#he was told that he is a fragment of the god devourer that has been hunting him and that is the source of his power

[xavalav]

explodes forever and ever as i think abt dnd session from tonight. we beefed it so hard and now my freak is having a mental breakdown.

[lemonsoday]

Hi guys so I made a fake cover for one of my oc stories. I'm just now realizing that it doesn't quite fit the vibes of this current excerpt but I promise it makes sense with more context 💀 I thought I'd post something to go along with it and so here's the prolog chapter!

Any feedback or comments are appreciated 🫶

PROLOG

Every star in the sky is that of an ancestor looking down from the land beyond mortals. The names of those still residing in the memories of generations to come are the names belonging to the brightest stars.

As time goes on and memories twist and turn through each person's account, the people behind those names slowly turn to ash, leaving behind hollow gods — mere figures in legends and prayers. A long time ago, one such star existed. The founder of the kingdom high upon the mountains, Hua Xinyang, shone with splendor never seen before in the northern sky. Never obscured by clouds, he was Yujun's symbol even long after his physical body had been devoured by dirt and worms. But he too, would disappear one day. When a dark void appeared in the spot where his star would have shone, Hua Xinyang, although still remaining in the hearts of his people, was truly pronounced dead.

Ever since then, the two other gods who watched over Yujun alongside him, were rarely ever seen again. They said that one secluded himself in his realm in the depths of The Abyss, while the other, crushed by grief, hid away in his garden and never dared to cross any form of life again. Even though their stars still existed in the night sky, their absence made it no different from the death the people of Yujun had experienced just moments before.

That was 500 years ago. Yujun has moved on from their grief and the kingdom has learned to live on without their Tri-Deity. Today, their names are only uttered in respect; for the small fragment of history that people are still able to remember. However, whatever happened before, in between, and after that brief moment in time was a mystery, one that would never reach their descendants because nobody who lived through it was around to tell those stories anymore.

But there was somebody who lived, unbeknownst to anyone besides himself and the gods who had disappeared long ago.

One day when the descendant of Hua Xinyang took in a boy from the south of Yujun, Xiang Yulan, who'd laid dormant in his Silk Pavilion for years, felt that something was out of place within the mortal world. After a distanced observation of the child, the link between them only became clearer. However, he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Bai Ming who'd disappeared from the eyes of all beings — living and dead — suddenly returned to check on this "disturbance." Something wasn't as it should be with Hua Beifang's boy, and as time went on, Bai Ming's suspicions, although believed to be illogical even by himself, seemed to be proven true. The child had memories of the past; the deities' past. He wasn't sure whose memories they were, but they were certainly more accurate than the myths being passed around as the trio's history in the current day.

As a god of the underworld, truth be told, Bai Ming was unnerved by the occurrence. The boy was an anomaly to the cycle of life and death. His duty should have lead to him killling the boy to restore all that is natural, but due to his own personal desire, he could not bring himself to do so.

By the time Hua Xinyang perished, he, Bai Ming, and Xiang Yulan each had their own skeletons in the closet. However, whatever the latter two were hiding was an open secret compared to the events that Hua Xinyang hid away, even from Xiang Yulan.

Despite the shining image of brotherhood that the people of Yujun saw Bai Ming and Hua Xinyang as, Bai Ming couldn't care less about the secrets that the founder had. For what it's worth, if they were to disappear just like their owner, he still would not have felt as if he'd lost something important. On the other side of that spectrum, there was Xiang Yulan. The death of the founder was a secret that he was hiding in itself, one that he was hiding from Xiang Yulan specifically. At least that's what the moon god believes. He didn't know why his companion would do that, but he knew that he must've been keeping something from him, something big, something... awful.

When the boy entered the picture, Xiang Yulan thought that he could be the key to the puzzle. So, he sought after him. He waited for the moment he'd be able to take him as his contract disciple. He always watched him, but never interfered. Without realizing it, he'd watched him grow up.

Bai Ming was aware of this. The revivification of the moon god was a surprise, but, at the start, it was a welcome one. He and Xiang Yulan's relationship had strained after the founder's death, so all he could do was look after him from afar. It was once he'd grasped the other god's true intentions that he finally stepped in. The moon god had no obligation to listen to him, as the death god had no obligation to stop him. But Bai Ming wanted something too, and he was willing to destroy whatever legacy they'd left behind as a trio in order to achieve it.

When the two couldn't reach an agreement, it was settled that from then on, the moon and the waters below were enemies. How people would remember them now was unimportant, because at that point, neither of them had anything to lose.

[loudsuitlover]

could you write a Christmas piece for Harry and indie and their family please? I’m not sure if you are taking requests, I know you said you’ve been busy but if you get time and this inspires you I would love to read!

A/N: Thank you for the request! It did inspire me quite a lot! I hope you like it x

“Merry Christmas, doctor Styles.” The new Anaesthesiology inter smiled at him.

“Merry Christmas, Steve.”

But oh, the holidays. He had never been a fan of them. Granted, that- like every other thing in his life- had changed since he spent them with Blue and just by thinking about it he smiled. Blue loved Christmas. She loved most holidays, but if she had to choose one then that would be Christmas.

He remembered their first Christmas together. He remembered too that the year prior he had already been in love with her but they had been angry at each other during the holidays and even if he thought he wished things had been different, deep down he knew he wouldn’t change a thing. And he remembered that first Christmas they had actually spent together, he was having a hard day, a really hard day but Blue didn’t yet know he didn’t really like Christmas- he didn’t want to sound like the Grinch- so she was standing right outside the hospital with a Santa Claus hat on and she was grinning at him and he remembered she almost scolded him because they were going to be late to her mother’s dinner and he just chuckled and made fun of her for her hat.

“Everybody’s looking at you.” He had laughed.

“I don’t care. So are you.” She shrugged.

“Ain’t I always?” And he gave her that smile of his that would always have her weak at the knees.

She didn’t drive yet then so he knew she had walked from her friends’ apartment to the hospital and then he drove towards her mother’s house, that was still her own house at the time, and in the ride he prayed for the dinner and the evening not to be as hard as he anticipated.

Blue’s family was big on Christmas so Alicia was having this huge dinner and she was having everybody over- Blue’s dad and siblings and his own family. Alicia had even invited his dad but they hadn’t spent Christmas together since Harry was 7 so it was no surprise when he said he couldn’t make it.

Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra and even Elvis Presley played that night on the Anderson’s house, and every other Christmas eve after that; and the truth was as years passed, new memories came with them- first it was Blue with the Santa hat outside the hospital, then her first Christmas gift to him.

“Now” she said the minute he laid on her old bed at her mother’s house that night “there’s a present to you from me under the tree so you can open something tomorrow in front of my family but” she smiled and she had his full attention then “you’re real present is here.”

“Are you gonna give me a lap dance?” He smirked, propping himself up on his elbows over her mattress but she rolled her eyes.

“No.” She giggled. “It’s a proper present.”

“So is a lap dance.” He smiled.

“There will be no lap dance on Christmas for you, mister. Did you know today we celebrate the day Jesus Christ was born? Does it look like the night to be giving my boyfriend a lap dance?”

“You don’t even believe in God.” He laughed.

“But you do.” She smirked. “You should show some respect on his birthday.”

“Alright, alright.” He smirked. “Then what is it that I can’t open in front of your family?”

Pictures of a sexy Santa Claus lingerie set played on his mind, or maybe some new sex position she had done some research on, or maybe a new edition of the Kamasutra. She sat down before him on her bed and she was hiding something on her back and she tucked her hair behind her ears and she looked so gorgeous to him.

“Is this the present?” He smirked.

“What? I haven’t given you anything.”

“I thought it was this sight.” He shrugged.

“You’re such a dork.” She giggled and then she showed the present from behind her back.

It was carefully wrapped on reindeers’ paper and he smiled at her cheesiness. He took it from her. It was a book- it definitely was the Kamasutra- o a cheeky smirk crept onto his face. Except it wasn’t and when he read the title, even if his Spanish wasn’t that good at the time, he knew what that meant.

“Canciones para Harry.” (Songs for Harry.) He read out loud.

He opened the book and flipped through the pages. She had gotten it printed and among the lyrics, all in black ink, there were some fragments in pink and from them it came some notes written on her handwriting on shinny black ink, and he ran his fingers across them before he looked up at her. She wasn’t looking at him, instead her eyes were set on the book, and he knew she was just embarrassed.

“I made a playlist for you. Well, not technically for you. It was more a playlist about you. I started it after one day at your house when you told me you had chosen to tutor my essay because you thought I was smart. Well, I was falling for you then.” She giggled. “So I made this playlist with songs that made me think of you and I�� I mean I can share the playlist with you too but I- I did this book.” She set her hands on the pages so she could point at the things she was mentioning. “I just wrote the lyrics of the songs, well I got them from the internet, and then I wrote in pink the bits that reminded me of you and on the sides I wrote why, sort of like in genius. You know that website, right? And” she flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for “since some songs were in Spanish, I translated them myself, see? There on both sides, like one of those Spanish-English books for kids” she giggled “so you can understand better.”

He was at a loss for words so he just stayed quiet, only for a moment, and he read some of it. Her handwriting: this was when we met, when I thought I didn’t need anything from your heart haha what a fool and he smiled and read the translation she had made from one of her Spanish songs about him I don’t need no clothes, I’m wrapped by yesterday’s warmth; I don’t need no clothes, I’m wrapped by the taste of honey; I don’t need anything to be between us, just our skin; I don’t need anything from your heart. And he kept reading…

Reality doesn’t let go of me. I search for a better world and dig on one of my drawers just in case you’re there. Searching for my destiny, living pre-recorded, without being or hearing or giving. I would like to talk to you so we could tune in.

My house is falling since he left and now I’m just waiting for the wrecking…. His memory’s pinned between my eyebrows. But I dream that there’s a new song beginning, I live on the echo of yout voice, entertained; and I follow the trail of your scent that says to me come with me.

I find a song that talks about me and you. Be quiet and hear it- the sound of my dreamy belly that dreams about devouring you every hour. The held back desire roars.

I want to relish on the essence of things.

I decided to leave my door open just in case your warm air comes in and brings news about you.

“It’s not much” she giggled “but I thought it might embarrass you to open something so cheesy in front of my whole family.”

He looked up at her and he just gave her a smile for he still didn’t know what to say and he hoped he was a poet then. He had written some things about her, that he had, but he didn’t even have them there; even though he had decided then he would let her read them.

“This is the best gift anyone has ever given to me, Blue.” He confessed. “But yeah, I’m glad you didn’t give me this in front of everyone because I’m all mushy now.” He smiled. “Just come here, you. Te quiero.”

So yeah, Blue had made sure he didn’t hate Christmas as much as he used to. It wasn’t that he hated them. It was just that it reminded him of everything his sister could have had but hadn’t and he couldn’t help but to think it was his own fault and so Christmas was always hard on him but since Blue, Christmas was an opportunity to pamper her and to be pampered, to decorate the entire house with her and have chocolate together and she even got him a Christmas PJs for Dylan’s first Christmas- Daddy was dressed like an Elf too- and he wore it every other Christmas after that. And that year wouldn’t be different, he thought.

“Mummy” Dylan walked down the aisle at the grocery store with his white woollen beanie on, the one Aunty Gemma had knitted for him “do you think Santa leaves presents for animals in the jungle too?”

He was four years old then but he was the smartest kid she had ever seen. They had probably overstimulated him, but oh well. When he was just one year old, Harry would tell him all these things and he would never scold him- he would just explain what was wrong and in all fairness- Blue had thought that was silly at the time- but maybe he had been right all alone.

“Yo me imagino que sí. Si han sido buenos, claro…. Pero no lo sé porque nunca he ido a la jungla.” (I would say he does. If they have been kind, of course… But I’m not sure because I’ve never been to the jungle.)

Hughie was a giant 2 and a half years old and he was sitting on the small chair on the trolley, minding his own business with the toy he had brought with him and Dylan was helping you with the groceries, grabbing the things you asked him from the shelf and placing them on the trolley.

“¿Tú quieres algo, Dylan? Es Navidad. Puedes elegir lo que tú quieras.” (Is there anything you want, Dylan? It’s Christmas. You can choose whatever you want.)

“¿Lo que yo quiera de toda la tienda?” (Whatever I want from the entire store?)

Blue smiled. The store wasn’t bigger than four corridors but she nodded her head for she figured for someone 107 cm tall, the store was actually big.

“I think I want a box of chocolates so I can share. I can leave one for Santa too.”

Blue smiled.

“A box of chocolates it is. And Hughie, is there anything you want?”

“Agua.” (Water.)

Blue laughed but handed him his bottle of water and sweet Dylan explained.

“She means a present, Hugh.”

“Biscuits.” He smiled mischievously as he looked at her.

She laughed again because the day before, he had misbehaved a little with the biscuits- he was such a gluttonous kid- but she knew Hughie was a little naughty but had such a kind heart and she secretly loved it.

Dylan was so good. He had always been so good, even when he was a baby. He would grant her 8 hours of straight sleep and he would always smile when you look at him, even before you said anything, and when he was a little older, he was so good too. So kind and such a loving big brother. She remembered when Hughie needed a nappy change, Dylan would run off to the nursery and get a clean nappy and wipes and run back to the living room and he was just one and a half years old.

After the store, they had gotten home and she had turned on the heater and she had gotten everyone on their Christmas PJs after the baths and then she had played her mother’s Christmas CD and the three of them had walked inside the kitchen where they were baking.

“Mummy, why are we making a cake for Daddy?” Dylan asked as he stirred the dough.

Hughie was sat on his knees on the stool next to his brother’s but all he had been doing was nipping on leftovers of chocolate or butter.

Well, they were making a cake for Daddy because Daddy tended to be a little sad when Christmas was coming. The accident had been on the 18th December, so many years prior, but he still felt his heart breaking every year around that time. So then, then it was December 23rd and the following day they had Christmas dinner at Abuela’s house but that day, they would have a Christmas day of their own and Harry would have a cake because a cake could cheer anyone up.

“So he knows we love him.”

At that reply Dylan looked up from the bowl at his mum and his hazel eyes set on hers and she knew another question was coming.

“Otherwise he won’t know we love him?”

She smiled.

“Es verdad, yo creo que ya lo sabe. Pero es que Daddy es médico como mamá y la Navidad en el hospital da un poco de pena, ¿sabes? Porque nosotros vemos a mucha gente que no tiene tanta suerte como nosotros y no tiene unos hijos tan guapos y tan buenos, ¿sabes?” (You’re right, I think he already knows. But, you know, Daddy is a doctor just like Mummy and Christmas at the hospital can be a little sad, you know? Because we see some people that aren’t as lucky as we are, some people who don’t have kids as beautiful and kind as you, you know?)

Hughie was listening too then and he had smiled at his mummy’s compliment and he looked so much like Harry she wanted to laugh.

“¿Y eso pone a Daddy un poco triste?” (And that makes Daddy a little sad?)

“Sí, eso pone a Daddy un poco triste.” ((Yes, that makes daddy a little sad.) Hughie frowned as she said that. Daddy was his favourite person in the world, she was sure, but so was Dylan and her herself and he didn’t like it when any of them wasn’t happy. She knew even if he was little, he would take their pain from them if he could. “Pero vosotros le ponéis feliz.” (But you guys make him happy.)

“You too, mummy.”

“Yes, me too.” She smiled.

“Mummy” Hughie smiled again with that naughty smile of his, and Blue hoped he would never grow old for it “¿cuándo es tu cumpleaños?” (when is your birthday?)

“¿Cuándo es mi cumpleaños, Dy? ¿Tú lo sabes?” (When’s my birthday, Dy? Do you know it?)

He frowned and his mummy smiled as she stared at him. He was so small to everybody but he had grown up so much to her and time was going too fast and was taking away her little baby Dy. But he was so gorgeous and so kind and she was so proud of him as it was, she couldn’t imagine how proud she’d be when he was older.

“Es en verano.” (It’s on the summer.)

“Sí, es en verano, Hughie.”

“¿Y el de Daddy?” (And Daddy’s?)

“Dylan?” She smirked.

“Después de Navidad.” (After Christmas.)

“Sí, muy bien, Dy, ¡qué observador eres!” (Yes, well done, Dy! You’re so thoughtful!)

“¿Y el mío?” (And mine?) Hughie asked.

“El tuyo es en marzo, después del de Daddy.”

“¿Cuándo es el cumpleaños de Santa, mummy?” (When is Santa’s birthday, mummy?)

“No lo sé, pet.”

They didn’t hear the door but it had been a while since Harry was standing on the other side of the kitchen door, eavesdropping to their conversation. The scent of vanilla and chocolate filled his nostrils as he stood there quiet and peaceful and he hadn’t realised the smirk that was on his lips; but holidays weren’t so bad anymore.

“Well, who are all these elves on my kitchen?” Harry smirked.

Hughie almost jumped from his stool and he clapped his hands together and turned his body around and Dylan grinned widely at his dad’s presence.

“Daddy!” Hughie celebrated. “It’s us! We’re not Elves. We’re Hughie, Mummy and Dy.”

“Oh, okay, thank you, Hughie.”

He leaned in on his sons and he pressed a kiss to Dylan’s hairline as he hugged him to his chest from behind before Hughie climbed over his chest and hugged him as if he hadn’t seen him just this morning.

“What are you guys doing?”

“We’re- uh” Dylan’s eyes opened wide as he stared into his mum’s eyes in panic.

So Harry looked up at her too and she gave him a naughty smile.

“Díselo, Dy.” (Tell him, Dy.)

“Te estamos haciendo una tarta para que sepas que te queremos y para que no estés triste.”

“Oh, muchas gracias.” He smiled at his wife and shook his head slightly, but she just shrugged and giggled.

“And that’s not the only thing we have for him, is it?” Blue smiled. “We also have a little show after dinner, right guys?”

“Yes, yes!” Hughie pressed his hand on his cheek and turned his head until he was looking into his eyes. “We learnt a song, a Christmas song with Mummy.”

“You did?” He smirked amused.

And then he set Hughie back on his stool but she asked her children to help set the table so they both started grabbing their colourful plastic cutlery and making their way to the table. Harry approached her and he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back to his chest while she put the cake on the oven.

“Do you not get tired?” He whispered on her neck before he gently nibbled on her skin.

“Of what?”

“Of being so lovely.”

“What a dork.”

“And sexy.” He grabbed her butt and almost made her moan but she just pushed him away with her hips and he chuckled.

So they had dinner, the four of them, and Dylan told Harry about the box of chocolates he had gotten and Hughie told him about a meteor that apparently had crushed against his toys in the afternoon and it was simple, but it was perfect.

And then after dinner came the show and both his kids performed a very cute, very well choreographed performance of Rudolph the RedNosed Reindeer while his wife guided them from behind him. And then there came the cuddles before bed and the best moments, when they would tell each other right before turning the light off, what had been the best moment of their day. For both of them it had been the piece of cake after dinner, obviously, and Blue could only roll her eyes internally when she thought it had been none of the games they had played, or the rehearsals for their performance, of the chocolate box but the cake- it was always the cake.

And it was after the kids had fallen asleep, when Blue and Harry were having some wine in front of the fireplace that she had gotten up from the couch as Nat King Cole lull them with The Christmas Song and she had offered him a hand as she swayed her body to the slow rhythm and he had stared at her hand with a smirk playing on her lips before she had smiled invitingly and then he had finally taken it and gotten up. He placed his hands on her waist and her arms wrapped around his neck and he couldn’t help the chuckles as she sang to him.

“Merry Christmas to you.” She pressed her lips to his and there was no more singing as they kissed for the rest of the song.

The kiss started slow and neither of them had realized they were that hungry for one another until he deepened the kiss. He hadn’t done it on purpose, he had intended to go for a gentle, tender Christmas kiss, but she smelled so good… And she was so warm and he had skimmed her skin underneath her sweater and damn… She was so soft… She was always so soft and so his eager tongue had pushed her and she had moaned against his lips and that was everything he had needed.

His hand fell from her neck to the valley between her breasts and she gasped on his mouth.

“Baby” She gasped.

He hummed and kept sucking on the skin on her neck.

“The boys” She whispered “what if they wake up?”

“I need you, baby.”

He was painfully hard and he didn’t quite know how it had started. It must have been the way she smelled. But he had thought about being inside her and then he couldn’t take the thought out of his mind.

“Bedroom.” She had said.

He pulled away from her and with his hands firmly on her hips, he took her to their bedroom and he closed the door after him. His hands were on her hips as he nibbled on the side of her neck.

“I love you, Blue.” He whispered against her skin.

And his hands slipped under the hem of her pyjama pants and he took them and her knickers off swiftly before he walked towards the bed. She could feel it- his hard length, big and warm- against the low of her back and she didn’t know how she could get wet so fast but she was so lightheaded she wouldn’t have known her age anyway.

She heard him took off his own clothes and so she took off her pyjama top and waited for him with both hands on the bed, giving him her back. Warm, strong arms wrapped around her bare waist and one hand moved up and squeezed her breast while the other travelled down her belly between her legs. Her head collides against his shoulder when his fingers collected the wetness from her warm lips and spread it against her hungry clit and she moaned. She tilted her neck so she could capture his lips and his tongue searched for hers. The familiar humidity and the eagerness drove her crazy even all those years later and she let him do with her what he wanted.

With one hand on her belly, he laid her down on the bed, chest and belly pressed against the mattress and he laid his weight over her making her moan. His hands pinned hers against the mattress on both sides of her head and their lips connect on an impossibly wet kiss. She gasped against his mouth.

“I love you.” He repeated.

“I love you too” she moaned “but fuck, fuck me already.”

He chuckled before he pressed a kiss on her temple.

“My girl… Always so impatient.”

His girl… His girl was a mum already but he was still his girl, first and foremost, and he would fuck her like he did when they first met and she would scream his name and mark his back with her nails still.

She desperately wanted him inside her, but he deprived her from it purposefully, just so she was as hopeless as he was. So she could feel, even if it was on a physical level, how desperately in love he felt, how vulnerable, how much in need he felt times like that night.

The tip of his tongue went down the side of her neck and she shivered. She was deprived from movements too since Harry’s weight was over her so she could only bit on her bottom lip as he sunk her teeth on her skin, not enough to hurt but enough to sting, before he licked and kissed the pink marks. He moved above her, making her think that was the time he was going to thrust inside her, but he didn’t driving her crazy. She had hoped he would times enough so that she had given up and as if he knew, that was the time he actually slipped inside her. He groaned on her ear at the contact, that wet canal that had wrapped around him for years, his happy place, his calm. And even if he was thrusting her from behind, he still found her lips and they kissed passionately, and he would bit on her bottom lip and pull from it and dived his tongue inside her mouth.

She was a moaning mess and only then she understood why he had chosen to take her from behind because in this position at least her moans were muffled against the pillow. He held her hips and fucked hard and fast inside her and she knew they were only the orgasms she would have solo, before he’d cum himself and then he’d slipped his hand between her legs and he would rub her pussy fast enough so that she came with him again.

He was lying next to her with his back resting against the mattress and his chest was furiously going up and down and he turned her head and smiled at him sleepily.

“I think that’d do for two long sexless days.”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled and, smiling, he leaned in and captured her lips with his.

“Merry Christmas to you too, love.” 

[werezmastarbucks]

Whitmore Guy and more dead bodies

Whitmore Guy masterlist  

word count: 1877

She sat on her couch and watched Mal bring all the plates from the living room and place them on the kitchen counter. Somehow, him being a massive creeper and a liar liberated her from cleaning her own house. Mal really looked like he  enjoyed it though.

“Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you”, he said nonchalantly, like he wasn’t noticing the intense look Y/N has been giving him, “that little whole on the wall, what’s the story behind this?”

He walked up to the wall crossing the line and cutting the kitchen space from the living room and pointed at the little notch in the dark wood that looked like a cut.

“I threw a plate once and it crashed into this place, knocking out a piece of wood”, she said. They both looked at it for a second.

“Why?”

She rubbed her knees.

“I don’t really remember. I know it was late at night, and I was sitting at the table, and I panicked for some reason. I couldn’t eat again. So I threw my plate full of potatoes away, and there was food everywhere. But I don’t remember what made me so angry, and definitely don’t remember cleaning. It was like… a thousand years ago”.

“Hmm”, he said and walked to the couch slowly, placing himself next to her. They fell silent for some time.

“I told you, I’m going crazy. I keep forgetting simple things, like from half a year ago, or a year ago”.

“That’s normal”.

“It’s very weird how I forget separate fragments. And recently I found this playlist with music on my phone that I don’t remember making. What’s that all about?”

She looked at him, testing his concentration, like he was also guilty about her amnesia and madness.

Mal replied with his understanding look, the one they shared when they spoke without words. His eyes said, that sucks, and she said, I know.

“And I remember being happy, like last summer, that’s the funniest thing. I don’t know what happened, but it just drained, and I can’t go on pretending like I’m still me. Something’s happened, and Damon refuses to tell me. But I remember vividly being very, very happy last year. But get this – I don’t remember why”.

“Don’t freak out”, his hand laid on her palm and squeezed her fingers lightly. Y/N absently looked at his hands and couldn’t move.

“You’ve lost a friend. It’s been a tough spring. It gets better, yeah? I promise you. By Christmas time you will be happy again, no – I predict you will be. I know it”.

He sighed deeply and let go of her hand. Her fingers went cold.

“Why were you watching me sleep, Mal?”

He wasn’t taken aback by her question. He blinked twice, confused, like she was asking why the space is dark.

“Because you fell asleep in my bed while I was in it. Who told you I was?”

“Bonnie touched you and saw it. She’s a witch, remember?”

“She does look like a witch, it’s hard to forget-”

“You were in my house. You were watching me in my house”.

Mal looked emphatic, like he was treating a terminal patient who was also insane. He didn’t look guilty, or awkward at all. Y/N secretly admired the nerve of this guy.

“So, I was”, he said quietly, and his neck swayed like a snake as he tilted his head. His eyes went completely bleak, like he was about to eat off her face.

“How did you get into my house?”

“That’s not the right question you’re asking. It’s not difficult to get into a house”.

She felt cold shivers run down her spine, unwanted arousal together with horror – for the first time, finally, he scared her properly. And what did she feel? Horny.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Mal Osbourne”, he replied when she barely finished the sentence.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want”.

There was a heavy pause filling space between them like poisonous gas. She realized she couldn’t hold on anymore. There was the sense of fear, but no danger. She was either numb or stupid; she couldn’t see him as a threat. She knew he was one, but it felt fake, it was double fake – his personality, and then, his supposed danger that he had to present. All she wanted to do was to grab him by his shirt and pull him to her face to breathe him in.

“God, you’re not even fighting it, are you?” he whispered, little dimples appearing on his cheeks although he wasn’t smiling.

“You’re the only real thing that’s happened to me in months. And you just happen to be a sociopath with a plan”.

“I’m no menace to you”.

She didn’t like the way he emphasized ‘you’.

“You want a ham sandwich?”

She shook her head no, and said to herself, ‘I want you to kiss me’. She couldn’t utter it out, but he read her mind. How, she didn’t know. Mal leaned in and Y/N grabbed his neck like her life depended on it; their mouths crashed into each other, and she took a deep breath as he touched her teeth with his tongue. Shivers vibrated on her ribs, and she could feel both his hands wrapping her, and it felt right, like it was his place. Mal pressed her into the couch pillows and his hand slid down to her thigh, his touch firm, possessive. Y/N’s limbs were magnetized, moving towards him, like her body didn’t even belong to her anymore. All she knew, brain or skin, was him, that he pulled her to himself, pressing, devouring her slowly, as he drank from her mouth, heating her like a match. How hot could it get? She couldn’t think. Y/N scratched his neck, delving her nails into his skin in an animalistic urge to come closer. Her knees spread by themselves as she let him slide in between, his smell making her dumb. Nothing. There was nothing in her head except the sound of her own breathing and the way he kissed her. They couldn’t let go of each other, running short of breath, and the thunderous sound behind didn’t make sense at first.

Y/N shivered and pulled away, opening her eyes and discovering her knee was high under his arm. Someone called her by the name. She looked at Mal, his mouth slightly open, his eyes, mad like his brains were completely fried. She turned around and saw Elena standing in her hall.

“There’s bodies. Your neighbors. You guys… please…”

It took about five seconds to process. Mal came to his senses quicker. He stood up, letting go of her legs, and ran his hands through his hair.

“What?”

“We were almost at the end of the street, and then the smell hit us. We checked, and there’s bodies in the house next door. Those new guys who moved in last year?”

She thought of Gray the cat.

“Larsons”.

“Exactly”.

Elena was tugging at her own hair, visibly embarrassed by what she saw. Both scenes.

“They’re all dead”.

“And the cat?”

Mal gave her a look.

“What cat?” Elena whispered.

Heavy footsteps rocked outside, and the door was pulled open. Damon looked into the living room.

“What the hell were you doing?”

Y/N blinked slowly.

“Did you call the police?”

“Is it bad?” Mal asked.

“It’s bloodbath”.

They left the house and came round the driveway, entering Larson’s yard.

Coming close to the front door, Y/N could already smell them.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go…”

She entered the hall and Mal followed her. She covered her nose with her palms as she saw three dismembered bodies in the living room. Mal didn’t let her turn the lights on.

“Don’t touch anything”.

“You’ve been with us the whole time, right?” she asked, thinking as she spoke. Mal turned to her, and his eyes shone with indignation in the twilight.

“You go from thievery to murder? Are you okay, Y/N? Why do you blame me for everything?”

They turned to make sure the vampires stayed on the porch.

“I’m not blaming you for anything, just thinking out loud”, she hissed. Her face was still hot.

“Yeah, and in your way of thinking, you gotta make sure I didn’t sneak out of the house to fucking butcher your neighbors because..? Are you seeing this shit? How am I supposed to physically do it?”

She rubbed her face and turned away to leave. Mal followed her again.

“You lied to me, didn’t you? Aw, you’re going through stuff, I understand”, he mimicked her voice, making it too thin, “you understand shit. You think if I lie about one thing I lie about everything else, too”.

She turned to him with a swing. She didn’t really want to talk about it with all the people they knew present, but the moment might be fleeting, and if she wanted to catch him, she had to do it on the spot. It didn’t help that she was still immensely aroused as she even looked at him.

“That’s how it works, Mal. And what exactly are you lying about?”

He opened his mouth angrily to answer, but someone called.

“Let’s go, I called the FBI guys”.

“The FBI?”

“Yeah, well, they said to call if anything else like this happens”.

Mal turned to Damon and looked him in the eye, directing all his frustration towards the vampire.

“Where were you?”

Damon’s face got beautifully distorted with annoyance.

“You know where I was, you creepy lizard”.

“Everything that’s happened was connected to you, Damon, and you’re notorious with your temper, and you weren’t in your best mood today”.

“He never is”, Caroline noted.

“I can’t believe this guy”, Y/N nearly yelled, “you basically just admitted lying to me…”

Everybody started talking at the same time. Mal crossed his arms on his chest and did the thing she almost learned already. He pretended to be the victim.

“Y/N, you can’t stay at your house, it’s not safe for you”, one reasonable voice said.

“Great, we’ll go sleep over at your house”, Mal nodded. Stefan was taken aback.

“What? You think I’ll leave her with you monsters?”

Y/N raised her eyebrows so high her face hurt.

“You’re going home, Osbourne”, Damon barked. Mal was standing next to him and it seemed like he even got a bit taller with his own shadow helping him. He let out a small smile, looking right into the vampire’s eyes; the amount of energy suddenly bursting around him was insane. Bonnie’s head snapped towards them two in a bird-like gesture, and she looked concerned as hell.

“I’m going with her”, Mal said quietly. Something in her stomach did a flip, and as he turned, she gave up. Stefan did, too.

“Alright, maybe… maybe it makes sense, okay? He was with us, too, and if… this is an attack on us, or a sign…” he shook his head slowly, looking at Elena, as if asking her for help.

“Let’s just go, all of us, Bonnie and Caroline too, alright? It’s better if we all stay together in one place”.

Y/N pushed through them and walked back to her house to grab some things, followed by several pairs of eyes.

[spero-lumina]

Starter for @entwlncd​​ || Childe

The Abyss, a never-ending and all-consuming void, a place that even the Gods' dare not tread, for this hole between dimensions is a ravenous beast. All too eager to lure and devour the curious and unwary souls that have the misfortune of discovering it. There are the lucky few who don't immediately fall into the maddening darkness, who resist the whispers, able to traverse its realm unhindered.

 Or so, it has you think.

When you first enter this realm between worlds, it's cold, almost bone-chilling, a pungent and decrepit scent of something far more ancient than any worldly smell assaults you, shortly followed by a dead and eerie silence that seems to engulf your senses. The feeling of millions of eyes peering at you through the darkness, curious, but oh so very hungry. You try and speak, but nothing comes out, just strangled gasps as if your voice had been taken. You have no need for that here.

As one delves further into the damp void, the whispers begin--soft, unintelligible at first, even if you strained your hearing, nothing would make sense. The longer you linger, the louder they become, it's best not to heed these voices, for they are but the souls of the lost.

Twisted and tormented beyond any form of recognition, no longer a being of life. These lost fragments of a bygone era will beg for you, plead with you to free them to save them from this endless torment. Screaming, crying, begging, everything and anything they can use to garner some form of sympathy, some form of weakness to latch onto. To pull you into their soul-rending grasp.

To resist their pull is a feat in of itself, something so few can do, and something that brings the Abyss's full attention onto you. It loves perseverance, determination, will. It loves ambition and pride. And by extension, this interest is conveyed to the ruler of this forsaken realm…

Golden eyes bore into the mirror before her, a feminine frame leaning comfortably against the black obsidian throne. She remembered this soul; he had traversed this realm unwittingly a decade ago. So pure and full of light, did she cradle him in her warmth-- making him immune to the taunting grasp of the void, showing him the way to the unknown swordsman. So that this young soul could learn to fight, to defend not only himself and his family, but that brilliant hope so rarely seen.

Time flowed faster in the Abyss than it did in Teyvat; three months, there was only a scant three days above. Little Ajax had learned so much, taking to his lessons like fish to water. They had conversed a few times over that period, and when he had to leave, Lumine personally saw him out. She had never told him her name. He only knew her by the alias " L." When the young boy had returned to Teyvat, she had tabs being kept upon him. Leaving him the occasional cryptic letter, did she observe the choices he made.

The God had expected it, for even the brightest lights fade and get snuffed out. Mortals never changed after all. Yet, despite this inevitably, she felt a twang of disappointment when those eyes once so full of life and light shattered into flat sea glass. He never returned to the Abyss, perhaps something primal warning him deep within his subconscious. Sure he pulled from its never-ending power with his Foul Legacy Transformation. But, it just wasn't the same, and whether or not he was aware of the fact that pulling from the Abyss without accepting it wholly pulls one deeper into madness. 

Clouding their judgment and their sense of purpose.

So color her surprised when she feels that familiar soul delve into her realm willingly. Lumine could feel the raw untapped power he possessed. Just why had he returned after all of these years? He was weak, so he finally came to seek more power. Perhaps attempt to understand his Legacy even more. His ambition, his need to know, to protect was like a beacon for the Abyss. ( It would be a waste to have him fade away into one of the nameless… ) fingers tapped thoughtfully on the throne ( perhaps… ), a twisted grin grew onto her face as golden divinity illuminated her eyes with glee. ( Perhaps she would have a trump card after all… )

Lumine rose from her throne, silently coaxing her domain to nag and pull at his weakened psyche. It was after he had pulled from the Abyss twice in short order, did he dare enter the maw of the beast. How foolish of him, her protection no longer shielded him from the unyielding pull of the pitch darkness around him. She wouldn't let anything horrible happen to him; she was still rather fond of him after all. He would be twisted into a champion of the Abyssal Order, his life lived before, being all but evaporated. She gazed once more into the mirror, soft whispered tones coaxing him into the velvety blanket of darkness. Telling him to let go, that all he seeks is within his grasp if he just let's go.

" Ajax... " her voice called through the darkness, that familiar warmth enveloping him, " come to me...I have what you seek." Lumine's voice was tender, yearning like an old, dearly loved companion; it was almost hypnotic. " It's been so long... "

[saramelcky]

Fragments - Chapter 3

Bucky Barnes x Mom!reader

Summary: Y/n, Bucky and Grace have breakfast together. Bucky opens up more about what he’s going through, so does Y/n.

Word count: 2.3k

Chapter Warnings: Feelings. A little bit of angst. Some bad words maybe.

A/N: I’m back! Well, I don’t know if I will stay active for long but at least I finished this chapter...it took me soooo long. I hope you will like it and I hope I will be able to write the next one ASAP! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

Fragments Masterlist

'We'll be there in ten minutes' says the message Y/n has sent to bucky. It's been fifteen actually, sixteen minutes since that message and Bucky's leg can't stop hopping up and down under the white table of the cafeteria. He puts his left hand on it trying to stop the movement with no success. The door opens catching his attention: Y/n and her little girl are standing there looking for Bucky in the crowded local; when Grace sees the man she can't stop a joyful scream while running towards him to hug him.

"Hey, little girl!" Says Bucky "how's it going?" He asks.  "I'm not little! I'm a big girl" she corrects him. Y/n giggles sitting at the table only moments later. "Hey Bucky, I'm sorry we're late" She apologies to him. "Oh don't be, I was just a little worried, but that's on my anxiety" he giggles the stress away. "I'll send you more texts next time" she laughs lightly.  "It...seems fair" he adds forgetting the previous stress. "You know I colored a picture yesterday, Bucket!" The little girl cuts their laughing off by tugging Bucky's sleeve. "Oh really? What was it?" He asks while Grace climbs up to his lap. "It was me and the big dog from the park hugging like you and mommy did yesterday" the two adults cheeks burn to the ears. "Okay sweetheart, what do you want for breakfast?" Y/n tries to change the subject.  "Coffee!" the girl says joyfully.  "Grace, coffee is for grownups. Like mommy and Bucky. Would you like some milk and brownies?" Her mom smirks at her trying to convince her. "Mommy, I'm a big girl now" She pouts. Bucky whispers something to the little's ear and her eyes widen in joy hugging the man's chest tightly. Y/n is confused and watches him baffled. He nods his head letting her know everything is under control while a waitress picks up their order.

While waiting for their food, the tension starts growing and Grace is not helping anymore with the conversation as she plays with the plates of Bucky's arm. "So, Uhm, about the prosthetic, you wanted to talk about it, didn't you?" Y/n asks.  "Yes, it's about the funds" he says. "Oh, is there a problem?" She's concerned and starts picking at her nails.  "Well, not a problem but a change" he sighs "Grace won't be in Stark's project, it wouldn't be fair to those who were previously chosen, but she'll still have her arm, I will personally pay it since I broke it." Y/n was speechless, a mix of thankfulness for the kind act and stubborn pride that doesn't want him to pay for everything. "I...I don't know what to say" are the only words that escape her mouth. She tries to cover her tears flowing with a smile. "Hey hey, it's okay" Bucky says putting a hand on her shoulder. "Is mommy sad?" Grace asked. "No honey...mommy's really happy" Y/n says wiping off the salty drops "really happy" she repeats. As the food arrives, Grace gets off Bucky's lap and sits between the adults devouring her breakfast in a second. "Mommy I finished" she turns to bucky and he nods. "Bucket told me that to be a big girl I have to listen to you" Y/n nods. "I ate everything so I am a real big girl now" Y/n still nods while Bucky looks at Grace intrigued. "Can I drink your coffee, please?" Grace asks with the most joyful smile of all. Bucky burst into laughs and Y/n is taken back. "So that was what you secretly talked about uh" Y/n smiles "Oh no no" Bucky corrects her "I just told her to be good, the coffee part is completely hers". They both laugh while Grace, in all seriousness, continues to talk about how she deserves that coffee "I'm sorry Bucky, today she woke up with this thing of being a big girl, she just doesn't stop saying she is an adult and stuff like that" she smiles at him "Oh that's not a problem, I lived with the most stubborn boy in Brooklyn eighty years ago, I know how it feels like" he giggles "Well, you weren't Steve's mom, poor woman" Y/n says still smiling while Bucky, at Steve and Sarah's mention, suddenly loses his joy. "Uhm yeah, It felt like it before...before everything happened" he struggles to say the entire sentence without crying. Y/n notices the weird uneasiness and the sad tone in his voice. "Hey, do you want to talk about it?" She suggests. "I don't want to ruin your morning, the baby doesn't need to hear about my messy mind and I bet you have more important things to do" he stares at his hands without looking up to them. "Okay, I'll call this friend of mine so she will pick up Grace to my apartment and we can stay here and talk" she dials Lucy's number on her phone "or we can go everywhere else, just as you like" she says. "Thanks, but I don't want to pity you" he responds. "You are not pitying me, I'll talk about my messy life too if this helps you" she gives him a wide smile before calling her friend.

"Thank you so much, Lucy" Y/n said. "No problem" she nudges her "just...use protections" she winks and laughs Y/n sighs "I'll call you when I'm on my way home" she turns to Grace "Alright princess, say goodbye to Bucky, aunt Lucy will stay with you" she smiles at her baby "Bucket I'll miss you" the little girl pouts "Oh no, come give me a hug" Bucky melts in the little arms "I'll see you next week, little one" he kisses her little head "Bye Mommy" Grace waves at Y/n trough Lucy's car window.

Y/n returns in the cafè and sits back with Bucky. "Uhg, how can you be so calm without her" he says. She arches a brow at him, asking an explanation . "She's gone for 5 minutes and I can only think about how bad I want a little hug from her...God I sound so creepy" he mumbles. "Oh, I'm just pretending to be calm" she nervously laughs "it's been almost 5 years but I can't stand being far from her for too long. Please distract me from my cute daughter" they both bursts into laughs. "It's been a lot since I've laughed like this" he looks sad now "I feel like back in the 30s once again" he sadly scoffs. Y/n puts a hand on his left shoulder. "Do you miss him?" She asks. "Like fresh air. I just don't understand why he did that" he shakes his head. "Do you mean why he sacrificed for us?" She giggles "I mean, it's kinda obvious why..." she adds furrowing her brows. "Is that what you know?" He's shocked "you think he sacrificed? Oh wow" he laughs sarcastically "I've seen it on the news...he died with Ironman, didn't he?" She asks. Bucky can't hold himself by facepalming. "God no...this must remain between us, understood?" Y/n nods. "Uhm, first of all, Steve lived through Thanos okay? After Stark's funeral he had to do one last mission in the past, yeah we can time travel, I think... by the way, before this mission he told me that he wasn't coming back, that I should have moved on quickly and that Sam and the others would be with me if I needed. He...he completed the mission and after that, he went in the 40s and lived his life with Peggy Carter...they were a thing at that time and he never stopped loving her. Steve's still alive, he's really old but alive. I know Sam visits him once a week but...I can't. I feel like he abandoned me...he knew where HYDRA kept me but he did nothing to save me" finally, he lets out everything and cries all his emotions. Y/n embraces him, protecting him from something they didn't know "I'm sorry...I think I can understand what do you mean, sort of" she says "How?" He asks "Has your best friend left you after a century of friendship?" He adds laughing tauntingly.  "No, but I know how it feels being abandoned" she leaves a shaky breath. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asks wiping his tears. Y/n nods. "In 2018, before the Thanos things, I was happily married, I was nailing it with work, everything was just perfect. My husband, ex-husband's name is Jacob. I still love him with all my heart even if he doesn't anymore. At that time we were trying to have a baby, we wanted a big family with lots of kids so here comes Grace. The day I found out I was pregnant, you were in Wakanda, fighting for us. I didn't have the time to tell me about the baby. I was destroyed by his death and had a little pregnancy scare because of the stress. But everything else went well during the pregnancy and Grace was born healthy and even bigger than the average. During the pregnancy and labor, it was only me and Lucy, she's been my anchor many times. I had bad baby blues and I was diagnosed with post-partum depression and it didn't help with the special needs that had Grace. It was probably the worst time of my life. I eventually got through it and moved on, I even dated once when Grace was almost three" she laughed" The final punch arrived when you guys saved the universe and Jacob came back. I was the happiest person alive and Grace wanted to meet her dad so much. He wasn't that happy tho. When he saw Grace he was, of course, confused but he didn't believe she was his. He left us and didn't come back since. I...I didn't take well that too and to be honest, when we've met, it was the first time I went out in weeks. It's been a rough time lately" she sighs "I don't even know how I wake up every day now...I have the fear that Grace is growing more without me than with me, and this is fucking scary. I should be her reference point, I'm her mother for Christ's sake! All I can do is pitying myself, crying and staying alone! And now that I've met you, I feel like I don't deserve to feel bad, others suffer more than me." She covers her face putting it on the table in front of them "I didn't want to cry today but it's harder than I thought" she huffs and cries. Bucky gently kisses her head while soothing her sobs with a hand in the back before becoming a wiping mess himself.

"It felt good today, talking with you, you know?" He says outside her house. He accompanied her home after they recover from the public crying session. "Me too, we should talk more often" she giggles. "Are you free next week?" He asks. She feels heat rising up her face and a knot in the stomach. "Uhm yeah, I think I am" They stare at each other for a while. "I think I might head in" she breaks the silence "Oh yeah of course. Thanks again Y/n" he leans to hug her "Thank you Bucket" she highlights his name in his arms He laughs "you should teach that baby how to say my name" they pull off the embrace. "Send me a text when you're home" she goes to the front door "Ok! Have a nice rest of the day doll" he says before leaving "Thanks, you too" she enters the house.

"Mommy! You're back" Grace jumps in her arms. "Where is aunt Lucy?" Y/n asks her daughter "She's in the kitchen. It's lunchtime!" The baby says happily.  Y/n picks up her baby girl and goes to the kitchen. "Hey Lucy, I'm back" she greets her friend "Hey mama, how was your date?" Lucy smirks at her friend "It was not a date, come on" Y/n laughs. "Mommy, what's a date?" Grace asks. "It's when two people hang out, they go to the restaurant, the cinema or the park sometimes" she answers "Like us when we play at the park?" The girl asks again "Grace, baby, a date is between two people that like each other okay? It's special and you should not date every boy or girl that asks you okay?" Lucy explained "So Mommy and Bucket are special?" She asks "No, Bucky and I are not special because it wasn't a date!" Y/n is almost annoyed. "I want to be special to Bucket! I like him" Grace shouts giggling You all laugh when your phone buzzes, you take it out. When you read the name on it your smile fades away. Lucy notices it. "What happened?" The friend questions "I need to pick this up, it's Jacob" Y/n sits Grace on the counter and goes to her room.

"Hello?" "Hey, um, it's me. It's Jacob" he responds. "What do you want?" She says harshly. "I think I've made a mistake. I talked to some people and...Christ, I was confused, I still am...but I believe you, and I want to be in our daughter's life" As he says that you receive a message, probably from Bucky. "I can't suffer anymore, and I don't want to let Grace suffer too...I don't know if I can do this" she breathes shakily "Please, I still love you, but I understand if in the meantime you found someone else, I just wanna do the right thing for her" he pleads while a sob escapes her mouth. "Let me think about it okay?" She sniffles "I'll let you know when I'm ready" she continues "Fine... You don't have to answer this...but today I saw you with a guy...is he...Uhm are you together?" He asks "It's not your business, Jacob" she is angry now. "He's dangerous, babe, he's the Winter Soldier" he says preoccupied "And you're an asshole, Bucky is not my boyfriend, and even if he was, or will ever be, it's none. of. your. goddamn. business!" Y/n hangs up and throws the phone on the bed, forgetting the message.

Taglist still open:

@capandbuckylvr​ @queen-of-elves @dark-night-sky-99 @chubby-dumplin @archangelslollipop

[xiolaperry]

The Piano - Chapter 4

Notes: My Camp NaNoWriMo Project for April 2020.  A Rumbelling of the 1993 movie ‘The Piano’. Has 14 chapters, all are written. I’ll post one every few days as I edit them. The film is gorgeous, if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend that you watch it.

Summary:  Belle French and her daughter arrive in New Zealand to an arranged marriage with Gaston LeGume.  Gaston shows little interest in her or her piano and books. However, Mr. Gold is fascinated…

Rating: E (for smut, dark subject matter and violence in future chapters)

Chapter Note:  There is a brief, one sentence, mention of previous abuse. I wanted to warn for it here for those who don't want to read stories that contain it. 

Also available on AO3. 

--

After his day on the beach with Belle and Tilly, he collapsed into bed, exhausted. Sleep did not come. He tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. Insomnia was a rare visitor. Back in Glasgow, it hadn't mattered if he’d almost killed a man in a bar brawl, donated to an orphan's charity, or evicted a tenant. His slumber was always undisturbed. He had no difficulties sleeping here, either.

Now he stared at the ceiling, its pattern of rough boards visible in the moonlight. Belle's music was a ghost haunting him. He decided the dawn would chase it away.

The sun did not help. Her phantom followed him while he assisted the Maori as a translator for a land deal, gossiped with Granny, and collected rent on a property near the mission. He heard Belle's music in the rustling of the trees and the calls of the birds. He even heard it in the rain's patter on his roof. Was he losing his mind?

It took two days for Gold to concede defeat. He would have to visit Gaston.

The next morning as he walked in the fog, he called himself a fool, ridiculous. Belle and the girl had made an impression on him, and he wanted, no he needed to get past it.

Gaston was chopping wood when he got there. Gold came to the point. “My 50 acres that border your property. What do you think of them?”

“It's good land. Why? Do you want to sell it? I’m short on money right now.”

“I'd like to make a trade.”

“For what?”

“The piano.”

“The one on the beach?”

“Yes. And the books, too.”

“Gold, the music lover and literature appreciator. Who would have guessed?”

“Who indeed. I would need lessons though.”

“I suppose you would. Belle's father told me in a letter she plays very well.”

Gold gave no indication that he knew exactly how well Belle could play. How could his wife's things mean so little? Did he know her at all?

“Do we have a deal?” He held out his hand, and they shook on it.

When he went to bed that night, sleep came as soon as he closed his eyes.

That evening, Gaston sat at the table, excited by his good fortune. He announced that Mr. Gold needed music lessons. Belle stilled, her face questioning.

“On what?” asked Tilly.

“On your piano. Well, now it's his piano. I traded it for 50 acres of his land. Can you believe it? What a deal. Oh, and the books too.” He was oblivious to her fury, high on the idea that he had got the better of Gold in a trade, which was unheard of.

The thump of Belle's fist on the table returned him to the present.

Her hands flew in short impatient gestures. Her eyes snapped blue fire.

“What does she say?”

“She says it's her piano and she won't have him touch it. They are her books, and he can't even READ.”

“He wants to improve himself.”

Belle paced, her fingers continuing to move.

“He’s illiterate and doesn’t appreciate music! I don’t want to teach him.” She punctuated her last signs with a stomp of her foot.

“You will not ruin this for me. You will teach him. And that’s final,” he shouted, pushing away from the table. The chair fell over when he stood. The slam of the door shook the walls.

Outraged by her situation, having no choices again, Belle threw one of the ornate teacups. It shattered, china fragments flying everywhere. Tilly looked at her mother, eyes round. Belle apologized to her as fast as her fingers could form the words. There was no excuse for her behavior, and she was sorry.

“I'm sorry too, Mama. I don't want you to be sad anymore.”

“You are my most precious possession,” she signed. “I miss my piano, but you still make me happy.”

Tilly beamed. She helped her mother search the floor on her hands and knees to find every piece. They disposed of the shards in the waste bin. Hopefully, Cora wouldn't notice one cup was missing.

Gaston strode back and forth outside, too angry to keep still. This marriage business was getting more difficult by the day. The arrangement was not the help to him he had envisioned. Were all women this problematic? His mother had died in childbirth, so his only experience with them was with his Aunt Cora and his cousin Regina. They always made him feel uneasy.

Men were straightforward. You knew where you stood with a man. His father - God rest his soul - taught him what was important. Land, money, and respect. Other men understood that.

He was good at everything, so it would be natural to assume he'd be a capable husband. But what was he supposed to DO with her when she made no sense? Perhaps he should try kissing her. Women liked to be kissed, didn't they?

Gaston sighed. It was a mystery to him. His father had been generous with his fists, not his affection.

In the abstract, he knew that a man like him needed a wife, children. It was expected. A woman to take care of the house, to cook. Children to help him work the land. But in reality, he wondered if the whole thing was more trouble than it was worth.

At least he had gotten another 50 acres out of the deal.

And so it was that Mr. Gold traveled once again to the beach, accompanied by a party of ten men. Kamira asked him if he was crazy. His response, “I’m not paying you to ask questions, dearie,“ was met with good-natured teasing.

Bringing the piano back was difficult. It was awkward and heavy to carry. The weight caused them to sink farther in the mud than usual. While navigating a complicated passage, they dropped it. The discordant complaint it made at the indignity echoed through the trees. Everyone cringed. The glare Gold gave them was warning enough that they did not drop it again.

The trunks of books were easier but still heavy. All the men cursed his name at least once during the trip.

Gold didn't care. He wanted to hear Belle play again, and this was the best way. That idiot Gaston would have left the piano and Belle's books to rot.

After the piano and books were safe in his home and the Maori paid, Gold removed the crating. The salt air had dulled the instrument's luster, but it was still a thing of beauty. Gold appreciated beautiful things. He polished it, starting with the legs, until it shone. The scent of beeswax filled the air. However, when he got to the keys even his untrained ears recognized they didn't sound right.

When he had first latched onto this crazy idea, he had made inquiries. There was a piano at the mission, maintained and kept in tune by an old man from a nearby settlement. Gold had arranged for the tuner, Marco, to work on it. And after that, he could see Belle and experience her magnificent music again. He would indulge himself, and then this absurd infatuation would pass.

The day had come. He re-polished the piano while he waited, and set water to boil on the stove. The tea set was placed on the table, and the porch swept. At last, they arrived.

Belle and her daughter walked in, and she removed her bonnet. Her hair shone in the light. Not wanting to appear overeager, she did not go straight to the piano in the center of the room.

The cottage was clean. Its one sizeable room was a study in contrasts. A rich oriental rug lay on rough, knot-holed floorboards. Against the far wall, a simple rocking chair sat next to a grand bed with an ornately carved headboard. Simple earthenware dishes juxtaposed a delicate blue and white tea set. A black cat sat in an open window, watching them with curiosity.

Mr. Gold offered them tea with the best of manners. “Granny made the scones. I don't bake,” he said, gesturing at a tray.

Belle declined. She was not here to make friends. Tilly devoured them.

She opened the lid and pressed a key, steeling herself for a dissonant noise. The piano would not be in tune. Instead, she heard a clear middle C. She played a few chords and found them perfect. She looked at Mr. Gold in surprise. He smirked and said nothing.

“It's in tune! Mama was sure it wouldn't be,” exclaimed Tilly.

“I'm full of surprises.”

“Mama wants to know what you can play.”

“Nothing at all. I just want to listen.”

“I thought you wanted lessons?”

He would not explain. He couldn't even understand it himself.

Belle sat down. She opened the lid and played. At first the music's tone was belligerent, hard. But despite her intentions, it transitioned into something hopeful. She was too happy to be playing again to stay angry.

Tilly followed Mr. Gold's friendly cat outside. It, and the riot of exotic plants, was far more interesting than watching her mother.

Gold sat and listened to Belle express herself through her music. It filled empty places inside he hadn't known existed. He felt alive. The harmonies ebbed and flowed, as powerful as the ocean. He could listen to her forever.

[gyromitra-esculenta]

Because I’d been kind of goaded into it, Sabbath scene for The Bureau, mostly unedited - this happens long long after cornfields and nephilim.

Warnings: violence, character death (widowmaker), gore (with a bit of rituallistic cannibalism)

*

A restless murmur - a hushed whisper of dissent - spreads among the witches. It is the night of the Sabbath yet no moon shines on Château Guillard, the sky empty of its presence, and the stars are the eyes of the avaricious angels clawing at the reality in their hunger. Under the ruined archway, Queen of Spiders sits on her throne of the broken altar. Once, it had been the chapel of Saint Adelaide - the headless statue a shadow behind her - its hands sculpted stretched forward in a gesture of reverent supplication.

The witches part for there is an intruder between them they would not suffer any other night but this, the moonless one: a man. The witchcraft has always been a woman's domain, an no man had ever been a witch, such things were impossible and unheard of.

No such sentiment hinders Jack's step, his skin smeared with blue pigment in the patterns of clawed handprints and horned crown of warm bone on his head, his left hand buried in the fur of a great white wolf that had carried him here.

In her, he hears the discordant melodies of the void and the singing whispers, and she in turn sees the Herald of the Lost speaking in the voice of the angels.

"You had failed us, Herald," Queen of Spiders speaks from her perch. "Yours was a stillbirth."

A wrong choice that had made a right, his own words marking it as such, the last fragment passed from hand to hand, and an angel born dead to the world from a kiss.

"I have devoured the Moon. It is my right to challenge your rule, and no right of yours to refuse me."

"You, a man, dare to challenge me for my rule?" She snarls rising to her feet, tall and indignant, and Jack turns, not to her, but to the witches in attendance, the wolf circling him with a warning growl from the maw kept low to the ground as it casts around the glare of its eye.

“I come to you with the moon in my belly. I come to you with my brow adorned by the Lord of the Hunt and the blessings of Herne on my thighs. I come to you bedded by the Seven Year King."

He looks back to her over his shoulder, offering her a humorless smile full of teeth.

"What have you to show for yourself, Queen of Spiders, but a crown forged with the still hearts of your dead lovers?”

She throws the purple swath of fabric off her shoulders, fingers enveloping the hilt under the bejeweled hand guard, and points the tip of the rapier at him.

"So be it then, Herald, I'll bear your insolence no more."

Jack brings to his lips his own blade: forged with bog iron as is her crown, tempered in the heart of dwarven fires, cooled with Morgaine's tears, sharpened on a single hair of Freyja's, and bathed in the gaze of Hecate.

They circle each other, vipers with venomous fangs poised to strike, bare feet on the slippery stone cautious - Queen of Spiders rigid and cold, him flowing and warmed with the moonlight.

A moth's wings flutter in the air and they clash, the rapier grinding on the knife.

The dance is an intricate one, not a pause between the ebb and flow the Moon dictates, breaths curling in wisps of condensation as neither of the them gains the advantage - until the rapier pierces his side and Jack snarls, snatching her wrist and pulling her close. The blade runs him through but the knife is on her neck and his lips at her ear, the fight finished in his favor.

"I want you to know," Jack whispers, "that even when he was yours, and the mask was unbroken, he still came to me when I was ten and out there, in the cornfields."

He pushes the knife in, slowly, with satisfaction trickling down his spine and warmth unfolding in his belly.

Queen of Spider meets the end of her rule with sneering dignity, hand growing lax and slipping from the rapier as she falls to the stones as the blood pools under her.

He rips the blade out of his stomach, turning in silence, his gaze sliding over the transfixed witches; Ana in the back giving him a small nod of approval, both ravens sitting atop her shoulders, and Gabriel by her side, his face contorted in a mixture of worry and bewilderment.

The rapier, thrown to the ground, clatters in the quiet.

Jack reaches deep into himself and extends his arm towards the sky putting the moon back in its rightful place. Lost angels close their hungering eyes and the sweet cadence of the whispering void under his skin subsides.

"You all bear witness to my right to rule, as it has been witnessed by the Moon. Is here any witch that would challenge it?" Unrest and disquiet, yet not one of them steps forward. "Let it be known then there is no challenger, and only the Moon will judge me."

He kneels by the body, the bloodied knife held fast in his hands, and stabs its breast - the bones crack under the repeated onslaught, still hot red splatters on his face, and only after he is sure the work is done, he pries open the ribs, fingers grasping at the heart inside.

The crown of the witch is wrought with bog iron, and the heart of the witch turns into bog iron, her power and her weakness. Witches guard their hearts, hide them under the mountains or in the skies - but to rule the witch needs her heart, even if that heart is a heart no more.

Jack bites into it, chews through the muscle as blood trickles down his chin, and, with his throat seizing, swallows.

The successor always carries a part of their predecessor with them, and with it, all of those that came before. It had been a young witch that cut Hecate's heart out and put it in the sky - and, in turn, it had been the young witch's heart that became the first crown.

Jack approaches the broken altar and places the heart into the waiting hands of the headless statue of the saint.

He takes the stone-cold throne under its shadow, the wolf at his right laying down with its eye turned on the crowd and teeth bared for all to see and know. The light of the moon spills inside through the collapsed roof illuminating the altar, moths dancing in the shine.

The statue shifts without sound - moves as if made of flesh and blood, still a crumbling stone - fingers gently lowering the wreath of thorns to rest on Jack's head betwixt the horns of Herne's crown before it becomes immobile yet again.

"By the law of the first witch, Hecate, Queen of Night, I am your king," Jack speaks, his voice carrying in the hall. "Henceforth, all debts owed to Queen of Night are paid in full. The war of hers is over, and no witch will side with singing whispers. Those are my decrees."

Cold slowly seeps into his hands and feet, the kind that hurts to the bone unlike the pain that numbs his side, blood oozing from the wound and gathering between his crossed legs. His stomach turns with disgust.

"Walpurgisnacht is ending, you can swear your allegiance to me."

The first is witch of the woods, all three of them, with small seashells sewn into their hair clinking melodiously. The girl giggles when she kisses his knee, the crone lowers herself leaning on her cane.

"Lead us into new as you are wont to do," the mother whispers.

A procession of witches follows, some offering him their words - the most keeping to themselves - until the moon is gone from the night sky and only Gabriel and Ana remain.

The wolf snarls at them approaching Jack. Neither of them pays it any attention.

"I think my aunt kissed your knee," Gabriel, holding bundled fur, speaks at the same time as Jack lets go of his focus, shaking violently with his eyes open wide, frantic words leaving his lips.

"I'm going to hurl."

True to his words, he turns left, sliding off the altar, sticky clumpy blood between his thighs - god, the feeling is horrendous - finds blindly purchase with his palms, and retches. It still doesn't come out. It won't. The knowledge only makes him gag and heave more. Between the bouts he barely notices being wrapped in the fur and shifted, something's propping his forehead - leather, glove.

Slowly, he regains the control of his breathing, the awkward position borderline uncomfortable but now Jack cannot imagine anything better. His feet are smushed between Gabriel's thighs, palms pressed to his chest, pinned by his arm, the heat painful but it's the good kind of pain chasing away the ache in his bones.

"Fuck, you're cold."

"No shit," Jack murmurs. "She told me, one king will fall..."

"...in his place another will rise," Gabriel finishes. "I think I liked it more when I thought I made her up."

"You've got, you know... paint, face."

Gabriel laughs in relief.

"Shower's been out of the question."

"Brought the guns."

"Excalibur and Caliburn would help if..."

"I'd either be mad or dead on the floor," Jack cuts him off, coughing in the middle of the sentence and wincing as he finishes.

"But you did it. We have to get you patched up."

"We did it." Jack closes his eyes, letting the weariness overtake him for a moment. "Banshee's next."

[xavalav]

hi, I have too much time on my hands, and am looking for something to keep my hands busy.

I am hereby offering to draw Athanasius, with the only cost on your part is that you tell me more about them

!!!!!!!! yooooooo let’s fucking go that’s sick!! that’s really kind of you thank you :D

uh uh uh let’s see. i think the main thing that is becoming very apparent with athanasius is that he is a huge hypocrite. like with this session, he absolutely exploded at the party warlock partly bc yes it looked like he was just giving the all powerful time gauntlet to his patron, but also because athy was told his friend would die if he touched the gauntlet. so seeing him so close to the gauntlet majorly freaked him the fuck out and he’s upset because his friend put himself in danger and risked his life after he promised athanasius he wouldn’t. but with that said, athy is a hypocrite because part of the anger is also that he wants to sacrifice himself to save his friends and what is the point of that if they’re out there getting themselves killed?

he deeply believes that he and he alone should be the one to die in sacrifice to save the world, or at least his friends. this is what he was made to do, this is what the cult he grew up in trained him for. they instilled the idea that he has worth as a divine savior and that’s it- if he can’t become a divine savior ready to sacrifice himself to strengthen their order then he was of no use and worse, a poor son. as he has slowly been becoming disillusioned with his ‘family’, he has begun to latch onto his friends as the family he is supposed to die for.

this is all further compounded by the fact he just found but where his power comes from. it turns out that the god devourer he keeps encountering is the source of his magic and power. his divine lineage comes a godlike creature who consumes other gods for strength and is intent on seeing this world end. the thing that has been stalking him and tormenting him and haunting his dreams for years turns out to be the place he is drawing power from as a living fragment of it. the solution he was offered when given this information was that if he died with it, it would be gone for good. and though the person telling him this told him there would be another way and he could keep it contained and save himself, athy has made up his mind to sacrifice himself for his friends. bc that’s how you show your love right? your affection? you rip open your chest and present yourself to a world that will not remember you.

as a lil treatsie here are some doodles for him i don’t think i’ve ever posted here :3

[jamkookies]

Behold the beauty mask!

Word count : 2.2k

Description :  A trip to Malta for the shooting of Bon Voyage seems peaceful enough until the moment things take an unexpected turn...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two days.

That’s how long it had been since you hadn’t seen the boys. You hadn’t even been able to exchange messages because your mom kept insisting that you keep your phone as far away from you as possible.

But thank heavens it was over now.

The birthday had gone smoothly and you could finally go back to what you had planned to do.

You were now sitting on a chair, a camera looming over you and your bodyguard standing a few feet away.

You had changed to black shorts since it was scorching hot and put a cap on your head, but except for that you were still wearing the same clothes from two days ago.

Curse you and your insufferable messiness.

You had one hour till the plane took off so you decided to spend that time devouring a hamburger all by yourself.

Then you thought twice and got two other ones - one for the cameraman and one for the bodyguard, though the latter refused to eat on duty.

“Well, I guess more for us then”, you said with a mouthful and split it in half with the cameraman.

Taking big bites, you opened the front camera and started recording a video.

You film the hamburger first and then let your face get in the view.

“Now I know what you’re probably thinking. Isn’t that a tasty - looking piece of art? For sure it is. You must be over there starving while I enjoy this beauty.But no worries fellas. I will join you in no time. So long, my brethren.”

You’re about to finish recording but then you zoom in into your eye.

“Oh and Tae - hyung, please tell me you haven’t broken my record on Temple Run or I’ll kill you.Byeeee”.

You turn off the camera and go back to eating.

Ten minutes later you get a video-message.

What you first see is Tae holding his phone in front of the camera showing his Temple Run username with the score attached.

It was a long number.

It had a lot of zeros.

That cheeky little bastard.

He moves the phone around showing you the rest of the members, and to your betrayal, they are sitting on a yacht drinking champagne off of fancy glasses.

You involuntarily gasp. So much for them starving.

They all wave at the camera when noticing it, specifically Jin who grabs the phone from Taehyung’s hands.

“Y/N how many times have I told you not to talk with your mouth full!”

“But hyung, you do it all the time.” A voice is heard.

Jimin.

You huff a laugh through your nose.

“Anyways…” Jin glares at Jimin and continues. “Don’t eat too much or you’ll get sick. See you soon.”

He passes the phone to the others and the first person to grab it is Jungkook.

“Hey Y/N . We’ve missed you a lot.There is no one to tease and we’re starting to grow bored. Hurry up, please. Love you.”

He gives you a finger heart.

You start hearing a faint thump, that grows louder and faster by the second.

Oh right , it’s your own heart this time.

Why the hell is it beating so fast?

Thank god the camera moves to Jimin.

He does the same.

“Love you, Y/N.”

Then Hoseok.

Namjoon.

When Yoongi gets into view, his head is turned to the side. Everyone waits for him.

“I’m gonna stay here till you say it”, says Taehyung, holding the camera.

“Love you, Y/N.” He finally manages, unbothered and still not looking.

Everyone laughs their asses off.

You included.

Everyone knows that Yoongi isn’t the type to show his affection, but he will still be so loving and caring to others.It made your heart hurt and you were suddenly reminded of all the times he would require for his hand to be held.

The video comes to an end.

There was this churning feeling on your stomach and you didn’t really know if it was from Yoongi’s adorableness, Jungkook’s showcase of emotions or all together.

You abandon the rest of the hamburger and look straight at the camera.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

* * *

Things had gotten pretty weird lately. You got easily flustered at the most subtle affection, and you didn’t really know how to feel about it.

But one thing was for sure.

You had to get things under control or people would start having suspicions.

So, you decide to act as your most uncaring, goofy self and turn everything that comes at your way a hilarious scenario.

You exit the airport of Valetta and take a look around the area.

The heat is so intense, it makes your skin prickle. If you keep walking around under the sun like this, your skin will be burnt like hell. You take out the sunscreen and start applying it on to your arms, legs and every visible sliver of skin.

However, when it comes to your face, you just stuff your hands full of the substance and smear it carelessly until you look like you put on a beauty mask.

“I wish I had some cucumber slices right now”, you say, your eyes the only thing able to be seen.

People stare at you incredulously, but you ignore them and keep walking.

Al least you were amusing to look at.

“What am I supposed to do now?” You ask the cameraman.

He gives you a map of the city and you spot an area circled with red.

“That’s the place where the members are staying. You have to find it by yourself. Here is your allowance,” the cameraman says and hands you an envelope. You peek at the envelope and see 100 dollars nicely folded.

Giving him a crooked smile, you put a hand on your hip.

“Hyung-nim, did I ever tell how well you do your job?”

The cameraman chokes back a laugh.

“We don’t know where the place is either.”

Your smile faints and the corners of your lips turn downwards, disappointed.

“Oh well, it looks like we have a lot of work to do,” you say and grab the map from his hands.

* * *

After a long ride on the bus, you were exhausted but you didn’t let it show. Dragging your suitcase behind you, you hum to yourself fragments of your incomplete songs. Your face still looked like you had stuffed it in cocaine, and that only made pedestrians throw weird glances at you, but you just smiled and waved.

You were absolutely enjoying this.

The whole place was so aesthetically pleasing with all the beige dwellings, reflecting off the sun, and the waves crashing into the shore. The warm breeze tickled your skin and you tasted the salt in the air.

You felt like your lungs were filled to the brim with the fresh oxygen.

If you were completely honest with yourself, you had been a little sceptic about coming to Malta out of all places, but now you understand that you had been utterly wrong.

This…. this is was something different.

This was something you could very well live with.

You take another deep breath and close your eyes, but then a giggle makes you open them again.

A little kid is pointing at you from a few feet away and laughing his ass off, due to the sight of your “beauty mask”.

You sigh deeply and keep walking.

*

At last you arrive at the location.

A tall building towers over you and you push the bell button on the number of your assigned apartment.

No answer.

You wait for a couple more minutes, and sigh in frustration.

“Why aren’t they answering?”

“Maybe they’ve gone out,” the cameraman says.

You bite your fist into your mouth and take out your phone.

You punch the call button on the first contact you see.

“Hey, Y/N !” Hoseok replies.

“Why aren’t you answering the door? I’m outside.”

“You came already? Why didn’t you warn us? We’re having breakfast at a nearby restaurant.”

“You’re having breakfast without me?” I say incredulously.

“Were we supposed to starve until you arrived?”

“Hyung, there’s a camera over here, don’t make me swear at you.”

Hoseok cackles and hangs up.

He then sends you the location of the restaurant.

Good.

It’s not far.

You are about to leave, but you immediately catch sight of your reflection on a glass door.

The so called ’ mask ’ has wrinkled and it’s crumpling all over you.

What in the world had you been thinking?

You fish some wet tissues out of your backpack and rub them into your face.

The sunscreen rips free off your skin easily and you touch the soft surface of your cheeks.

“Wow, I should try this more often,” you say to the camera.

After a short walk you catch sight of the restaurant Hoseok told you about.

It’s pretty nice, next to the shore and all.

You unconsciously fasten your steps, eager to finally meet them.

They’re sitting all together around a big table and they seem so happy, talking and making jokes with each other.

It pulls at the strings of your heart.

You hadn’t even realized how much you missed them until now.

You break through the crowd of people, maneuvering with your suitcase right at your side.

The first one to notice you is Jimin, who stops mid - talking and smiles so widely, his eyes turn into crescents.

“Y/N!” He yells.

“Jimin-ssi!” You yell back.

He gets up from the table and breaks into a run, straight at you.

You are frozen into place when he jumps and wraps himself around you like a koala.

Your hands find his back, holding him into place, and you squeeze.

“What took you so long?” He asks, your hair muffling his voice.

“Traffic was horrible,"you say through a smile.” And hyung, why are you so light? Have you been eating well recently?“

He lowers himself onto the ground and ruffles your short hair. The length is right below your neck, more like a bob, so his action makes it stand in all directions.

"I have been stuffing my face like a pig,” he continues.“ Just like you do.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You catch him in a headlock and ruffle his own blonde head.

The others get up from the table as well, welcoming you with warm smiles.

You first hug Jin and then proceed to do the same with Namjoon, Hoseok and Taehyung, who to your surprise is getting all teared up.

“No way!” You say, a mix of shock and amusement on your face.

“Kim Taehyung is crying for me?”

“No, I’m not,” he says and sniffles.

You laugh out loud and pull him into another hug.

“Do you know how many times Jungkook beat me playing Overwatch?” He continues with a whiny voice.

Your eyes flick to Jungkook, who is looking at the both of you with a cocky smile. You shake your head in exasperation and attempt to free yourself from his arms but he refuses to let go.

“Hyung, you’re choking me,” you croak.

“Oh right, sorry.”

He releases you and offers a boxy smile, not a trace of sadness on his face.

Damn it, he’s a good actor.

Pulling off the most normal expression you can muster, you move on to Jungkook.

He still has that stupid smirk on his face, so you close the distance between you in two long strides and lift him up by his legs. He’s caught off guard, but he recovers quickly and tips his head backwards, laughing out loud.

“We have ourselves another muscle pig!” Namjoon exclaims.

Still carrying Kookie, you contemplate whether putting on a show of carelessness was the best thing to do.

You had tried to look all nice and comfortable being close to him, but now you were having second thoughts.

You put him down and plaster another smile on your face.

“I think I broke my back.”

Hoseok wheezes.

You take a seat and start nibbling at the food lying on the table.

“Hey, hands off, that’s mine! ” Jin complains as you take a bite out of the delicious pizza.

You take another huge bite, just to spite him.

“So, how did your trip go? ” Asks Hoseok.

“Well” , you say with a mouthful. “ I went all the way to Daegu just to give Hyun-Woo a present.

Came back here, took the bus and here I am.”

“How long did it take for you to find the building and all that?” Asks Jimin.

“About fifteen minutes, I guess.”

They all stare at you.

You stop chewing.

“What?”

“We wandered for about two hours yesterday and we even split into two groups, so we could find it more easily.”

You resume chewing and shrug.

“I’m good with directions, I guess.”

“Oh and by the way, you’re gonna have to choose a room for you to sleep.” Says Taehyung. “We’ll see who you’ll get coupled with.”

“I hope I get the single room, ” you say and barely swallow.

You didn’t like the sound of this.

What if you got coupled with Jungkook?

You steal a glance at him, and see the way he has stuffed his cheeks with food. For some strange reason, you couldn’t stop staring at his longish curls.

He had decided to grow his hair out and you couldn’t deny that it suited him perfectly, even though you would never admit such a thing in front of him.

Then, out of the blue his eyes flick to yours and he catches you staring.

“What?” He says.

You narrow his eyes at him.

“You have tomato sauce on your chin.”

[cctinsleybaxter]

2019 in books

The year’s contenders for the good, the bad, and the rest. I used to make a list of the ten best books I read all year, a tradition encouraged by my mom as far back as high school, but out 2019′s twenty-six mediocre offerings it didn’t really come together. Instead I’ve decided to break my ‘honorable mentions’ category into three subsections that I hope you’ll enjoy. In order of when read, not in order of affection:

Honorable mentions [books I liked; 3+ star material]

The Fifth Season by N.K Jemisin was given to me as a Christmas present last year, and I wasn’t sure how much I would like it since I don’t really do high fantasy. Rules need not apply; I loved the world building and narrative structure, and the characters were so much better than I’m used to even when their arcs seemed familiar at first glance. I guessed what was going on with the formatting maybe a little too quickly, but even then it was emotionally engaging and I was eager to keep reading and see what happened next. Haven’t devoured a book that way in years.

The Periodic Table by Primo Levi has been on my list for a while; as a memoir told through short stories it’s hit-or-miss, but so worth it. I especially loved getting to read his early attempts at fiction, and the chapter Phosphorus regarding his first real job as a chemist in 1942 (his description of his absolute disgust at having to work with rabbits, the feel of their fur and the “natural handle” of the ears is a personal favorite.) This excerpt is one I just think about a lot because it’s full of small sweet details and so kindly written:

“[my father] known to all the pork butchers because he checked with his logarithmic ruler the multiplication for the prosciutto purchase. Not that he purchased this last item with a carefree heart; superstitious rather than religious, he felt ill at ease breaking the kasherut rules, but he liked prosciutto so much that, faced by the temptation of a shop window, he yielded every time, sighing, cursing under his breath, and watching me out of the corner of his eye, as if he feared my judgement or hoped for my complicity.”

Slowing Down from Mouthful of Birds by Samanta Schweblin is a one-page short story, but I’m including it because it’s the best in the book and one of the better stories I’ve read in general. I won’t spoil it for you since it’s more poem than anything else (and you can read the whole thing here.)

A Short Film About Disappointment by Joshua Mattson deserves to be lower in the order because it’s like. Bad. But I couldn’t help but have a self-indulgent kind of love for it, since it’s a book about white boy ennui told through movie reviews. It definitely gets old by the end (one of those things where you can tell the author lost steam just as much as his leading man), but parts of it are so well-written and the concept clever. 80+ imaginary movie reviews and psychosomatic possession by your traitorous best friend. 

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway has one of the greatest twists I’ve ever read in a novel, and no that’s not a spoiler, and yes I will recommend it entirely on that basis. It does its job as a multi-year sci-fi epic; reminds me a lot of Walter Moer’s early stuff in that it’s a bit Much(tm) but still a good mixture of politics and absurdity and absolute characters. Tobemory Trent was my favorite of the ensemble cast (but also boy do I wish men would learn how to write women.)

My Only Wife by Jac Jemk is a novella with only two characters, both unnamed, a man describing fragmented memories of his wife. It has me interested in Jemck’s other writing because even though I didn’t love it she writes beautifully; reading her work is like watching someone paint. The whole thing has a very indie movie feel to it (no scene of someone peeing but there SHOULD be), which I don’t think I’ve experienced in a story like this before and would like to try again. 

Mentions [books I really wanted to like but my GOD did something go wrong]

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou is the most comprehensive history we have of Elizabeth Holmes and her con-company Theranos. It’s incredibly well-researched and absolutely fascinating, but veers into unnecessary pro-military stuff in one chapter (’can you believe she tricked the government?’ yes i can, good for her, leave me alone) and carries an air of racism directed at Holmes’ partner and the Pakistani people he brings onto the company. Carreyrou works for WSJ so I don’t know what I expected.

Circe by Madeline Miller was fun to read and goes down like a glass of iced tea on a hot day, but leaves a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste. It says a lot of things that seem very resonant and beautiful but ultimately ring hollow, and the ending is too safe. Predictable and inevitable. 

I was also bothered about Circe’s relationships with Odysseus and Telemachus as a focal point, not because they’re father and son (Greek mythology ethics : non-committal hand gesture) but because it’s the traditional “I used to like bold men but now I like... sensitive men.” Which as a character arc feels not unrealistic but very boring. You close the book and realize you’re not nine and reading your beat-up copy of Greek Myths, you’re an adult reading a New York Times Bestseller by a middle aged straight white woman.

Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor could have been the best thing I read all year and I’m miserable at how bad it ended up being. The concept is excellent; a thirteen-year-old girl goes missing in a rural English village, and every chapter chronicles a passing year. I knew it would be slow, I like slow, but nothing happens in this book and it ends up it feeling like Broadchurch without the detectives. Plus, McGregor, you know sometimes you can take a moral stance in your story and not just make everything a grey area? Especially with subplots that deal with things like pedophilia and institutional racism?

Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor is about a twenty-something who moves from Iowa to San Francisco in the 90s and explores gender and sexuality through shapeshifting. It was something I really thought I would like and maybe even find helpful in my own life, but I couldn’t stand a single one of the characters or the narration so that’s on me! It does contain one of my favorite lines I’ve read in a long time though:

“And anyway, weren’t French boys supposed to be like Giovanni, waiting gaily for you in their rented room and actually Italian?”

Dishonorable mentions [there’s no saving these fellows]

The Butterfly Garden by Dot Hutchinson was supposed to be a fun easy-to-read thriller and what can I say except what the jklfkhlkj;fkfuck. It very quickly goes from ‘oh hey I read books like this when I was 15’ to ‘oh the girl who intentionally gets kidnapped by a wealthy serial killer is accidentally falling in love with his son and can’t stop talking about his eye color now huh.’ I felt like I was losing my mind; why did grown adults give this 5 stars on Goodreads.

The Beautiful Bureaucrat by Helen Phillips is supposedly surrealist horror fiction about working an office job in a new town, and reminded me of that rocky third or fourth year when I really started hating Welcome to Night Vale. All spark no substance, and even less fun because you know it’s going nowhere. I’ve also realized this past year that I cannot stand stories about women where their only personality trait is the desire to have children. People will throw the word ‘Kafkaesque’ at anything but here it was just insulting. 

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai alternates point of view between Yale, a gay man living in Chicago in the late 80s and watching his friends die, and Fiona, the straight younger sister of one of those friends now looking for her erstwhile daughter in 2018. It was nominated for the 2018 Pulitzer, and part of my interest was in wondering how we were going to connect the plot lines of ‘the personal cost of the AIDS crisis’ with ‘daughter lost to a cult.’

The answer is that we don’t. The book is well-researched and acclaimed beyond belief, but it is SUCH a straight story. Yale’s arc is fueled by the drama of his boyfriend cheating on him and infecting them both, Fiona is painted as a witness to tragedy and encouraged to share their stories with her own daughter. “You’re like the Mother Theresa of Boys Town” one of the men complains bitterly of her, and the claim goes undisputed. It’s a story that makes a lot of statements about love and families and art that I feel we’ve all heard before to much greater effect.

[teabreen]

midnight darling; dong sicheng

 noun; the one he saw dancing through the neon brightness

“  you’re mine, always and forever.  ”

he was one of the devils, his crown was made of blood

he wants to sing the moon to you, but he only as lungs of poetry

Sicheng told himself to always harden but he melted at the sight of you. The way your body was sculpted ignited a flame underneath his skin. Your soft, blossomed lips, how it would be so sweet against his, his brain was glistening with love-controlled madness and a soft-like-velvet desire. There was an ache in him, wanting to gently devour you.

The way his delicate rosebud explored every inch of your skin was enough to drive you into a state of haziness and love. Staying and draped his grasp of warmth, even when the black velvet sky touches the pines on the trees.

now taken to roses scattered on satin and lace thrown against the bedroom floor, a beautiful, hopeless tragedy.

“ You’re gonna be late,”  Mina says, tugging at your blue sleeve-covered arm and attempting to pull you against her, the wind swirled through your hair and brushed your neck.

“ But it’s so early, why does the gathering have to be put at this time.” You whined, feeling Mina rolling her eyes. This was one of the times that you didn’t want to go to a best friend’s place. Taking to the orange horizon, you follow every step Mina takes. Your sight was filled with golden curls and a hyacinth scent. 

“ We’re here.” You heard Mina speak, pressing her tanned finger against the bell of the house.  This house didn’t just grow on you, it was like strong tree roots dangling inside of your guts. You knew Areum for a long time, she was the face that was covered through your blazing yellow memories.

The moment you saw the soft brown hue of Areum’s hair, you felt the serenity of the ocean dig inside of you, Areum was a peace, a saint, an angel. She was the quiet streets that healed the chaotic brain.

“ Y/N! MINA! ”  Areum exclaimed, pulling you two into her loving, bear-hugging arms. Her embrace sweetened you but also tore away the oxygen.

As the morning sky melted deep into the windswept blue with darkly-tinted clouds, you said your goodbyes to the two dearest girls. You held onto your purse. Your boyfriend, Sicheng, would probably be waiting for you.

His heart was a spool of thread; each stare from your knotted it

“ Baby.” You hear Sicheng’s soft-cotton voice muffled by the white wood of the door, you decide to let him in, you were way too consumed by the blue light of your phone.

From Naeyeon: I mean like, I don’t know if he’s the right one. To Naeyeon: But you were talking about him for like 2 whole hours, you totally want him. Admit it, Lee Naeyeon.

“ You’re texting Naeyeon, aren’t you,” Sicheng asks, sinking his figure into the puffy sheets that laid over your bed. Picking up the remote, he turned on the television, he was met with Jennifer Aniston and Courtney Cox.

“ Yeah, she just met a guy.” You chuckled to yourself as Sicheng lazily eyed the television screen, wondering what mess Rachel has gotten herself into, his attention always seems to find the path back to you. “ She’s fallen in love.” You say, leaning back against the headboard. Sicheng huffs and turns the television off.

“ Aren’t you gonna put the phone down and talk to me, baby. Please?” Sicheng asks, groaning to himself. “ Sorry, Sicheng. I’m just really captivated, I suppose.” You laugh, oblivious to the devilish thoughts now unleashing themselves in Sicheng’s wonderous mind.

 You later gasp as you feel Sicheng’s tender warmth circling around you, you look at him with wide, surprised eyes.

“ What-what are you doing?” You eagerly ask as Sicheng takes the phone out of your hands, a suggestive smirk laced around his soft lips.

“ Well, Y/N. Could you kindly explain why you’ve been completely worked up.” Sicheng asks, placing his lips against your rosy cheeks, making them even rosier. As you tried to pick up fragments of words for your sentence, you felt Sicheng press his lips against yours. Moaning at his wild mint tasted kiss, you grabbed on to his locks, almost desperate under his spell.

Sicheng watched the faint moonlight circling your skin, his lips touching your cheek and then your neck, leaving markings down. 

“ I......I want more.” You only managed those words out of your throat as your boyfriend pressed his body closer against yours. You felt a blood bond as his body was warm against yours, your mouth dizzy with his ethereal taste, his whispers felt like the clouds whispering hymns to you.

Looking at you with his serpent eyes that held the beauty of a clear, springtime morning, he kissed your neck again, his wandering hands making their way to the hem of your dress. To your dismay, he didn’t take your dress off and take you right there. His lips stayed fixated on the skin of your chest, playing with the material of your dress.

“ Please, Sicheng. I want you so badly.” You croak out in defeat, he smirks at how desperate and needy you have become, smirking at the effect he had on you sexually. “ Princess, can you tell me how badly you want me.” He says, his hands now caressing your thighs, causing you to now feel the dampness of your underwear.

“ So badly that it hurts me. So bad that I can’t think of anything but you” You let out, longing for being touch finally consumes you whole, the aching almost pressing against your ribcage. This was hours but they felt like centuries.

Sicheng softly lifts your dress up,  he started admiring every inch of your body. Admiring every curve that shaped it into you, admiring how your eyes were shut close. Pulling your dress off, he took off your underwear, leaving you nude.

Bending down to kiss you, Sicheng’s mouth was taken over of the tender and soft vanilla flavor, driving him absolutely mad, he kept himself in control. He wanted to bring you to the point of being delirious and hazed, you were the one to be brought to an edge; not him.

“ You taste so sweet,” Sicheng whispered to you, letting you unbutton his shirt as he reached to undo his belt and pants. As he now revealed himself to you, your warm bodies melted against each other; the heat felt like the heat of a phoenix, he opens your legs and puts himself in between.

“ Fu-fuck!” You manage to scream as you feel Sicheng’s tongue brush against your clitoris, electric waves of pleasure crawling down your spine, the only energy left in you as used to grab at Sicheng’s hair.

As he worked faster and faster, your thighs clenched around Sicheng, feeling your orgasm come up against you. Sicheng took note of this and immediately pulled himself back from you, extracting a few whimpers from you. “ Why did you stop.” You whimper, rubbing your legs together to chase the pleasure back. 

“ Just be a good girl and cooperate with me. Please.” Sicheng said, flipping you onto your stomach and putting himself in between your legs.

Gasping at the velvet yet rough sensation of him entering you, you moaned as Sicheng pounded into you, feeling yourself almost cum at the previous stimulation.

“ Wait, baby. Don’t cum now, wait for me.” He grunted, trying to move faster and get himself closer than he already was. You, however, were softly delirious and weightless from the pleasure Sicheng was giving you, the way he moved you was enough to send you to the edge.

“ Oh my fucking god.” Sicheng moaned, snaking a hand up to your neck and pressing down. “ Cum with me, please.” He throws his head on to your shoulder, the room filled with the hazy tint of the both of you. Exhausted and panting from your orgasms, Sicheng pulls you on to his body and pulls the covers up. You were dizzy with ecstasy from your climax and were probably still seeing rose gardens yet you managed a faint laugh.

“ That was amazing.” You say, cuddling into your boyfriend’s chest, getting lovesick smiles from him. “ Yeah, it was. You did amazing, you really did” Sicheng praised, pulling you closer to him and hearing you purr against him.

“ Okay, try to get some sleep, okay baby.” Those were the last words you heard until you fell asleep.

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Lessons In Lovemaking, Lesson Number Nine

Life is quite hectic at the moment, but I’ll try and keep the fanfics coming at a somewhat regular basis! Thanks to @purple-roses-words-and-love for  checking this fanfic for spelling mistakes and the like. 

 Shelagh sat in front of her vanity mechanically brushing her hair. The bristles rasped through her locks with a strange, almost papery rustle she had stopped noticing almost ten minutes ago.

Sister Julienne must think me immoral, she thought for what was surely the hundredth time since she’d come home from the surgery. She must think my standards have become really rather lax since I’ve left the order.

It was no trouble at all to recall the disappointment on her former Mother superior’s face when she sided with Patrick on the topic of contraception, nor her hurt. The worst of it all, though, was surely the ice in Sister Julienne’s voice when Shelagh had tried to make peace by offering her a lemon puff, and the other woman had asked whether she didn’t have “anything plainer”.

But what had the nun expected of her? That she’d side with her and not her husband? Or, perhaps even more hurtful, that Shelagh had no opinion of her own and was simply waiting to be instructed by a former authority as to what to think?

“You’re doing that awfully hard,” Patrick said.

Shelagh blinked and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He stood behind her, his face crumpled in a tender smile. The top two buttons of his pyjamas were open, allowing some greying chest hair to spill out.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Your brushing. You’re bound to hurt your scalp,” he said.

As he said it, she felt her scalp start to tingle and burn a little. She grimaced, and put the brush down. “I’m not entirely myself,” she said.

“Oh, darling, do you want to talk about it?” he asked, resting his large hands on her shoulders, his chin on her crown.

“Let’s sit on the bed,” she said. He stepped away from her and sat down on the edge, patting the place beside him. She sat down next to him, the difference in their weight causing the mattress to dip more on his side. She slid closer to him because of it. He tucked her under his arm instinctively, and dropped a kiss on her temple as he waited for her to start talking.

“Our talk with Sister Julienne has made me think,” she said, choosing her words with care.

Patrick’s thumb dipped underneath the capped sleeve of her nightgown to caress the strip of skin normally hidden by the thin fabric.

“And what did it make you think?” he asked.

She sighed and removed her glasses so she could rub her eyes. Patrick took them from her and placed them on the nightstand.

“We never had to think about contraception ourselves,” she started, “because I wanted a baby.”

“We wanted a baby,” he corrected her.

“Because we wanted a baby,” she said. “And I suppose the topic would’ve come up at some time if I hadn’t been infertile, but because I was, we never had to discuss it in relation to ourselves, and I’ve never given it much thought. But now that we’ve spoken to Sister Julienne, and she has spoken about morals, I feel…” She blinked in frustration, looking for the right words. “I’m afraid she judges me,” she said.

“She’s never judged you badly for differing from her opinion before,” Patrick said.

“Not because of that, Patrick,” she said, and tilted her face towards him. “I’m afraid she’ll judge me because we have marital relations even though we’ll never have a child. I’m afraid she’ll think it lustful.” She gave a tremulous smile. “I’ve never thought she’d think that before today, but now…”

“Oh, Shelagh,” Patrick said, and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I know…”

“Haven’t I tried to teach you from the first that sex is about a lot more than getting a baby?” he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded. “Of course you have, and I think you’ve been rather successful. After all, we sometimes do things that could in no way ever lead to pregnancy…”

He grinned at her, looking somewhat like a naughty schoolboy. “Like when you give me a good, hard suck?” he said.

She flamed crimson. “Patrick, you’re a dirty beast,” she exclaimed, and slapped his chest.

He laughed, and caught her hand in his. “If I am, it’s because you make me one,” he said.

She was still flushing. “I’m just afraid Sister Julienne will think me immoral. She knows sex is necessary for a healthy marriage, and yet…” she said.

He stilled his laughter, his hand still folded around hers. “Sister Julienne’s experiences with sex are those of an outsider, and I’m afraid sex is one of those things one really needs to experience to understand all facets of it,” he said.

“You are right, I suppose,” she said, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Why don’t you go to her tomorrow and talk it over? Sister Julienne is a loving, caring, forgiving person. I’m sure your worries will be soothed once you speak with her,” he said.

“I suppose I should, yes,” she said.

“Come, don’t frown,” he said, and took her face between his hands so he could kiss her between her eyebrows. His breath was warm on her face, a little moist.

She placed a hand over his to trap it there. He kissed her cheek, her nose, the corner of her mouth. She looked at him through her lashes, the first throb of desire starting low in her belly. His eyes locked with hers, his pupils dilating until they had swallowed almost all colour. Something arced between them then, and when he pressed his mouth against hers, it wasn’t tender, but demanding.

She opened her lips immediately, touching the tip of her tongue to his. Patrick turned on the bed, placing one knee on the mattress. She let her hand fall from his and leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows as Patrick devoured her mouth.

“Lay back on the bed,” he panted between kisses. She did as he asked, her nightdress rucking up around her hips. He loomed above her, big and solid and safe, then ducked down and pressed against her.

“Patrick,” she mewled as he kneaded her breasts through her nightgown. “Patrick, I want you. I want you hard and long.”

He sat up, his chest falling and rising rapidly. “Undress,” he growled, his own hands fighting with the buttons of his pyjama. She sat up and pulled her nightdress over her head with trembling fingers, then dragged her knickers down. Patrick threw his pyjama bottoms and underwear into some corner of the room. Contrary to her expectations, he didn’t duck down to devour her again.

“On your belly,” he said. She did as he asked, a thrill of arousal spiking through her. Patrick would sometimes get a little dominant with her (and, truth be told, she sometimes would with him), but she sensed strongly that tonight he’d be more than just a little dominant. Once, when they’d been safely ensconced in each other’s warmth and the dark of night, and he’d asked her what she’d desired, she’d sleepily murmured into his ear she’d like him to ravish her. He had smiled, and had kissed her eyelids, first the right, then the left, then the right again. “When you’re ready for it, I will,” he’d promised.

She supposed tonight was the night.

Patrick didn’t lie on top of her. Instead, he kneaded her buttocks, then gently touched her between her legs with his middle finger, stroking her. She gasped and bucked against his hand.

He leaned over her, gently pushing her hair to one side so he could kiss her neck, then the shell of her ear. “You’re exactly how I like you best,” he whispered, his voice thick and rasping.

“How?” she managed to ask.

“Wet, and warm, and willing.” He kissed her neck again, then suddenly, finally, entered her, doing it sharp and quick.

She gasped and moaned, her belly clenching. Her hand fisted in the sheets. I’ll have to wash these sheets tomorrow. I would’ve put a towel underneath us had I known we would do it on top of the sheets, she thought, and realised she was happy she hadn’t known.

“Tell me if it is too much,” Patrick said.

“It’s not enough,” she said. She cried out when he thrust into her, doing it deep and hard and quick, exactly like she’d wished he once would that night almost two years ago. Sweat beaded on her body, beaded on his. The sounds they made were slick, their moans and pants hoarse, loud. When she came, she did so with little warning, her whole body convulsing, pleasure bursting inside her belly, fragments of the explosion travelling through her legs to her curling toes.

“I love you,” she sobbed as Patrick placed another sloppy kiss on her neck. He stopped driving into her so vigorously so he could take hold of her chin and tilt her face to his, kissing her.

“I adore you,” he growled.

She came another time, and a third, each orgasm deeper and more intense until she felt she’d fall apart.

“God, your body is trying to drag me in deeper whenever you come,” Patrick grunted, his movements becoming somewhat haphazard, a sure sign he was close to his own completion.

“It’s because I don’t want to be empty, and I’m so empty without you,” she said.

“Let me take care of that.”

“Then come,” she moaned.

He thrust into her a few more times, then pressed himself into her as far as he could, spilling himself in her for what felt like a very long time. When he was done he rolled away from her and lay on his back. He dragged a hand through his hair and let out a very deep sigh.

“Damn,” he said.

“Damn,” Shelagh agreed, interlacing her fingers with his. She was weak as a kitten from pleasure.

Patrick grinned at her. “May I ask you not to mention any of this when you’re having your conversation with Sister Julienne about the benefits of sex for a healthy marriage?”

“Don’t be filthy,” she said.

Patrick laughed, the sound rumbling and dear. She opened her mouth to say something, then simply joined in with his mirth, and laughed till she was spent.

[spiteweaver]

previous | next

Convincing Abraxas to accompany them was like pulling teeth, of which he had more than his fair share. He had delighted in the power he held over them; Dreamweaver’s frustration was a particularly sweet treat, as they so often got the better of him. Hoping to milk the necessity of the circumstances for all they were worth, each demand he’d made had grown more ridiculous in stature.

“I’ll go if I can eat the Observatory,” he’d said.

“You can’t eat the Observatory,” Dreamweaver had replied.

“I’ll go if I can eat the Arcanist,” he’d countered.

“You can’t eat the Arcanist,” Dreamweaver had replied.

“I’ll go if I can eat Junior.”

At which point, Abaddon had stepped in, things had gotten the tiniest bit messy, and Dreamweaver had been forced to make a compromise that had not been theirs to make. “Your reward shall be a stone from the Beacon of the Radiant Eye,” they’d said, “gifted to you by Her Radiance’s own hands, for your consumption.”

“All right,” Abraxas had relented, “but if you double-cross me, I’ll be well within my rights to eat whatever and whomever I please.”

Jorah had not doubted the veracity of Abraxas’ threat, but it was a worry for his future self. Even as their motley crew had taken to the sky, chaos was rising behind them. Jorah had watched as Dreamweaver made for the capital’s eastern sector amid a sea of fleeing civilians, and felt the fur along his spine bristle as he’d turned from them toward the distant Isles.

Now he stood at the base of the Focal Point, his gaze fixed on its summit.

“Oooh,” Holloway cooed, “the energies here are lovely.”

“You won’t be thinking that when they turn you into an amorphous mass of eyes and mouths,” Atsushi said.

“I wonder if Faust would still love me if I came home an abomination...”

His clanmates’ conversation, born largely of nervousness he wagered, faded into background noise. Jorah held Junior’s sleeping form flush against his chest, as if fearing his father may slip away again if he loosened his grip, like so many of his predecessors had upon this very spot.

He knew that members of his family had climbed to the Observatory before, for better or for worse. Once, so long ago that the stories seemed like fairy tales to him, they had lived and thrived in its shadow. Shard the Radiant had been born beneath it, and all the Shards before him had left this world through its gates.

It was where Abaddon had parted with the only drake he had ever loved. It was where Shard Junior had parted with Fragment and Sliver. It was where Lutia had parted with her son, focused all of her ire and grief, and torn the land asunder.

He did not belong there.

Penumbra tugged meekly at his sleeve. Their form was wavering, their outline inconsistent. Jorah felt like he was staring through water when he looked at them. “We should go,” they said. “The magic here is strong, and time is short.”

Jorah nodded, and, with his heart in his throat, began the ascent. The others naturally fell into line behind him. Holloway and Atsushi continued their banter, but Jorah heard none of it. There was a chill in him so deep that his bones groaned like ice under pressure; he worried that they might break if he climbed much higher.

How many dragons before him had walked this path, never to return? How many had the Arcanist swallowed up? He was treading upon their ghosts, his footprints in the fine pink dust matching those of men and women whose significance he could scarcely comprehend.

He did not belong there.

BE CAUTIOUS. MY BROTHER AWAITS YOU AT THE GATES.

Jorah was glad for the Arcanist’s company in his mind. The Arcanist did not pry, and being reminded of their mission kept him focused. He was here for Junior, to ensure that another of the old guard was not lost to cruel circumstance. A thousand cycles from now, the children of their clan would tell of the long and happy life his father had lived, not of those he had left behind...

...and Junior’s picture would never hang in a museum.

The air grew thin, and beside him, Abraxas’ patience waned. Each of his dozens of mouths licked their lips in thinly veiled anticipation. The Arcanist almost certainly had other plans for the false prophet, and so Abraxas would not consume him--but there were other delicacies awaiting him at the Observatory, as well as the promise of payment from his Mother. He urged them onward with his swift pace, until poor Atsushi was wheezing behind them.

“Necromancers aren’t built for this sort of thing,” he complained.

“I would have thought,” Holloway said, “that several eons in Carnelian’s bed would have improved your stamina.”

“That’s different,” Atsushi replied, “I enjoy that.”

“We’re almost there,” Jorah assured. How he knew, he couldn’t have said. He had never set foot in the Isles, let alone made the climb up to the Observatory. Somehow, though, he sensed it.

Junior must have sensed it, too. He writhed in Jorah’s arms, his nostrils flaring as a thousand familiar scents dug their hooks into his most painful memories and dragged them to the forefront of his mind. “Fragment,” he whispered, “Sliver...”

“They’re here, da,” Jorah soothed. “We’re going to see them.”

“What madness is this?”

Jorah stepped up onto the Observatory platform, and received his first look at the false prophet. It lay curled before the gates, its hands resting atop one another, its many eyes blinking slowly, sleepily. A wide yawn revealed its needle-like teeth, but it made no move to intercept them.

It was content to let them come to it.

“Gods,” Atsushi breathed, “what is it?”

“Does it matter?” Abraxas said, saliva dripping from his maw. “It’s delicious.”

“Why have you brought my vessel to me?” the prophet asked. Jorah’s hold on Junior tightened. “I vowed to return what was stolen from him; was that not enough? Have you come seeking further compensation?”

“He doesn’t want anything from you,” Jorah said. “Release your hold on him.”

The false prophet laughed, and the Focal Point shuddered around them. Penumbra pressed close as their form vanished almost entirely. “He wants everything from me,” the false prophet replied. “Only I can return what my brother stole. Only I can return Fragment and Sliver. There is no greater desire in his heart than to see them again.”

“You didn’t bargain with him,” Jorah persisted, “you took his mind without asking and assumed he would be happy with compensation. He never wanted compensation, because he never wanted you.”

“Tell me I am wrong,” the false prophet purred. “Tell me he desires anything with more desperate ferocity, and I shall release him.”

How could he? It was always what Junior had wished for--that one day Fragment and Sliver would return to him, that one day his family would be whole again. The exodus was the defining moment of his life. Not a day had gone by that he had not regretted his actions. He had been charged with convincing them to abandon their research, and instead he had only quickened the inevitable.

It was his fault, his doing, his responsibility, and he would have given anything to undo it. Jorah knew that. He’d known it from the start.

“There’s nothing to be fixed anymore.”

“He wants to get married,” Jorah blurted out, “and he wants to live the life they couldn’t.”

The false prophet drew back, its teeth bared in defiance. “Liar,” it hissed, but Jorah knew that the only lie it told was to itself. It could see into Junior’s mind; Jorah could see into his heart. “Sorrow like that does not heal!” the false prophet shrieked. “Sorrow like that is a cancer, and it devours every part of you, until it is all you have in this miserable world! He wishes to live without them? He cannot live without them!”

“He has,” Jorah said, “for eons. He fell in love with my dad, and he raised me, and he fought to overcome your control of him so that you couldn’t take the life he’d made with us.”

“With all of us,” Holloway added, taking Jorah by the arm. “Junior’s our family as much as Jorah’s.”

“He’s...been kind to me...” Penumbra grasped Jorah’s sleeve timidly. “He’s been good to me...he was never afraid of me...”

“Well,” Atsushi muttered, “I suppose he’s not all bad,” and placed a hand on Jorah’s shoulder.

“I’m just here for the buffet,” Abraxas said, “but he’s never given me any reason to dislike him, so I’m in on, uh, whatever this is.”

“This team is a mess,” Holloway sighed.

“No!”

The false prophet rose at last, its runes flaring with raw energy. Holloway placed himself between Jorah and the beast. Atsushi reached for his tome. Penumbra’s shadow wrapped dark tendrils around them. Abraxas only smiled.

“This is not how I will fall, defeated by love and togetherness!” the false prophet snarled. “What foolish, childish concepts! Do you honestly think a story like mine could have an ending like that--or a story like his? He has known nothing but tragedy! He and I are one in the same! He is mine!”

“You never wanted the Seat, did you?” Jorah asked. “You just wanted someone to acknowledge you.”

The false prophet screamed, and fell upon them.

@nostlenne  @sophiellum-fr @serthis-archivist @airris-fr @reanimatedfr @jollyroger-fr @megane-pigeon

[ngno-closed]

you stare at your reflection in the club mirror, observe the dark eyes staring back at you, blood dripping from your nose. no, that’s not blood. you bring your hand to your nose and it comes away covered in iridescent black oil. that can’t be right, you splash your face with water, watch the oil flush down the basin sink. you look at your reflection in the mirror, but the longer you look, you’re aware there’s more that you can see. there’s code running in your vision, like floaters speckling your sight. panic kickstarts in your chest before everything goes a shade of intense, sky blue.  

NAME Tsuku (Tsukuyomi)

ALIAS UTP

APPEARS 20-25

PRONOUNS He/him, she/her, they/them, UTP

PANTHEON Shinto

OCCUPATION Assistant for Heph

THE GOD HIMSELF

Little is known about what happens to a deity when they descend into a body too young for immortal comprehension, most immortals wouldn’t dare to test it. The limitations of a human physical presence are well known amongst the pantheons, even the deities that rarely indulge in the human plane are aware of the dangers. Tsukuyomi knew, there is little that the moon deity did not know, but each time he crossed that bridge between celestial to mortal, he pushed the boundaries further. Consumed by loneliness in Takamaghahara, where no kami dared to come close to him fearing his frenzies, Tsukuyomi took to human life as a fresh start. Each time he returned, he did so in a younger body, pushing the limits of how long a deity could stay on Earth.

This time, Tsukuyomi descended into a body so young, woefully inadequate to house a kami, and as a result he was left with nothing. Not a memory, no comprehension of his powers or even a sense of belonging. He had but a fragment of his own name, Tsuku. Perhaps, if he had not returned to a meeting point for all the gods, New Orleans, he may have gone undetected. He was a child when Hephaestus took him in and shielded the naïve, hapless immortal, Tsuku remembers nothing of these early memories but without Hephaestus, he would never have known he was a deity.

Hephaestus took him in, protected him and now, Tsuku would do anything to serve him. In the last year, Hephaestus has granted Tsuku the freedom to meet other immortals on his own terms. Tsuku revelled in the liberty, devoured New Orleans as a visiting tourist might, grasped the chance to meet other immortals with both hands. Whilst most were keen to meet him, could tell him snippets of stories from past lives, it didn’t wholly scratch the itch. Tsuku doesn’t understand who he is, or where he’s come from beyond the stories people tell him. Not only this, but Hephaestus appears to be holding back from him too, and he can’t fathom why.

All Tsuku knows for certain, is he crossed to the mortal plane into a body too young, he is the moon deity—scarcely worshipped now, and he owes his life to Hephaestus. The rest, Tsuku is desperately struggling to piece together. He knows he can’t do it alone, but he’s been told the immortals aren’t trustworthy beings, and so far, no-one has proved that wrong.

DID HE MURDER A GOD?

Pan was one of the first deities Tsuku knew, and as a result Tsuku looked up to the wilderness deity as a rebellious older brother. Pan was always trying to get Tsuku to bend the rules, let loose and have some fun, and then teasing him relentlessly when he would flake. Pan was one of Tsuku’s closest friends, and his death is hitting him hard.

WHO DOES HE LOVE, HATE AND DESIRE?

Hephaestus Up until recently Tsuku has unequivocally believed and followed Hephaestus’ word as law. Now, he isn’t so sure but that doesn’t erase his debt to Heph. The God has shown him who he is, raised him from the gutter of ignorance and kept him safe. Tsuku cannot abate his desire to prove that Hephaestus is right, that he’s destined for more. However, there’s a link missing, stories that have gone untold and blanks in Tsuku’s memory that he cannot account for. No-one else has been as close to him as Heph as yet, he’s the one person he cannot get a straight answer from.

Anansi Tsuku ran into Anansi when she had just started working at Volcan-x and had ended up lost and in the wrong room. Luckily Tsuku was there to show her back to her office, and on that journey she swore him to secrecy. Tsuku has kept her vow, supposing that it’s embarrassing for most other deities to have to work for another. Tsuku loves the stories Anansi tells on her lunch breaks, sneaks away to find her.

Tenjin Tsuku can see the kinship that exists between other gods and their own pantheon, yet Tenjin remains oddly cool towards Tsuku. For a deity of poetry Tsuku would have thought that they may have been friends before. Tenjin gives Tsuku as icy a shoulder as she can, refuses to answer his questions about himself, almost as if she were afraid to talk to him.

Tyr Tyr is always coming around for check-ups on his arm. Hephaestus always mutters about overuse as he fixes it. There is something dangerous about Tyr that frightens Tsuku as much as it excites him.

See also: Baast.

FC SUGGESTIONS Sen Mitsuji, Sota Fukushi, Keita Machida RECOMMENDED ACTIVITY LEVEL Middle AVAILABILITY OPEN

Resources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto

Notes:

Tsuku is entirely cybernetics/biomechatronics except for his brain (which Heph has installed nanobots in - so even that isn’t free). His prosthetic limbs are prone to damage due to having a delicate realistic silicone coating that resembles human skin. He is unaware of this. Heph can access Tsuku’s memories and alter them to suit his needs. Everything from Tsuku’s short-term memory is streamed to Heph’s mainframe server - from there an algorithm picks up any anomalies that need to be removed. This process then occurs nightly in the form of memory pruning. This is mediated by synthetic microglia implanted in Tsuku’s brain which prune synapses every night. Heph can do it remotely but that makes memory pruning longer, more difficult and prone to errors. As a result, Heph has ensured Tsuku learns on his own accord to return by installing a program that gives him headaches should he ever not return to Heph’s.

This also means that Heph can access Tsuku’s short-term memory and place acoustic or visual cues there as instructions for him to follow, and block memories from being encoded and stored in the long-term memory. All this, and Heph still hasn’t found a way to control or choose what the subconscious remembers. Memories that have been wiped by Heph sometimes appear to Tsuku as dreams (or nightmares), though Tsuku doesn’t know that they are memories.

[illumynare]

Destiny Fic: Three Queens Rising

Summary: Six of them went down into the Pit. All six returned triumphant. But not unchanged.

(The AU where Eriana's fireteam managed to kill Crota and go home, and things still went terribly, terribly wrong.)

Pairings: Eris/Toland.

Notes: Also available on AO3.

Story/section titles (plus a bunch of quotes) are from the Grimoire card Ghost Fragment: Darkness 3, which you should totally read because it's the BEST. GRIMOIRE. EVER. Saint-14's vision is mentioned in the Lore for the Destiny 2 Helm of Saint-14.

(Yes, I know the timeline is kinda handwaved. My excuse is that Destiny's timeline isn't that clear to begin with.)

Thanks to @ir-anuk and @jencforcarolina, who read the first draft and gave suggestions.

1. the queen who builds a high tower

This is the last thing Eris Morn ever saw: Eriana's hands gripping the Praxic Fire, as wholly luminescent as the sun.

#

Six of them went down into the Pit.

So many times, they nearly did not return.

When Vell Tarlowe charged Alak-Hul, his courage and his strength were not enough—

But Eris's hands were steady on her sniper rifle, and Eriana's grenades lit the darkness, and Sai danced invisibly. When Vell died in his final Fist of Havoc, Alak-Hul died too, and Toland raised Vell before the waves of Thrall could devour his Light.

When Omar was dragged away into the tunnels, his luck failed him, and they gave him up for dead—

But Toland heard his screams, echoing through ascendant spaces that the rest of them could barely sense. Eris demanded that they follow Toland's lead. And they found Omar, broke the rack of bones that held him, shattered the Heart of Crota before she could feed him to the Hive. He lost an eye and an arm, but not his Light.

When they faced Omnigul, Sai's cleverness was not enough, and a wave of Thralls crushed her as she bladedanced with the jagged bones of Acolytes—

But Vell raised her and fought back-to-back with her, punching a Thrall for every one she knifed. Toland chanted the words that lowered Omnigul's shields. And Omar's Golden Gun rang three times, every shot landing between Omnigul's eyes.

Together they felled the Swordbearers, stole their powers, and crossed the bridge. Together they faced Ir Yût and fed the Deathsinger her own death.

Together they faced Crota.

It was Eriana who struck the final blow: Eriana, alight with the Praxic Fire as she gripped a sword that sang with Darkness. All of them firing together brought Crota to his knees, but it was Eriana alone who cleaved him apart and broke the Oversoul Throne.

For the rest of her days, Eris would remember how brightly Eriana gleamed in that moment.

Years later, she would remember how easily Eriana held the blade.

#

The first years after they killed Crota were golden.

Vell returned to the Pilgrim Guard. Sai vanished into the wilds. Omar clapped Eris on the shoulder, told her to mind her aim with grenades—and forever laughed, even though his Ghost never could restore his eye and arm. (The Heart of Crota had rent too deeply at his Light.)

Toland received a very reluctant, conditional pardon. Eris was made his guard and guarantor, and the duty sat lightly on her shoulders. There were long, lazy afternoon squabbles over the nature of the sword-logic and the universe; there were nights of whispering invocations as they echoed and mastered each syllable they had learned from the Deathsinger. They were confined to the Tower, but they read the reports of Guardians who delved the the tunnels of the Hive on the Moon, and when the Guardians delved too deeply, they chanted the spells to raise them out again.

Eriana became the Warlock Vanguard.

Eris saw her stand in the Hall of Guardians, glittering and tall and sure, and she felt that a missing piece of her heart had slotted into place. Eriana-3, disciple of the Praxic Warlocks, marked by the Cormorant Seal, was at last a light to all Guardians as she had been a light to Eris, when Eris was newly risen and afraid.

The first years were golden.

The years after, burned.

To be a Guardian was to be dead, and live, and called to die again and again. Eris had known this since she opened her eyes to a room full of skeletons. There was no Guardian who did not know it.

Eriana, perhaps, was coming to know it too well.

The Warlock Vanguard remained unbowed. Her voice, as she questioned Guardians returned from disastrous missions, remained as stately and as calm as ever. Eris thought she might be the only one who could see grief in the flickering of Eriana's lights. She was certainly the only one sat with Eriana late at night as she studied in the Vanguard archives, hunting for a way to improve their defenses.

Wei Ning had been avenged. But new Guardians died the final death every day, and Eriana could not avenge or save them.

Eris worried about this. She said as much to Toland, one night as they sat watching the stars.

"These equations take their time," said Toland. "She'll balance herself in the end. Or die."

"She won't speak of it," said Eris. That was what disturbed her most: the two of them had talked endlessly about Crota, how and why he must die. She had known each heartbeat of Eriana's grief for Wei Ning. But now that Eriana was mourning again—was always mourning, for every Guardian—she would not speak of it.

"Hm," said Toland, and pressed his lips to her neck, and that that night Eris thought no more of Eriana.

But when Omar returned from patrol, grinning and triumphant—he was still a dead shot, despite missing an eye—she told him of her worries.

"I'll talk to her," he said. "We were all in hell together, yeah?"

Eris nodded.

She would would regret that ever, ever after.

2. the queen who raises an army

This is the most important thing that Eriana ever saw: the Light peeling up from Omar's chest in writhing, glowing threads as the Heart of Crota sang to him.

She had known for a long time that the Light would not protect those who served it. Else Wei Ning (most valiant, most pure) would not have died. But in that moment, Eriana finally understood that the Light was a thing, a substance that could be robbed and defiled—

Or gathered and used.

#

She became Vanguard to a shaken Tower. The treachery of Osiris still echoed in its halls. Barely months after she was raised to her position, Andal Brask died, and his protégé Cayde-6 took his place.

Eriana could not like either of her fellow Vanguards. Zavala was as brave as Wei Ning, but without her beautiful fury. Cayde had all of Wei’s brashness and cheer, but none of her nobility.

Every time that Zavala listened to a report of a dead Guardian and nodded in solemn acceptance, saying, “That was bravely done”—every time that Cayde cracked a joke, said, “Am I right or am I right?”—fire kindled in the hinges of Eriana’s jaws and ached at her fingertips.

They were not worthy. They were not right. Not when Wei Ning was Lightless and dead, when Guardians followed her into the final darkness every day.

Eriana had killed Wei’s killer, had slain the dark god of the Hive who was thought to be unslayable. And yet she felt, more and more, that she had done nothing. Changed nothing.

More and more, she found that Toland was the only one in the Tower she cared to speak with.

#

Toland the Shattered: a large name for a very small man. He was lean, pale, often stooping; when he did stand straight, he barely came to Eriana’s shoulder. His Ghost hovered close to his neck and never spoke. Granted the Light of the Traveler, he had squandered nearly all of it in forbidden research and wretched experiments.

Long ago, Eriana had despised him. When she had needed his wisdom to defeat Crota, she had used him. But when she had become Warlock Vanguard—

Then, she finally began to respect him.

For Toland alone understood what Eriana had learned when she slew Crota, when she saw the Light peeled away from Omar, when Wei Ning fell and never rose again.

And in his turn, Toland began to respect Eriana. For while she might not grasp Hive lore so easily as Eris did—Eriana had grasped Crota’s sword. She had pared the world into line with her will, and there was a light of reverence in Toland’s eyes now when he spoke to her.

Existence is a game that everything plays, Toland whispered in the gray hours of the morning as they stood on the Tower walls together. Staring up at the pale, lifeless hulk of the Traveler, Eriana agreed.

For all its miracles, the Traveler could only sustain. Revive. Delay.

Everything is becoming more ruthless and in the end only the most ruthless will remain.

Against the hungry Dark, what use was the gentle Light? It was only Crota’s own sword that had felled him.

This is the shape of victory: to rule the universe so absolutely that nothing will ever exist except by your consent.

Late one night, after another conference with Toland, Eriana went to stand on the Tower walls alone. She gazed out over the glowing expanse of the City. She listened to the soft laughter and chatter of the Guardians around them.

She thought: I will defend them against this universe of spears.

To do that, she needed a knife.

#

Toland was prolific in his theories. Eriana was willing in her experiments.

But they made no real progress until the day that Omar came to speak with Eriana. Until the moment when Eriana ignored his words and stared at him with newly hungry eyes.

He was not the same, Omar Agah, and not only because he lacked an eye and arm. The Light was still a fountain within him, but it was . . . Looser. Unbound. Hanging off of him in ragged, invisible strands.

Available.

And in a moment, Eriana understood what she could do with him, and therefore had to. What was the only way to make the Tower and the Guardians strong enough, when all the universe around them was made of swords and spears.

“Omar,” she said, “Toland has a theory.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, that means he’ll never shut up. Listen, this is why you need to leave the Tower for a bit.”

“It’s a way to keep the Guardians safer,” said Eriana. “We could use your help in the experiment. If you’re not afraid.”

And Omar smiled at her. “You lead, I’ll follow. Can’t be worse than the Hellmouth, right?”

Briefly, Eriana hated him: Omar Agah, whose luck saved him when Wei Ning’s did not.

But it had not been luck. It had been Toland’s knowledge and Eriana’s fusion grenades. They had saved him, and so now they had a right to him.

She told herself this, later, once he began to scream.

#

She did not expect Eris to rebel.

Zavala: of course he would resist her vision. Eriana was not at all surprised when she had to kill him. Cayde-6: of course he would deny her authority. Eriana did not blink when she leaned he had fled.

But Eris?

Loyal, gentle Eris, who had followed her into the Pit? Who had gazed at her, always, as if Eriana were the Traveler itself?

She did not expect that betrayal.

She had known that Eris would have questions. Eriana had studied Crota only to defeat him, but Eris had wanted to understand him. Of course Eris would want to know whence came the vats of Light that Eriana offered to the Guardians, and why the Ghosts fell silent once their Guardians had tasted that Light.

Of course Eris would want to know why Omar, and other Guardians after him, had vanished.

But Eriana had truly thought—she and Toland had both thought—that Eris would understand their logic. Their need.

There was only one way for the Guardians to survive, to be safe, and that was to conquer. To hone themselves into a knife. To abandon the gentle dreams of the Traveler and seize the sword.

If the price was that a few Guardians died screaming, the Light peeled out of their bodies and used to seed the great vats where it boiled and fermented and grew into a new elixir . . .

That was still better than the Tower ruined, the City sacked, humanity destroyed.

It was infinitely better than Wei Ning crushed beneath Crota’s sword.

Eris did not agree.

Eriana knew that she must punish her. But when she stood in the Tower’s central court, Eris bound before her, the assembled Guardians watching—

She remembered the days after the Mare Imbrium, when she had been nearly blind with grief, and Eris alone had stayed with her, sworn vengeance with her.

Eriana could not bring herself to kill her. Not after that.

But queens must enforce their authority somehow. So she summoned the Praxic Fire into her palms.

“Eris Morn,” she said, “for your help in slaying Crota, I will spare your life. But you are forever banished from the Tower.”

And then she struck Eris across the face.

Eris made no sound as her eyes turned to ash, but her Ghost screamed as it frantically tried to heal her—until Eriana caught it, twisted it, and incinerated its core.

“Go from here,” she said, letting the charred bits of the dead Ghost’s shell clatter to the ground, “and never return.”

3. this is the shape of victory

There's a silence in the Tower.

It's a beautiful place, drenched with sunlight in the day, gleaming with lamps in the night. Ghosts fly in obedient, graceful lines. Guardians clasp hands and clap shoulders as they wait to speak with the Gunsmith, with Master Rahool, with the Vanguard Queen.

The wind sings in the trees. But the Ghosts are forever silent. The Guardians speak only in hushed, reverent tones. And the Vanguard Queen speaks as she wills—

But when she speaks, silence follows.

#

There’s a whispering in the Wild.

Fewer Guardians roam there now. The Vanguard Queen does not like to risk her Guardians’ lives with mere patrols; if she does not send them forth in a host to conquer, she wishes them to stay within the City walls.

But sometimes, Guardians are allowed a short mission. Sometimes, Guardians find a way to slip out. And when they do, sometimes they dare to whisper to each other, to trade in treasonous rumors:

There is a rebellion. There are Guardians whose Ghosts still speak to them. There is a blind Oracle, her eyes burnt out by the Vanguard Queen, and with the ashes of her eyes she sees the truth.

And not sometimes, but only once in a very long while, a Guardian dares to go look.

#

There’s a celebration in the caves.

Cayde is back, and with him three new Guardians to join their band, two of them stolen out of the Tower prisons just before their execution. It’s an amazing feat, and—little though Eris likes him—few but Cayde could have pulled it off.

Eris will speak to the newcomers later. For now, she sits in the little stone chamber she has claimed as her room, and listens to the muted din of the celebration. She thinks wistfully of the last night before they departed for the Moon—even close-lipped Sai laughing and toasting—

Her neck prickles with a sudden awareness, and Eris turns, knowing what is about to happen. The Light is no longer hers to sense, but her time on the Moon and her studies have left her still attuned to Hive magic.

The air before her shifts and ripples.

“Eriana is wroth at you tonight,” says Toland, who has never yet managed to appear behind her.

“Is she ever not angry?” asks Eris.

She hears the soft rustle of Toland’s robes as he sits; she reaches out her hand, and feels his fingers wrap around hers.

For one moment, they are back in the tunnels beneath the Lunar surface together, and nothing matters but the darkness and their breathing.

This time, Toland is the one to break their unity. “Deliver Cayde into her hands, and she might forgive you.”

Eris laughs softly. “Tempting, that. But I think I will suffer him a little longer.”

“Oh, Eris,” says Toland, sadly fond. “You could have learned so much if you had stayed. My research—”

It was refreshing to be pitied for something besides her lost eyes and Light, but Eris had no intention of listening to his speech again.

“I’ve spoken to Osiris,” she interrupts, and doesn’t need eyes to know that Toland has gone rigid with jealousy. “He thinks that Saint-14 might have truly seen the future.”

Toland snorts. “A Guardian savior who will drive back the Darkness? A childish fancy.”

He sounds again like the man she remembers from their first days in the Tower, before he pitied her, before he reverenced Eriana.

“Maybe,” Eris allows.

“And if there were such a one, surely it is Crota’s Bane,” says Toland, remembering his allegiance.

Eris thinks of Eriana, how steady her hands had been on Crota’s sword, on Omar’s chest as she peeled the Light away from him.

How gloriously she had shone in the moment before she made Eris’s eyes forever dark.

With infinite grief, Eris thinks, She could have been.

4. the queen at the end of time

This is the first thing you ever see: your empty hands, grasping at the air.

"Guardian! Eyes up, Guardian!"

You look, and floating before you is—you don't know what: a little floating thing, shaped like a starburst made solid.

"I'm a Ghost,” it says to you. “There aren't many of us left. And I've been looking for you a very, very long time.”