muttered.  She thrust out one hand, flexing stiff fingers.

He had the choice, then, to continue to rile her—but he wove them palm to palm instead, following back to the outpost.  A thrill marched up his spine as she all but dragged him to camp, his deepest, most animal instincts ecstatic to be chased and claimed.

He supposed he should have known, somehow, that things would shift—change being the crux of existence, the eternal pendulum swing.  But had he known, even after; even granted the gift of both foresight and hindsight, would he have picked another way?

When he thought of it centuries after, he remembered a mirage.  For what else could it be but delirium imagined, delusions he dreamt in the lifetimes he slept in the Umbilicus, the haze of his waking besides?

But wherever it came from, in no past, present, or future would G’raha rob himself of one memory: Her legs, a cage to bind him as he moved, slowly and carefully, inside.

- ☾ ❅ ☽ -

His growl was furious.  “Let me help you.”

She squirmed away from him like an eel but Estinien chased her; pinned her down with the obstinate weight of his body.  He was scalding hot, the gift he stole from Nidhogg affecting his temperature.

“Let go of me,” she growled, trying to kick him, but he curled in a way that placed his long frame at the advantage.  His right hand was encrusted with scales of obsidian, vaguely monstrous, and where he touched her a tickling miasma of aether descended.  Warped crimson and violet levin tangled down her body in gossamer cobwebs, and each felt the other flicker within—that strange place they were blended from sharing the Eyes—however swiftly her tenure had ended.

“Let me look at you,” he snarled, and just as the smoke of his eldritch magick found a crack in the light of her blessings, seeping in, he snatched her wrist in his hand and used the secret she taught him against her.

A cry tore from her throat—arse—and she crumpled, limp, to the blankets.  

Then, with the skilled and ruthless fingers of a hunter, he stripped her bare of skirts and bodice and shucked her free of her chemise, much like he might clean an antelope carcass.

It was rare that Estinien was shocked, but his eyes went wide on reflex at the sight of the wounds on her body—fresh tracks and puckered scars, no few left by Ame-no-Habakiri.  His scale-flecked thumb stroked a path by the lines left by the katana and he shuddered with a convulsion, consumed at once by rage.  Again, both could feel it curl within, an actual, aetherical connection.

Death, came the inward rumble, not from her, but from Estinien.

I will kill him.

She coughed out a laugh.  “Who can kill the unkillable,” she croaked, increasingly convinced that the prince was akin to a demon.  “That man defies all rational definition.”

“Slag him,” Estinien spat, physically shaking.  His eyes were frozen on the places stained by Doma, by Galvus—her flawed and magnificent skin— “How could you allow him—"

“I let nothing,” she hissed, the command of her magick returning.  She huffed a breath to transpose the fire building in her chest and it came out an icy mist.  “How could you allow Nidhogg?”

Hard, dark eyes caught her glare.  They were locked for a handful of hot breaths and heartbeats.  Estinien lunged, pulling the blow just before their browbones cracked together; nestling gently instead.  

His voice rarely hitched, rarely fractured.  “He told me to protect you,” he whispered, and in the depths of it she heard something shatter; a glacier’s melting edge.

Aymeric.

“You are,” she rasped, both hands on his face.  “You do. You did.”

Thought evaporated. Tussle turned to whispers turned to snapping and biting.  His clothes were gone, saltwater on his face.  The source of the tears hardly mattered.

Samantha hooked her knee around his haunches, tossed her head back, and howled.  

- ☾ ✧ ☽ -

The canopy of the Twelveswood swayed above.  

He laughed, and a cackle of crowcall escaped her.  “And here I thought,” she rasped, hoarse, “The Lord Commander was not the type to be prevailed upon.”

A crooked grin twisted his lips.  He hooked his elbow to buttress her back; dipped her low so that the gleaming, star-white fringes of her blanched-bright hair swept almost to the ground.  “But you, my Hero,” he exhaled, “Are prevailing.”  He whorled her upright and was gratified to find her grinning, broad and breathless.  “And I of course admit a certain bias in the case of our affairs.”

She unfurled against his arm and tossed her head; barked another wine-drunk chortle at the stars that glittered far above the boughs.  The lamplight cast the stern angles of her face into shadows impossibly softer, framed by the intermittent pinprick-incandescence of fireflies.

Like them, her splendor shone foremost from within.

“Impolitic,” she teased him, “For a statesman to play favorites.”  And then, without warning, she was deadweight in his hands. The Warrior of Light dragged the Speaker of Ishgard down to dewy cushions of moss and leaf-litter; jerked her chin toward the bottle long abandoned.  “And to ply a weary Scion with drink, nonetheless.”  She quirked a brow.  “Are you trying to intoxicate me, Ser Aymeric?”

He was smiling down at her, beguiled—hers, helplessly, always.  “Not on drink,” he murmured, brushing the tips of their noses together.  “Though I concede I misjudged the—vigor of this vintage.”

She snorted and dissolved into guffaws, and he held her, amused and admiring.

His design was elaborate—ambitious and, to his horror, slightly extravagant—from aperitifs with her parents, to the banquet in the ballroom, to this tour of girlhood haunts and havens, he had plans.

But let her this moment, his skipping heart warbled.  This breath of freedom from Norvrandt.  

Your grandiose suggestions can wait.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -

He held his frame at an angle away from her.

Distant.

“Close the door,” she begged again.  The Exarch met her stare through copper lashes, the side of shrewd, slitted eyes, and the Tower itself seemed to inhale.  There was a long, gravid pause.

Then, very sudden, very quiet, the access to the Ocular clicked shut.

And they were alone.

The Exarch—G’raha—gripped his right arm like it pained him.  She reached for it on impulse.  “Let me help you.”

It should have been easier, to look and see a friend.  But it was hard to reconcile—to dissect him from her trials in Norvrandt—to blend the ardent young scholar with the venerable, cryptic old man.  Even as he turned and opened his posture to her—even as she took him by the shoulder, the shape so familiar—he was something slightly else. “Samantha—” The richness of his very timbre was darkened, subtly altered, the Exarch ancient in ways that G’raha Tia only wished to understand.

“No.”  Her low voice echoed hoarsely in the room.  “Don’t dispute it.  Don’t speak to me of debts or death or some other damnation imagined.” His right shoulder was hard as granite. She dug in her fingertips.  “You don’t deserve to suffer, Raha,” she muttered. “You never did.”

His face was serene and impassive.  But as she watched—as she poured healing aether through his fractures, letting it slip between the tectonics of him and the Tower—something cracked.

Strong arms hooked the small of her back, his stature humble but packed, dense and deceptive, with power.  He crumpled with a breath and turned to crush his face against her shoulder.

“Say it again.”

Shocked from focus, her spell fizzled—but her grip on him tightened.  She hugged him, hard.  “You never deserved it,” she rasped, one hand cradling his neck.  “Not one bit.”

The hard tips of his crystallized fingers caught between the layers of her bodice.  The breath he took rattled his body.

How long they stood and swayed there was unknown.

- ☄ -

The spell to shield her aether was proving easier to weave, but whether it was effective was a question only Estinien could answer.

It was late by the time she reached the Manor.  Snow fell in flurries, all but stopped, and she took her time shedding her layers, sneaking into the foyer so as not to wake the—

A breathy laugh, far down the hallway.

She froze and craned her neck.  A dim glow from the direction of the parlor.  Sweeping back her hair, now damp with melted snowflakes, she tiptoed down the vaulted corridor, ears peeled for—

“Fury bless it.”

Aymeric’s laugh, again.  “You keep too much tension in your shoulders.”

A grin curled her lips in a reflex like breathing and she picked up her pace, keeping quiet. The heirlooms and artifacts stored on the walls seemed to watch and adjudicate as she crept to the archway, peeking in.

There in the parlor, limned by firelight, the two most eminent figures of her Ishgard were dancing.

Estinien swayed away from his partner, long torso bared to the hips, garbed in ash-colored slacks that hugged his thighs too tightly—a pair nicked from Aymeric, no doubt.  And the lender himself was dressed all in black, the high neck of his collar offering only the barest glimpse of alabaster throat.

Quiet and clandestine, she leaned against the frame, watching as the two of them simpered.

“Poor form,” crooned the lord of the house.

“My arse,” came the clapback.  

With lupine grace, Estinien slunk back, snatching Aymeric’s wrist.  A wicked smirk curved Borel’s beautiful mouth as he followed. “That, I assure you, is formed quite correctly.”

And then Estinien laughed.  It was a raw, candid sound—wide and rambling as the grin on his lips.  At the gleam of his teeth, a wild, uninhibited rapture surged through her, and she realized with a start—

It did not belong only to her.

Before she could think to escape, a hard, towering body barreled for impact.  “You little rat,” Estinien growled—and she caught a glittering wink in his right earlobe as she was lifted from the floor, hefted easily over his shoulder.

She slumped and twisted to find Aymeric watching, smiling bright.  “Ignore me,” she insisted.  “Keep bonding.  I have a mind to go to the—”

But Estinien was already carrying her up the stairs.  “You smell like—” She could hear his nose wrinkle.  “Too much of those damned Lakeland lilacs and not enough like me.”

She huffed. “Last I checked, the world was not, in fact, compelled to smell Wyrmbloodian.”

Trailing behind by several paces, Aymeric followed, laughter lighting the ice of his stare. He pushed the rook-black curl from his eyes and fixed her with earnest attention.  “Welcome home again, beloved.”

Home, again, to stay.

- ☾ ☄ ✧ -

[kurtoooons]

Aetheria Myth - The Seven Valorous Avengers

Clearest Blue

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

Falling into a deep abyss was the last thing Amadea remembered.

Then the voice.

FIND ERIANA. FIND HER, AMADEA.

Amadea woke with a jolt on a bed too fancy for her taste. Loose clothes hung from her pale body as she looked around this strange room. It was a room none too special, with only a bedside drawer and a wardrobe. A window overtaking most of the wall to her left took on a beautiful view of a mountain range.

Thoughts raced through her mind. Who's Eriana?

Amadea stared up at the ceiling. More importantly, where am I? She started to step off from the bed only to crash onto the cold marbled floor. She was terribly weak as if she has been bedridden for years. With a great struggle, she managed to get to the door. With a click, it opened before her eyes.

Blinding light poured into the small room and she was taken by surprise when she found herself in a circular courtyard. The courtyard spanned wide and many flowers of many colors scattered across the grass of blue. A stone fountain sat in the middle of the circle of what looks to be rooms like the one Amadea emerged from. She walks around the beautiful courtyard, sometimes stopping to admire the flowers.

As she circled, she saw a girl sitting on the fountain, staring blankly in a random direction. The maiden had beautiful white hair and dressed in tunics similar to Amadea's. She approached the sitting girl and with a quiet greeting, the girl looked in her direction. Amadea found herself staring at the girl's face. It was beautiful and serene like a princess's, but a V-shaped mark scarred her right eye. It looked like it was branded there. Painfully.

"Hey." The marked girl greeted back. The silver eye of the marked girl studied Amadea closely.

"D- do-" Amadea could hardly speak, she finds her voice missing.

"Do you know w-where we are?" Amadea finally forced out.

The girl looked away and shrugged.

"I know about as much as you probably do." The girl said, "Woke up in a strange bedroom and came out to this place."

Amadea sat with her, keeping the silence.

One of the bedroom doors flew open and a man made of metal stomped into the courtyard. He looks around and sees Amadea and the girl on the fountain. He walks towards them, his eyes glowing red.

"Who are you? Where am I?" The metal man demanded.

Amadea's mind raced scared as the metal man towered over her.

"W-we don't know either." Amadea admitted. "My name's Amadea. Now, who are you?"

The metal man's eyes narrow as he looks around.

"I'm Llachrima of the 547th Silver Legion. Or was it the 505th? I... I can't seem to..." Llachrima desperately tries. "Remember..."

"My memory has been hazy, too." Amadea adds, "All I remember is my name. Not even my past is clear..."

A look of envy met Amadea.

"What is it?" Amadea inquires.

"Nothing." The marked girl added, "I can't seem to remember anything, either."

Amadea felt something off with what she said. There was clearly more than what she let on.

The others have now joined them, totaling seven. They were all dressed somewhat similarly. A white tunic and white pants. Amadea looks around. There was a blonde boy, a small, frail girl that was clearly younger than the rest, a giant of a man towering over the other six and a girl with black horns and deep crimson skin. Amadea tried not to stare and she failed. With eyes like flowing magma, the horned girl glared before looking away.

"Where are we?" Says the blonde boy as he looks around. "Who are you people?"

"I feel we should get started with knowing each other's names. My name is Amadea." Amadea advised, "I feel like we'll be together for a long time."

That final line hung in the air for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"My name's Endymion." The blonde boy announces. Amadea couldn't help but stare at him. His pale complexion, his bleach blonde hair, his blazing blue eyes. They're all so similar to Amadea's that she couldn't ignore it.

"I-I'm... uh... O-Omagi" The young one said, "Of the... Seraph Clan. Nice to meet you all."

Seraph Clan...? Amadea raised an eyebrow.

"I'm Llachrima." The metal man said bluntly.

"Illyanna." Said the horned girl.

"Call me V." The marked one said absently.

The group looked expectantly to the man that was easily 3 meters tall. Silver lines ran up and down his robust ebony body. He opens his mouth as if he was about to say something but then realizes something. He then looks to the group and gestures to mouth and shook his head. It was clear that this giant was mute.

Amadea wanted to talk with Endymion about how similar they look, but she thought it'd be no use as he doesn't seem to have his memories either. Although Amadea lost her personal memories, she seemed to have kept basic concepts like language.

Everything in their little pocket dimension felt indifferent. It was lethargic. Not even the sun moved. Amadea sat bored for what felt like hours. V sat at the same place, only sometimes laying down. The giant paced around the yard. Endymion had the idea of walking away from the courtyard but an invisible barrier around the yard prevented him from straying too far. Illyanna thought about how this must be an afterlife and that they're all just punished to stay here forever.

Amadea was staring up at the unchanging skies until the voice that jolted her into the waking world came back.

FIND ERIANA.

Amadea frowned. Who's Eriana? Why do I have to find her? She thought about these questions endlessly but her lack of memories made it especially difficult. No matter how much she racked her brain, there was nothing hinting her past. Amadea gave up and started circling the courtyard.

In the great silence, Amadea felt the winds change. In an instant, golden gates appeared in the courtyard, towering over all. It swung open, giving way to a lady of heavenly proportions. A flowing white dress, accented by golds and blues. Her hair flowed beautifully and her eyes shone gold like suns.

"My name is Elizabeth Mira. I am the Crown Princess of Aurum Noctis. Apologies for being late, I'll explain everything if you'd kindly follow me."

Amadea was still where she stood.

Illyanna was the one to break the silence. "Excuse me, what?"

"I promise, all will be explained." The Princess said, "Now, please follow me."

And with that, she turned and passed through the gates from whence she came. The seven reluctantly followed the Princess through the gates.