#i am a creature of habit but i do like to venture out of my enclosure (the same 5 fics) every once in a while

[melmedarda]

Gentlewolf, have you read 'Mal de Mer' yet? It's Silco/Mel which isn't my cup of tea, but the Mel characterization is the most accurate I've read so far!

Hi darling anon,

Unfortunately, I have not read Mal de Mer as yet. I have seen it in the tag, but I have not been on ao3 in a while because I've been dividing my free time between watching shows and writing. But now that you've recommended it, I'll certainly read it! Melco is not a pairing a gravitate to either, but Lullaby is an amazing writer, so I have no doubt its good.

Thank you for the rec, and feel free to rec more fics for me to read! It's been too long since I've read any new ones in the Arcane fandom. I always go back to the same couple of fics in my bookmarks and reread.

[brutalistarchitecture2]

i want to get into perfume but i don’t know where to start :( any advice? also how much is enough bc i can never tell & i don’t want it to be overpowering

Oh goodness. Hi darling 😘 thanks 4 dropping by xx. this is so unexpected hahaha i am far from knowledgeable when it comes to perfume but i will try my best 2 impart all that i know meagre as it is >_<

i am honestly not that informed about perfumes but amateur2amateur fragantica.com is the way to go!!!!! I wud recommend starting on a random fragrance/note if U truly have no idea where 2 go from .. it is such a lovely rabbithole to venture down.. i do this with perfumes or samples i already own to narrow it down (i am a creature of habit unforch) , for example :

Attached above are the fragantica.com notes for tom ford's grey vetiver and jovoy's fire at will, 2 of my absolute favourites!!!!! I only own samples atm bcoz they r just so expensive as full perfumes but i wud like 2 emphasise here on the second stage of the discovery process : once u find a perfume that u think u'd like, have a go at finding it in yr local shops and testing it out, and if none carry them, samples from online stores r my go-to ! I get horribly nose-blind when i test perfumes in stores so i mostly rely on the sampling method... plus this way U can decide if u do like that fragrance or not within 5mL !

In regards to determining the strength of a fragrance .. I will have to redirect U to fragantica.com once more👍 it is the best bet when it comes to these sort of details bcoz the ratings/information have been proportioned according to community votes, and that way U can see what the general consensus is like ! & not just for strength; people tend 2 vote on deets like complexity, layering, occasion, ..... But that is all from me. Mwah💋 i myself am not very experienced w perfumes and i only really experiment with my comfort scent as a base (vanille) but i hope2 expand my horizons more in the future! Keep a look out for frag.com posts floating around ! & keep taking note of the notes/layers of perfumes that U like .. bcoz from there U will start to build ur own personal logbook of yr preferences & this will make finding new scents much easier and more rewarding >_< All the best sweetheart Xxxx

[mercymaker]

hi hi i am asking about mal :3 can i have a headcanon on hygiene please? does mal make sure her nails are always clean? does she wash her hair daily? does she wear perfumes? does she avoid people who smell bad? would she be up for bathing with someone? etc etc!!!

Aaaa, this is such a wonderful ask, thank you! ♥

So! Mal grew up out in the woods, so naturally she knew nothing of the perfumed and powdered ways of the city-dwelling folk, especially the nobility. However, while her mother did defect and abandon the ways of the Lolth-sworn society, she did carry over a lot of their beliefs and cultural norms. That, of course, included being a little obsessed with beauty, so even while living in less than ideal conditions, A'sherra made sure to always look her best, painstakingly washing her hair and putting it in an oiled braid, cleaning her fingernails, etc. etc.

She did instill some of those habits in Mal, however, the girl also learned from her father and the dude would be rolling around in mud and whatnot on his hunts and outdoor trips that he'd take Maleane on as well (about the only way he could endure living with A'sherra at times).

While living alone in the woods, Mal would wash her face every morning, but that's about as far as her daily hygiene rituals go. She would get sweaty and warm while busy on her daily chores, at times long treks out of the woods and she didn't mind having a bit of a sweaty smell to her, dirt between her toes, etc. However, if there's one thing that Mal absolutely loves is swimming. Ponds, rivers, lakes, you name it. One of her top things to do is just get naked and float in the water, eyes closed, listening to the sounds brewing under the surface.

At times, while washing her clothes, she'd grab some of the crude soap made from wood ash and grease, and wash herself and her hair, per her mother's instructions, but that wasn't as common as people nowadays are expected to do. It does help that she's likes collecting herbs so her little hut is full of dried mint, lavender, and other sweet-smelling odors that cling to her clothes making them smell a little better.

After venturing out into the "civilized world" she did start making more of an effort to look a certain way (all about the way you're perceived making it easier to manipulate the situation), her messy hair soon got an upgrade. + fighting groups of people/creatures would inevitably leave them all covered in all sorts of fluids and textures. So yeah, more washing!

I don't think she minds smelly people too much, because her nose had so many encounters with smelly stuffs of the woods AND one thing she does eventually discover about herself is that some people have a, uh, stink to them that's quite enjoyable (ye ye ye after battle they were all sweaty in camp and she found herself blushing at the way some of the sights and smells of her companions made her feel sdfsdgadg)!

Mal would like to bathe with someone! My lil HC is that in Mal's little forest house (poooooooost game), she'd have a big wooden tub out in the back that she'd occasionally fill with warm water and just sit there, taking in all the sounds of the forest. And she'd definitely share it with whoever's visiting! That one time Shadowheart did her hair? Well, they both were washing their stuff in the river and got a little nakey and, uh... the touch?? ? From someone else? So tender and soft? It took Mal's breath away and the girl got flustered but had to keep it cool! So, I think for her it's quite intimate, getting all nakey, close, being careful, gentle... *nod nod*

[mybookplacenet]

Author Interview: Jo-Anne Duffett

Tell us about yourself.: I am a medical doctor by day and writer by night and somewhere in between I find time for photography, gardening, running, kayaking and travelling with her fishing mad husband. I am passionate about sports medicine and am also a travel doctor with a yellow fever license and a part-time academic. My first novel, Surf n Turf is set between Cape Town (home) and the Karoo where I love the brilliant night skies. Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?: I was born and raised in Johannesburg, South Africa, into a fairly ordinary medical family. Not for long, though... When I finished primary school, we moved to the amazon jungle where my parents were medical missionaries. The mission base was a cultural melting pot of Brazilians, Americans, Europeans and every nationality you can imagine. I quickly added Portuguese to my English and Afrikaans. (South Africa has 12 official languages (sign language being the 12th)). I had a Norwegian tutor for geography, a British lady for English, a South African ecologist teaching me about the jungle, there was a an Argentinian who fell in love with an Australian. So I have a very multi-cultural background. When I returned to South Africa to complete high school, no one could figure out my nationality by my accent. I was just the jungle girl who had owned a pet sloth, nearly lost her parrot to a boa constrictor and dealt with many snakes and tarantulas. I also had a horse, Great Danes and Siamese cats who were never allowed outside without a leash - we never knew when there was a jaguar lurking around. Our house was surrounded by jungle. The howler monkeys were terrifying when we first arrived and I was trying to read Lord of the Rings and was convinced the sounds came from some creature in the book. After the jungle Cape Town was tame but my family continued to do short term mission trips, taking me to places like Uganda and Mozambique. I met my husband when I was 14 but we only married when I was 25 once I was finished studying medicine. He had never left the Western Cape before meeting me, now we have travelled all over the world and South Africa. My field of medicine also creates opportunities for travel, I have been to a conference in the USA, visited universities in the Netherlands, travelled with team South Africa to China, India, the Isle of Man, Zambia and Lesotho. I love exploring and with my husband we have ventured to Finland, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, Madagascar, the Seychelles, Zanzibar and all our neighbors Namibia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Zambia. So I have many places cultures and languages to draw from in my writing. I now consider myself a naturalized Capetonian as I have lived here the longest. Do you have any unusual writing habits? I plot while I'm running. Do you have any advice for new authors? When writing thoughts from a different gender to your own, bounce your ideas off someone of that gender. What is the best advice you have ever been given? Porque Deus amou o mundo de tal maneira que deu o seu Filho unigénito, para que todo aquele que nele crê não pereça, mas tenha a vida eterna. João 3:16 For God so loved the world that he gave his only son, that who ever believes in him will have eternal life. John 3:16 What are you reading now? A Thousand and One Arabian nights by Anon on audiobook in my car check out Librivox.com for free audiobooks (classic) Work and Win by Oliver Optic audio book on my phone while I do chores (classic children) The Leper of St Giles by Ellis Peters in my husbands car (medieval mystery) Secrets at Court by Blythe Gifford in the lounge (historical romance) The Phoenix and the Carpet by E Nesbit in the bedroom (classic children) Trapped with the Duke by Annabelle Anders on my phone for queues (historical romance) What's your biggest weakness? Well fitted jeans on a man Historical romances Chocolate What is your favorite book of all time? Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen I never get tired of reading it. Or watching it, although reading is better as you get to imagine how they look. I love the way she creates strong personalities. When you're not writing, how do you like to spend your time? Working! Exploring Researching my next holiday Running Photography Hiking Walking with my husband Kayaking Open water swimming Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you? The first story I remember was the Lion the Witch and the wardrobe. My sister and I took turns to read it out aloud and we were limited to a chapter a night. It was so frustrating. When I was small, I was given a proper Holy Bible by my grandpa and a dictionary. I would look up a word to have to look up the words explaining that word. I guess it improved my vocabulary exponentially. My setwork books at school I read cover to cover the first day I got them and instead of studying for the literature exams I just re-read them. What has inspired you and your writing style? Although I enjoy reading classics, I really enjoy the fast paced style of mysteries, combined with my love of romance. I want to keep the reader interested and turning the pages not getting bogged down in detail. Its an art to describe the beauty of the setting without leading your reader to skim. What are you working on now? A sweet contemporary medical romance which combines my passion for my work with my enjoyment of literature. Fire & Ice, How to Tame a Doc Thomás Ribeiro could win the titles of “best dad” and “Dreamland’s Doctor Tall, Dark and Handsome,” but he is icy to ladies and with good reason. Dr Charlie Kriel is a pint-sized fiery sports doc, wary of kids and determined to do without men. A matchmaking aunt and engaging kid contrive to melt ice with fire. Charlie is determined to protect her heart and keep her secrets, so she fights like a scared kitten. Can Thomás, get out of his self-imposed ice-cage, and tame her? What is your favorite method for promoting your work? Book review sites What's next for you as a writer? A time-travel romance :-) Buckle up for a thrilling ride through time and space in Dani the Dino Girl, From Fossils to Fables. When 21st century palaeontologist, Dani, is suddenly transported back in time, she finds herself in the company of a 17th century nobleman who escaped pirates by traveling into the 6th century. Throw in a stowaway boy, elephant birds, a mischievous lemur, and a missing grandma. Will Dani be able to use her scientific knowledge to survive in this new world? Or will she be swept away by the romance and adventure that awaits her? Fans of time travel, historical fiction, and animal companions will love this unique blend of science and fantasy. There is loads of work still be done, but I'm enjoying all the research required for the various time zones. Who would have thought I would visit a glass museum, browse an antique store, take out palaeontology textbooks form the library or visit an archaeology dig?! How well do you work under pressure? I seem to get more done, the more that needs to be done. I thought during my holiday that I would write for vast periods, yet I ended up reading instead, but during term, when I can only snatch a sentence or a paragraph, then I really make progress. Work of course is never ending high pressure. How do you decide what tone to use with a particular piece of writing? It is entirely determined by my characters. I first need to understand what makes them tick, anticipate their reactions, let myself become their alter ego. If you could share one thing with your fans, what would that be? My photography. Search for "Jo D" on SmugMug Jo-Anne Duffett's Author Websites and Profiles Amazon Profile Goodreads Profile Read the full article

[ayearwithoutwater]

One.

When I turned thirty, I wrote the following message to my twenty-year-old self:

Dear younger me,

You’re about to go through the most difficult decade of your life, but it’s okay—you don’t know any better. It’s your first decade of adulthood, your first ten years with any semblance of agency, however crippled, and you can chalk it all up to growing pains. You’ll do your best, most of the time. Other times, you’ll be swallowed by your emotional tempests, but you’ll learn to temper them, and you’ll learn from your mistakes. You’ll try to move on and to heal, and you’ll learn that healing doesn’t mean returning to who you were before; the scars irrevocably transform you, but that’s okay too.

I’m here for you. I’ll always be the only one upon whom you can count, and I’ll always be here for you.

I love you.

I think twenty-year-old me would have grimaced upon reading this. He was busy and precocious, and he was on the other side of a teenage promise to end his life because life was actually starting to work out well for him: he’d managed to move across the country to the city he came to love; he’d begun working within the industry of his dreams, setting himself up for future career success; and he’d found a wonderful boyfriend, a man who loved him unconditionally. Things were finally trending positive, and this message would’ve only been a reminder that all good things come to an end, that it doesn’t get any easier to be alive. I don’t think he harbored any delusions to the contrary; rather, after having spent the prior decade crippled with severe depression, he would have liked to linger just a bit longer in the eye of the storm before venturing back out.

I wrote this message because I was feeling pensive. Melancholia is an unfortunate habit of my brain, stemming from my aforementioned teenage years, and I’ve spent years working to ensure that it isn’t its sole habit. Resilience is practiced, I know, but relapse is all too easy when certain things occur—and certain things did.

A YEAR WITHOUT WATER is about the most emotionally turbulent twelve-month period of my life. It is my attempt to divine meaning from the meaningless, to squeeze lemonade out of lemons, and to be honest with the world after having sequestered myself away for so long.

Ten years after my first romantic relationship, I reconnected with that ex-boyfriend who, trying to comfort me in the wake of my worst breakup ever, gently reminded me how guarded I was when I dated him; my response was to laugh about only having grown more guarded in the intervening years. But, a life lived from within the confines of my self-imposed walls may as well be a life not lived at all, and I’ve come to realize that I want to interact with the world, and—perhaps most importantly—I am willing to allow it to interact with me in return.

Humans are social creatures, after all, and I too am human.

I’m forced to confront the reality that this has been coming on for some time now. I’ve witnessed it manifest across my disparate online presences (disjointed by design because I came of age when we were taught to practice digital privacy), whether as the unintentional genesis of a niche socialist meme genre, the mobile gaming terrorist Mariah Carey impersonator, or the briefly-popular anonymous author of wittol fiction. In each scenario, I permitted myself to engage with what’s out there, just for the fun of it, and the tendrils of me that snaked their way elsewhere did so with the candor that accompanies any low-stakes endeavor; the outcome was that there were now bits and pieces of me scattered everywhere, each resonating with the people of each locale.

I think the word for that is “connection.”

That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Connections, intact or severed, and the threads that tie(d) us to one another. I tried to obfuscate mine, tried to separate myself because I wanted to be unknown or because I suspected bad faith actors, tried to eke out a quiet existence, and still I was caught by the maelstrom that is life. So, I’m doing something different from now on; no longer will I deny myself that any more than I deny myself oxygen.

This blog will update via Substack Tuesdays at noon, Pacific Time. (If you know why, keep it a secret for me, at least just for now.) It’s my outlet for sharing bits and pieces of the larger project I’ve been cooking up over the past few years, and it’s a mechanism through which I can refine my drafts as I work towards completion.

And, chiefly, it’s the process through which I try to answer the questions that have haunted me for years: Who was I before you? Who am I without you?

The answer, of course, is: Everything.

[dark-sirenparis]

@auggiecrosby

Head tilted towards the sky, tongue out to collect the icy flakes falling from the sky when and where they could as it continued to sprinkle down around them, Auggie exhaled aloud. The fresh cold air felt so nice after being in classrooms, no matter how open and large they were. Being cramped in with a lot of people was never their forte to begin with, even if it was something they had to adhere to. It was just part of living among people. A creature that craved closeness in some capacity, especially in the cold like this. Body heat and all that. Something Auggie wasn't exactly the best at as is, which might've explained their desire to be out of the room, out of the building, and stretching their legs under the table in the Quad they were occupying.

With the holiday's approaching, the hollow darkness that always settled in around this time was creeping in yet again. It was never the same this time of year without having someone he was somehow attached to, to depend on for the sake of the silent mourning process he took to remember his sister. No one to hold his hand, or even hold him while he sat beneath his cloud. Now he was amongst strangers, depending on only himself. Something he had done before, but it had been a while. He had to remember how to do it all by himself again, and that wasn't sitting right with him.

The stark white dove that settles on the table, shaking her feathers and tilting her head up at him read: stop being sad, my child, and go make friends. Although he couldn't hear her voice literally, the tone is familiar enough that his mind supplies it on its own. "I've never made friends before," they argue, brushing the snow off of their notebook where they had been re-writing notes that had been rushed at the end of class, "so forgive me if I don't know how to go about this like a person might." The dove coos, pecking at the back of his hand, causing them to huff but not flinch. "I know, I know. No excuse. Just do it."

Flipping the page in his notebook to a blank page, they tap the end of the pen against it before standing again, and drawing the black jacket collar up around their ears. To protect their ears from being pecked at if anything, as the dove flutters from the table and settles on their shoulder. Moral support, perhaps.

Squaring off, Auggie pushes through and approaches the first person that appears from the falling snow, notebook and pen in an iron grip. "Hi, hello - excuse me." A clearing of their throat, a subconscious nervous habit they were falling back into since they were alive. "I am required to come up with some holiday themed recipes for the culinary class I'm taking. Perhaps I can take a moment of your time to fire off some questions so I know what exactly the pallet is of my fellow Islander's? Nothing off the table." Clicking their pen open once more, ignoring how the dove rustles her feathers as if adding her own intimidation tactic to get the other person to do it or else.

"Don't mind the chicken, she's clearly only using me for my body heat. I was thinking of cooking her personally, but⎯"

Paris, by nature, was not a fan of the cold. Thank the gods his home had an array of pools to swim in - heated, for obvious reasons - to keep himself right. He never really ventured anywhere cold, so a brief but rewarding shopping spree had the finest coats and winter apparel shipped to his house. There were some last minute assignments to be graded before the end of the semester, and as he trudged through the snow he was surprised by a very eager face rushing up to him, a bird on his shoulder. Paris, always bad at hiding his facial expressions (not that he cared), had an obvious grimace as the other spoke. "I suppose," he said, slowly. His head cocked to the side as he listened, his face offering no indication on whether he was paying attention or not. Paris's face pinched into confusion and mild suspicion. "Son, that's not a chicken-- that's a dove - are you aware that is a dove, do you know the difference?"

[lovergirlp]

The Triangle Chronicles

Spin of The Night: Orange Moon/ Out My Mind, Just In Time- Erykah Badu

10:52 p.m. 12/17

What does the me of this very moment want? I’ve been cycling through the same three obsessive thoughts all day. Time, Love, Pleasure. Sometimes I place so much value on material things I forget to account for how rich I feel on the inside. How good it is. The best thing I ever did in my life was to decide to be a mother. I love how I feel when I see my seed smiling back at me, everyday I am amazed I gave birth to another life, yet I can see back to the very moment I knew she was inside of me. How good it is…

⤁⤀⤀

I was very lost when I met my daughter’s father, 19 years old, fresh from a highschool dropout & taking every opportunity to drink and smoke away any inkling of a future I dreamed for myself, then a beacon of another young, struggling, intuitive, sensitive, man. Something of a dream all its own. To be regionally respective, we’ll call him “Chi-city” lol. Every moment I could spend, which was many, as a young woman with no responsibilities & in between jobs, was with him, and I’m not gonna lie, I became very, very enamored anything I could think of was a possibility, physically, mentally, emotionally, metaphysically, he was all capable. I allowed him to explore the safe ranges of my mind, and eventually from that extreme love, came a beautiful baby girl. We stayed in this love for 3 years, thick thin, up down, left right, us exploring with other women, it not working 😅, him exploring on his own.. It not working! loss, sharing a home, raising a child, and we weathered the weather. It just always seems to rain my way…

⤁⤀⤀

“Tell me Ladies.. Am I bringing the storm?”

⤁⤀⤀

I love this man, I do, but I can’t communicate with him & what’s even more, I can not trust him. I can not trust him. We have broken each other’s hearts in many ways, disappointed each other even. I have my moments when I falter, I’m not a superwoman everyday. Some days I’m still that little girl who just wants a warm embrace, and like I said before my biggest downfall is that I’m a creature of habit & he’s one of many. To sort through it all and pick out the love feels like I have to settle & I won’t. Even if I have to cry, scrape, scream, hustle, reach, pull, press, fill the heartbreak hole with Max, it's what I’m going to do. The other side is brighter. Ladies tell me.. What is your worst habit in love? Let me know I’m not alone here, please. Right now it feels like it.

⤁⤀⤀

As I write this, I’m still conflicted on my spin for the night. Hmm, Erykah is heavy on my mind tonight though. I told Chi-city about this new venture, lets just say.. Well let’s not say at all, I'm still in a good mood. Max wants sex, hm, (note to self: don’t ever overcommunicate with a man who’s only ever communicated one intention.) & Loverman is about to call. I’m starting to wonder should this be called the Triangle Chronicles or Square Chronicles ha! I talked to my cousin about my situation, as I do most days, that woman is just as lost as me 🤣, but still she listens, and I can respect that. She always says “You’ll get it together.” I always wonder, how long does that take? I wanna be right, right now! What did I do so bad to suffer so much emotional turmoil? Is security too much to ask for Ladies? I’m waiting for the man who is supposed to do right by me to meet me in the middle, shit where is the middle? Wherever it is, this time the foundation is laid by me, and whoever you are beautiful BLACK man, please, all I 

ask, take your shoes off before you enter!

⤁⤀⤀

Best Regards,

LovergurlP❣️

[vaultofqueenorion]

Prompt: Ruin

She stood among the ashes, embers still faintly glowing in the night. She had ventured back out alone, leaving the meagre guard force behind that had not yet perished, a note their only solace if they found her gone.

She knew they wouldn’t.

They had all borne the same vacant gaze, their shoulders hunched and armor coated in soot. This attack had not merely been to defeat them, rather, they faced devastation.

Ruination.

It had been calculated. Meant as a warning to never again cross the Court of Ice. Nothing but burned bodies and rubble had been left in the wake of the Army of Frost. She had never wielded magic, her kingdom had never been blessed with it. Had never needed it. Until her people were ambushed by their armies, flakes of frost freezing soldiers and civilians alike as they tried to fight or flee.

Then they set fire to it all.

Frozen by a magic that would not thaw until too late, her people were burned alive in the streets. Those that were lucky made it out of the ice, only to find the blades of the Frost army at their throats, dealing the killing blow.

She closed her eyes. The screams still echoed in her mind as she took the potion given to her by the royal alchemist. Carrying as many potions as possible, she freed the ones she could, her guards leading them to the secret tunnels. Painfully slow, she managed to free only a few before she had been dragged away, kicking and screaming at her own guards, their grips tight around her arms.

A pitiful few.

She’d only saved so few out of so many who had suffered because of her foolish actions. She clenched her fingers, the empty vial in her pocket a reminder of her failure.

“You usually don’t feel sorry for yourself, princess.”

She didn’t bother turning at the familiar croaking voice of the night nymph, knowing that she’d find nothing but empty space where the voice was coming from.

“A queen,” she corrected out of habit before she sighed. “Am I really a queen when I rule over nothing more than ash and dust? When my kingdom lies in ruins and my people are corpses?” Her voice was hollow.

A caress of a smile and a breath of wind in the dark before a creature of dark scales appeared in front of her.

Stars speckled the scales and it had large milky white eyes, a long and flexible tail and fin-like protrusions on the side of its head, arms and legs. When they smiled, she saw the needle sharp teeth glinting in the light of the moon.

“It’s time,” they said, reaching out for her with taloned fingers.

“Time for what?” She took a step back, recoiling from their outstretched hand.

“Time for the Court of Ice to feel their own chill,” they replied. Stardust seemed to shimmer in their eyes. “The Court of Night has been in hiding for too long, awaiting someone who might be fit to lead us again.”

“A queen of ruin leading the night.” She shook her head, taking another step back. “I never wanted this. I wanted my people to be happy. Safe and-”

“At peace?” the night nymph said, their eyes fully glittering now. “What is more peaceful than the dead of night?”

“I’m not fit to lead a Court - to lead a war,” she said, her hands gesticulating to the ruins around them. “They didn’t deserve this fate. I should have protected them.”

“Protection takes power,” they retorted, shadows dripping from every word. “And they made sure to strip you of exactly that beforehand. As they did for every other ruler before you.”

They gave her a look that was filled with a dark fury to match the roaring fire spreading through her veins.

“As they will continue to do with every ruler after you that refuses to bow down to their tyranny. But it doesn’t have to be this way.”

She turned her back to them, pacing back and forth. “It doesn’t matter anyway - I don’t have an army.” Paused as her hands tore at her hair. “Hells, I don’t even have a people anymore. Why would you even want me?”

They dropped their hand, lowering their head as she whirled on them. Silence fell between them, the chirping of the crickets the only sound in the still dark.

She began walking away.

“We want you because you stared into the abyss unafraid and pulled the Night Goddess from Her slumber.” Their voice rang out, trembling as it reached her. She stopped in her tracks. “We want you because you looked at the world and embraced the monsters, the beasts, the unbridled. Because you accepted us.”

“And who is this mysterious ‘us’?” she said, baring her teeth in frustration. “Because I see only a single night nymph, not yet ready to stand alone.” A bitter laugh pressed its way up her throat and out her lips. “So if you’d have me excused, I am going to be with what is left of my actual people.”

The world around them went still.

Then, all at once, the darkness seemed awash with life and eyes of all sizes and colors opened, lighting up like stars in the night. She turned, finding more night nymphs, gargoyles, wolves walking on their hinds legs. Scrabbling creatures, slithering monsters, beasts walking on two legs.

A menagerie of the monsters in the dark.

“We are your people. The things that go bump in the night. The shunned, the broken, the beasts.

“We are the Court of Night.”

They gave her a smile, shadows whirling around their fingers as they stretched out their hand yet again.

“So I ask you, Princess of Ruin - are you willing to take on the mantle as Lady of the Court of Night?”

She glanced around, meeting hope in so many of the gaunt faces and pallid eyes. Then she met the eyes of the night nymph that had started it all. “On the condition that I do not lose my people, I will welcome you as my own.”

They nodded. “It is done.”

She took their hand.

[alucardownsmyass]

Hey beautiful! Got some headcanons on Alucard with an extremely shopaholic lover? I am a serious serial shopper and can't save money even if it meant saving my life LOL! Could be him and her just  spending time at the mall together 🏩🛍👠👜👗🥿

aaaa! i can very much relate to this one! 😩 i love fashion and currently am in the process of restarting my entire wardrobe! fr dm me if you see this and i'd love to show you all the shit i have in my wishlist cart! 🤣 it's ridiculous!

i'll add some interactions with some of the other characters as a bonus!

♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎  ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎ ♡︎ ♥︎

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ: ꜱʜᴏᴘᴀʜᴏʟɪᴄ 💌

⠀ ⠀

you had a really bad habit of being unable to save your money for long periods of time. as soon as you saw something you liked online, you were just as quick to insert the address of hellsing manor, add your credit/debit information, click 'pay now', and that was that! sure, you got a more than decent amount of income from working with the organization, but you know what they always say: "just because you have the money to spend, doesn't mean you have to."

⠀ ⠀

and integra definitely agreed with that statement.

⠀ ⠀

"(Y/N)!! what on earth is it that you've ordered this time?!" she yells as she watched a clearly exhausted fedex worker throw the 20th box by the entrance of the manor near the rest of the pile, curisng under their breath as they walked back to their truck when they were done and drove away angrily.

⠀ ⠀

you knew you shouldn't spend so much, and choosing days to shop out with seras wasn't much help with solving that problem, either. she enjoyed fashion almost just as much as you. regardless if she was a vampire or a former officer, she still had a teenager's mindset, so whatever clothes you picked up, she always encouraged you to get them, cheerfully complimenting you along the way.

⠀ ⠀

with you owning a monstrous amount of clothes, you're only bound to have some all over the floor of your room, causing walter's eyebrow to twitch. perhaps he's reached the end of his sanity. you always begged him to tidy up your room with the offering of a generous tip on the side if he did so. he agreed to in the end; you're lucky he cares about you so much.

⠀ ⠀

alucard didn't much mind the thought of venturing to the mall when you asked him to come along, and though he always did recommend less consumption, he still let you get whatever you wanted. it was your money at the end of the day, and in his eyes, you could do as you pleased with it.

⠀ ⠀

integra, nor you, trusted the vampire enough to drive, so you took that task instead. you giggled when he climbed his way into the passenger seat, for it was quite a strange sight to see such an ancient creature inside of a modern day machine. "how are you enjoying the car so far, alu?"

⠀ ⠀

"it may take me a while to get comfortable, my dear. a man of my time would agree that there lied more room inside even a dungeon cell." you took your eyes off of the road for a mere second to see what he was talking about, viewing that his knees were pretty much pressed up against his side of the car's dashboard due to how tall he was. you forgot to tell him that the seats were adjustable. oops!

⠀ ⠀

when entering the stores, it of course takes you a while to look around at everything, but alucard didn't complain, nor did he rush you. he's existed for 590 years and most likely has hundreds more to look forward to. he definitely has all the time in the world to wait. in fact, he liked to look around himself and recommend what he thinks would appear gorgeous on you. you learned he has very expensive taste, but what did you expect for someone who used to be of royalty?

⠀ ⠀

the lingerie shops grew to be his favorite places to go with you, and it was quite self explanatory of why. from little g-strings, to embroidery-embellished bras, to satin nightgowns, to straight up bdsm pvc bodysuits is all of what he ended up carrying on his gloved finger by the hook of their hangers, a huge grin on his face when he showed them to you. when you asked if you should try some of them on in the dressing rooms, he surprisingly denied. "as much as i would be delighted to see that luscious body at this moment, it'd be a much truer gift to first behold such a thing between the sheets of my bedding. wouldn't you agree, my sweet?"

⠀ ⠀

the shopping wasn't all just about you, either! you loved taking alucard into men's wear sections. it's not like he sees the need to shop for himself since he can simply summon garments of his own with the use of his shadows, but sometimes he'll indulge in the realism of the activity, especially when it means being with you.

⠀ ⠀

"you'd look so handsome in this! quick, go try it on!" you shoved the outfit you picked out for him into his arms and ushered him into a dressing room stall, waiting patiently on the outside. no sooner is when he came out in khaki shorts, a hawaiian shirt, flip flops and a large sun hat to match with a "you've got to be kidding me" expression scribbled onto his features.

⠀ ⠀

"what? i think it looks great on you! don't be such a debbie downer!"

⠀ ⠀

he raised an eyebrow. "oh really? and just where do you think i will be, dressed in this?"

⠀ ⠀

and that's how your next vacation was planned.

⠀ ⠀

you tried to hold back your laugh. you were being truthful, though; he was oddly one of those men that could actually pull off anything he wore, especially considering he donned a maid's outfit one time.⠀ ⠀

[the-lonelybarricade]

I totally stole this from one of those writing prompt blogs, but can you do Rhys and Feyre going to couples therapy together as a joke when they only just met?

Okay my love, I literally just finished writing this and haven't actually proofread it. It was meant to be silly and jokey but ended up being a bit more serious than I intended, but I'm a sucker for fake dating tropes so maybe I'll continue their story at some point. Anyway here's a modern Feyre and Rhys going to couples thereapy together (whilst not actually being a couple):

Feyre was absolutely determined to prove Nesta wrong. Usually her sister’s grating comments didn’t penetrate Feyre’s hardened demeanor at home, but something about their stint yesterday had thoroughly gotten under her skin. Nesta had a talent when it came to barbed words, so it was the casualness with which she’d said Feyre was boring and predictable that had kept the words ringing between Feyre’s ears. They lacked the usual bite and venom that was characteristic of Nesta, and somehow that made them impossibly worse.

Was Feyre a creature of habit? Sure. But she had always been content with her quiet, unassuming life. They’d grown up poor, with little luxury, and as a little girl Feyre had always believed all she’d need to be happy was paint supplies and enough time to get lost in a blank canvas. Feyre had that now, and she was happy. She spent almost every day in her studio, a paintbrush in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. And that was fine. She may not spend a lot of time with other people, but that was fine.

Routine is fine. Being focused on your career is fine. So why did the implication that her life is stagnant rile her up so much?

Feyre couldn’t articulate what, exactly, had bothered her so much, since she was perfectly happy with the current state of her life. Yet the next morning she’d woken up, vowing to take a day off and spend the whole day being entirely unpredictable.

She was going to pull a Jim Carrey in Yes Man. She was going to seize this damn day. And any voice in her mind that pleaded her to stick to her comfort zone was going to be diligently ignored.

When she set out to get her morning coffee, she ducked into the first cafe she came across without checking the reviews. And instead of ordering her usual chai latte, she asked the cashier to make her their favorite drink. She sat at a booth and sipped it experimentally. It was sweet and tasted of caramel; she decided she quite liked it. So far so good.

She sat wondering what brave venture she should do next, something that would be worthy of telling people about. Something so brash and crazy and unexpected Nesta would eat her stupid, truthful words.

“Mind if I take this seat?”

The voice was like smooth velvet. Feyre glanced up to meet a pair of eyes that were such a deep, peculiar shade of blue they almost looked violet. She was momentarily stunned speechless, which caused the impossibly handsome stranger to lift one of his perfectly groomed brows in question.

“Of course,” Feyre answered, her mouth feeling a bit dry. She quickly took a sip of her coffee to quell this strong reaction her body was having to this man.

She’d been expecting him to take the chair to sit elsewhere, but he slid into the chair at her table, directly across from her. Feyre spared a cursory glance around the cafe. Customers milled about, but there were plenty of empty seats strewn here and there. It was far from necessary to share a table with a stranger.

Her interest piqued, Feyre turned her attention back to this strange, alluring man.

“I’m Feyre,” she said, sounding much more confident than she felt. But today was about branching out of her comfort zone. Making the first move with an attractive man certainly qualified.

“Rhysand,” he answered with a charming grin, extending his hand into the space between them. Feyre accepted it with a mirrored smile, for a moment marvelling at the way his hand completely enveloped hers.

Feyre cleared her throat. “So tell me, Rhysand, what brings you to this table in particular?”

The way he wrinkled his nose was unfairly endearing. “Call me Rhys,” he said. “I only really use Rhysand in a business setting. And I chose this table in particular, because I saw a beautiful woman sitting here and was feeling especially forward.”

Feyre laughed in surprise. “Forward, indeed. Well, Rhys, I have spectacular news for you.”

“And what’s that, Feyre darling?” the suggestive tone to his voice sent shivers down her spine and instantly those warning bells in her mind were blaring. This man was too handsome and he was a complete stranger.

“I’ve decided to do something completely stupid and spontaneous today, and you’re officially invited to join me.”

Rhysand grinned, his eyes flickering with mischief at her proposal. She supposed that should be concerning, too, but she felt her pulse quicken. “And what stupid, spontaenous thing will we be doing, darling?”

Feyre leaned back, trying to regain composure by taking a too casual sip of her coffee. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m open to ideas.”

Across the cafe, a man stood up so quickly his chair tipped over with a loud thunk. Rhys and Feyre both whirled their heads at the commotion.

“This is why we need to go to therapy together!” the woman across from him screeched. “You can’t control your stupid temper!”

“I don’t have time for this shit,” he growled. “I’m not going to sit there for an hour so you can manipulate some dumb bitch into agreeing with you!”

“It’s not about sides,” she groaned. “I want to work through this with you!”

Feyre felt a tug of sympathy at the desperation in the woman’s voice. She could feel her pain and frustration second-hand, having been in similar shoes herself.

“Fuck this,” the man grumbled, storming for the door.

The woman followed after him. “Our appointment is in 10 minutes! Please, let’s just try it.”

The door swung shut behind them. Feyre watched the couple continue their walking argument down the city pavement, gesturing wildly with their hands.

Feyre sighed. “Man, that poor woman. It sounded like she really wanted to work things out.”

“That guy sounded like an absolute ass, maybe it’s for the best,” Rhys said. Then, his eyes lit up and he turned to Feyre with a slow, conspiring grin. “It does give me an idea, though.”

“What’s that?” Feyre felt a bit intimidated by the roguish expression on his face, even if it did make her feel breathless.

“Well, I do happen to know there’s a psychiatrist's office right above this cafe. If I had to guess, that’s where our friends were going to have their first session. And from the looks of it,” he nodded towards the couple, who were now striding in opposite directions through the city, faces flushed with anger, “they won’t be attending.”

“And your point is…?”

“Let’s go in their stead. Make a game of it. First person to break character loses.”

“And what does the winner get?”

“Well, if I win, then I get to take you to dinner.”

Feyre considered for a moment. Dinner with a handsome man certainly didn’t sound like losing to her. “If I win, then I get to use you as a model.”

“You’re a photographer?” His brows rose in interest and Feyre summoned all her will power not to blush. Since when was she bashful about her career?

“Painter.”

Rhysand grinned. “If you win, you can use my body anyway you wish, Feyre darling. Nude would be best.”

And that was how Feyre had ended up in Dr. Suriel’s office, Rhys by her side on the sofa. It was perhaps the most adventurous thing she’d ever agreed to.

“So, Mr and Mrs Mandray. Apologies, I didn’t get your names on the forms.”

“I’m Feyre, this is my husband Rhys,” Feyre answered, thinking it lucky they didn’t have to guess at the mysterious couple’s forenames.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Feyre and Rhys. What brings you to my office today?”

Rhys immediately slipped into his role of the concerned husband. He placed his arm around Feyre’s shoulders and tugged her close. Rhys opened his mouth, then shut it, glancing at Feyre hesitantly.

“My wife and I have been getting into a lot of… disagreement lately,” Rhys answered carefully, and already Feyre thought this was going much better than it would have if the actual Mr Mandray had turned up.

“My husband,” Feyre said flatly, channeling her inner Nesta to put venom into the word. “Is insisting on painting our house purple.”

“I see,” Dr. Suriel says, assessing the displeasure on Feyre’s face. “And I’m assuming you want to paint the house a different color.”

Feyre pressed her lips into a thin line. “See, that’s just the problem,” she said, crossing her arms. “That’s exactly the color I would want to paint our house.”

Dr. Suriel frowned. “So you do want the house to be painted purple, as does your husband. Am I understanding that correctly?”

“No,” Feyre sighed. “He wants to paint the house blue, but is insisting we paint it purple, because he knows it’s what I want. This bastard refuses to be anything but accommodating.”

“We’re going to try to refrain from name-calling in my office,” Dr Suriel said calmly. “So, Feyre, you are clearly unhappy that Rhys wants to paint the house purple. What color would you paint it?”

“Blue,” she answered. “I know it’s what he secretly wants to paint it.”

“She doesn’t see the hypocrisy in what she's saying!” Rhys complained. Then, he turned to Feyre, looking impossibly serious. “Darling, I know you want to paint the house purple, and I already told you I’m fine with it.”

Feyre groaned. “I don’t want to paint the house purple! I want to paint it blue.”

“You’re only saying that because you think I want to paint the house blue.”

“Do you?”

Rhys hesitated. “No.”

“Don’t lie in front of our therapist,” Feyre said with narrowed eyes. “We promised to tell the truth while we’re here.”

“Then you tell me the truth, Feyre. Do you genuinely want the house to be painted blue?”

Now it was Feyre’s turn to hesitate. She could see the corner of Rhysand’s mouth twitch as she did so. “No. I mean yes! I do!”

“It sounds like at the heart of this argument, you are both ultimately concerned in pleasing the other person, is that fair to say?”

Feyre and Rhys glanced at each other, then nodded in agreement.

“Do you think there’s a color you could both compromise on, so that you don’t feel as if your partner is the only one making a sacrifice in this decision?”

Feyre met Rhysand’s brilliant violet eyes. In truth, she’d blurted the color purple because she’d been thinking about the color of his eyes. She'd never seen eyes that color, and they were wonderfully vivid. Feyre was lost thinking of painting a world in a monocrhome of violet, like a city that lived within his gaze.

Feyre realized she’d been momentarily swept away, snapped out of it by the humor that washed behind those starry irises. She blinked back the haze and tried to think of an answer to the question.

“Mustard yellow?” she proposed.

Rhys pursed his lips in mock consideration. “Mustard yellow,” he agreed with an emphatic nod of approval.

Dr. Suriel blinked in surprise. “All right, well I’m pleased we could solve that issue. Is there anything else you’ve been arguing about?”

“Yeah, actually. My wife,” Rhys gave Feyre a pointed glance. Somehow, despite being strangers, hearing Rhys refer to her as his wife sent waves of pleasure jolting through her. She felt her stomach flip on itself. “Isn’t satisfied with our sex life.”

Feyre instantly flushed at such an accusation, however fabricated.

“Is this true, Feyre?” Dr. Suriel turned her eyes towards Feyre and she shifted uncomfortably at having to make up stories about her sex life with Rhys. Making Feyre imagine rolling in a bed with him was certainly his goal, and she’d lie to say it wasn’t affecting her. Rhysand looked absolutely delighted to have made her squirm. Fine. Two could play at his game.

“Y-yes, well,” Feyre stuttered, the burning in her cheeks condemning. “I keep telling Rhys that 16 orgasms in a session is excessive. He’s much too generous a lover and he never lets me give as good as I get.”

Feyre felt satisfied with the way Rhysand’s face went crimson.

Dr. Suriel’s brows rose. “This seems to be a common theme in your marriage. Rhysand, would you say that you’re often prioritising Feyre’s desires over your own?”

“I think Feyre sorely underestimates how much pleasure I take from satisfying her desires,” he answered, his eyes flicking to Feyre with enough of a sensual promise that her heartbeat turned staccato.

“Rhys, it sounds as though your generosity is part of the way you express your love, is that safe to say?” Rhys nodded. “And Feyre, it seems as if you have trouble accepting your husband's generosity, both in and outside the bedroom. Do you feel that’s a fair statement?”

“I-I suppose so.”

“Sometimes people have trouble accepting their loved one’s generosity when they feel like they aren’t giving something in exchange. It can be hard to accept that kind of love when we don’t feel like we deserve it. Do you feel like this could apply to your situation?”

Feyre blinked. This was meant to be a gag, something daring and experimental. She hadn’t expected to be psychoanalyzed by Dr. Suriel, or at least for her analysis to hit so close to home.

Rhysand shifted forward on the sofa. “Is this true, darling?” he asked, sounding concerned. He took Feyre’s hands in his own, brushing his thumb along her skin as he met her gaze. “I think you deserve the world.”

She would almost think he was being genuine if she hadn’t met him only an hour ago. Feyre marked the conviction on his face, those burning pools of earnesty in his eyes, and marveled at what an incredible actor he was.

Somehow she ended up blurting part of the truth. “My family life growing up was kind of tough and I’ve never really known what unconditional love was like. I think a part of me still believes it's something I have to earn.”

“That sounds like it must have been very hard, Feyre. But it sounds like Rhys loves you very much, and that this is an issue the two of you can overcome together. When you feel the instinct to reject his generosity, try to remember where that message is coming from. And Rhysand, try to keep in mind that this is something your wife is still working through, and be patient if she feels more comfortable giving you something in exchange. This is her way of expressing love, too. At the core of your issues is both of you thinking about the other person, try to remember this when a breakdown in communication occurs.”

Somehow they’d lost control of their therapy session and were receiving actual therapy, which wasn’t part of the plan at all. But somehow, despite not actually being married to Rhysand, what Dr. Suriel said was reassuring.

Feyre turned to Rhys and smiled. “I think I understand better, now. You’re free to give me as many orgasms as you want, honey.”

Rhys grinned fiendishly. “And I’ll let you reciprocate in whatever way you feel comfortable, darling.”

Dr. Suriel clasped her hands together in approval. “Excellent. I think so long as the two of you take measures to accurately communicate your needs, you’ll find these breakdowns will occur less frequently. And that’s it for our time today, but I am happy to have the two of you back any time.”

Feyre walked out of the session hand-in-hand with Rhys, feeling a bit dazed. It had certainly gotten more serious than she’d expected, but perhaps her judgement had been misplaced in thinking therapy could be anything other than serious, no matter how joking the complaints.

“Well, that was certainly stimulating,” Rhys quipped once they’d left the office.

“And it seems we’re at a draw, considering neither of us broke character.”

“You do play my wife convincingly well,” Rhys practically purred, “perhaps I’ll let you take up the real role, if you feel so inclined.”

Feyre laughed. “I’m expecting a few other offers to come through. Give me a few days to look over the applicants, then I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay, well how’s this. I’ll give you my number, you can wait until all those applicants come back to you, and once you’ve decided that I’m clearly the obvious choice, you can call me.”

Feyre smiled as she pulled out her phone and handed it to him to insert his number. “You do make a very convincing husband. Perhaps I can hire you for weddings and Thanksgiving dinners?”

“Real husband, fake husband, a partner to do spontaneous, outrageous things with. You call me, and I’ll be whatever you want me to be, Feyre.”

It was perhaps the strangest and most generous offer she’d ever been given. When they parted ways, Feyre thought that she’d certainly filled her quota for an interesting story to tell. And maybe, most likely, she’d be calling that number very soon.

[asweetprologue]

my burden to bear

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Piggyback Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: Gen Content Warnings: None Summary: Jaskier gets hurt during a hunt and Geralt has to carry him back to town. Jaskier has mixed feelings about this. ao3

“You’re hurt,” Geralt said. Jaskier groaned from his position on the ground, more at Geralt’s tone than any amount of pain.

“I think I’m fine,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. When they’d come to the woods, they’d been working under the assumption that the creature plaguing the nearby village was nothing more than an overactive godling or maybe a hag. Neither of them had been expecting a leshen, and no amount of staying back from the fight did any good when your opponent could sense your location through the ground. While Geralt was valiantly slaying the beast, Jaskier had been darting away from roots shooting up from the ground and attempting to impale him. They’d not succeeded, but they had managed to send him sprawling as he tripped over an exposed root. He’d feared he was done for when suddenly the writhing plant life had collapsed. Though he was pleased to be still in one piece, his ankle throbbed traitorously where the root had tugged his feet out from under him. 

Geralt narrowed his eyes suspiciously and offered him a hand up. 

Jaskier took it and allowed himself to be pulled to standing, only to stumble as soon as he put weight on his left leg. Geralt caught him as his knees buckled, one hand snapping out to grab him by the elbow. Jaskier’s face lit up, heat spilling over his cheeks in an embarrassed flush. “Ah, shit,” he cursed. 

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed, looking down at the offending appendage with a stormy expression. “No Roach.” 

“So true,” Jaskier said morosely. They’d left Geralt’s trusty steed behind for this venture, as the brush was generally too thick for her to navigate. The village was a good mile or two away. Jaskier’s ankle seemed to throb even more intensely at the thought of the walk. “Well, nothing for it I suppose. I’ll manage.” He tried to pull out of Geralt’s grasp, gingerly testing the weight on his ankle. It felt like being stabbed in the tendon with a razor, but he would be alright. He had plenty of experience limping along beside Geralt on the Path. This time it would just be a bit more literal. 

Geralt did not release him, much to Jaskier’s surprise. “You’ll make it worse,” he said, mouth tightening. Jaskier’s pulse, only just having begun to settle down now that the leshen was dead, began to rise again. Angry Geralt he was plenty used to, but angry-at-him Geralt was not something he enjoyed. They both knew that Jaskier was a liability at best on hunts, and he was well aware that he was only ever one misstep from being left behind, at least for the truly adventurous moments. He hadn’t realized it would be an actual misstep that did him in. 

“I can manage, Geralt, I swear,” he protested. “What else am I meant to do? Stay here forever? I’m sure I could make a nice home out of the leshen’s abandoned burrow. House. Whatever.”

“They don’t have those,” Geralt said dismissively. “I could get Roach.”

“Sure. So I can be eaten by the wolves that ran off when you killed the beastie. I’m sure they’ll be eager to finish the fight once the huge man with the swords fucks off. I’ll walk, it’ll be fine, I’ll -”

“I’ll carry you.”

Jaskier blinked, and then blinked again. He must have heard wrong. “Come again?”

Geralt glared at him, as if daring him to offer up a different solution. “I’ll carry you. It’s not that far of a walk, and I still have Thunderbolt in my system. It wouldn’t be hard.”

If Jaskier had thought he was flushed before, it was nothing compared to now. “Ah, well. Um. Are you certain? I suppose - I really can walk, truly -” He took a step backwards, away from the warm hand that still cupped his elbow, only to nearly drop to the ground when a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. Even his knee ached with it. Geralt caught him around the waist, hauling him upright again and, unfortunately, directly into the witcher’s space. Jaskier gasped at the contact more than the near tumble, though he hoped Geralt thought it was just the surprise. 

“I can see that,” Geralt said dryly, their nose barley inches apart. Jaskier swallowed. 

“I take your point. How, uh, how do you want to do this?”

Geralt released him, allowing Jaskier to take a deep, fortifying breath. Leaning all his weight on his good leg, he waited while Geralt turned around and knelt down on the mossy forest floor. Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Put your arms around my shoulders,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier ran a hand along his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “This is so infantilizing,” he grumbled, but he leaned over and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back, wrapping his arms around his broad shoulders. He was extraordinarily grateful for Geralt’s armor, separating him from the heat of his body. As it was, he still felt like he might spontaneously combust when Geralt’s large hands came up to grip under his thighs and raised him effortlessly into the air. 

Holy fuck. “Melitele,” he said, “do I weigh anything to you?”

“No,” Geralt said with an amused huff. He began to take sure steps through the clearing and back the way they’d come. Jaskier shifted to find a more comfortable position for his arms, and found that he could lift them away entirely without Geralt dropping him an inch. 

“I feel like a toddler,” he groused. 

“Next time watch your step,” Geralt grunted. 

They made their way through the forest slowly, Geralt carefully navigating the underbrush. Jaskier was aware that he was being more delicate with his footwork than he typically was, avoiding any areas that might throw him off balance or land Jaskier with a face full of branches. He was being nice, Jaskier realized, not even getting back at him for the fact that he had to carry Jaskier’s sorry ass through the woods. Always so chivalrous. 

That was Geralt though. Even when he was grumpy and upset and probably worn out from a fight, he was always going out of his way to be kind. He wasn’t always nice, Geralt, but he was almost always kind. It was a miracle, honestly, that he didn’t lose hold of his temper more often than he did. They would bicker, often, and fight, sometimes. But even when he was mad, Geralt was often still considerate, still worried about Jaskier’s safety and comfort. He was always taking absurdly underpaid jobs, even taking payment in a simple meal or a roof over his head sometimes, just because there were people in danger. This village, for example, had scraped together a tiny purse to offer a passing witcher, desperation writ on their faces. Seven people, including two children, had disappeared in the last season. It was a small village, only a little cluster of houses, and such a loss must have been felt deeply. Geralt had looked at the purse, a frown maring his features, and pushed it back into the alderman’s dirty hands. The job had ended up being even more dangerous than he’d assumed, but Jaskier knew Geralt wouldn’t take payment beyond maybe a warm loaf of bread and some hearty stew from the alderman’s wife. 

It was wildly unfair that the reputation of witchers remained so heavily tarnished. That Geralt’s reputation still suffered so. It was starting to mend - in the decade since Jaskier had begun traveling with him, the White Wolf ballads had become popular, enough so that many towns they passed through were already ready to throw their crowns and orens at his feet. But the further north they went, the closer to Blaviken, the less people were swayed by his songs. People didn’t always see what Jaskier saw. Not everyone felt the depth of affection swell in their breast at the sight of his silver hair and golden eyes, regardless of how many times Jaskier tried to put it to words. Maybe it wasn’t something he would ever be able to capture. This haunting, aching thing inside him that just loved and loved and loved Geralt of Rivia. 

He wished he could do more, more to alleviate Geralt’s pain and stress. And instead here he was, only putting more weight on his shoulders. Literally. Jaskier rested his forehead against the leather of Geralt’s armor with a sigh. That was the story of his life, though. Try to help, get in the way, get pushed aside. An infallible cycle. 

“Alright?” Geralt asked suddenly. Jaskier blinked back to himself, attempting to shake off the shroud of self pity that had settled over him. 

“Hmm?” he responded, lifting his head from Geralt’s shoulder. “Alright what?”

“I’m asking,” Geralt said. “You’re quiet. That only ever happens if you’re writing a song or you’re dying.” He paused. “It’s only your ankle?”

Jaskier huffed out a laugh, stirring the hairs at the base of Geralt’s neck. The silver strands were pulled back into a short pony, leaving the pale expanse of skin beneath exposed. Jaskier had to tamp down the swift and overpowering urge to tuck his nose into the spot just behind Geralt’s ear, to press his lips to the scar just above the line of his armor, where some monster must have gotten in a lucky hit. Forcing himself to focus, he said, “Just the ankle, I swear. I’m only thinking.”

“So it is a song,” Geralt said darkly. 

“A great ballad about how the White Wolf of Rivia once again saved a humble bard,” he agreed, eagerly latching onto the half lie. “You’ve made a bit of a habit of it.”

Geralt grunted, sounding unamused. Suddenly there was a burst of sunlight across Jaskier’s vision, warm on his face. They stepped out of the forest and onto the small dirt track that led to the village, which Jaskier could just barely see peeking out over the rise of the next hill over. The sky was a sprawling blue tapestry above them, not a cloud in sight. “I don’t like it,” Geralt said, stopping to scan the road briefly. 

Jaskier’s throat felt tight. “Saving me?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative and began walking again, towards the village. 

Jaskier let out a long breath, equal parts annoyed and hurt. “Well no one’s asking you to,” he snapped. “I know it’s, I don’t know, part of your job, but you don’t need to go out of your way.”

Geralt shook his head, nearly hitting Jaskier in the face with his short ponytail. “It’s not a fucking chore, Jaskier. I just don’t - I wish you didn’t need saving.”

“Well, you and me both,” Jaskier said. “I know you think I do it on purpose, but I don’t actually want to get in the way.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt gritted out. Truly annoyed now. “Nothing you do could keep me from doing my job.”

“Well obviously you always finish the fight, I wouldn’t imagine you’d just quit on my behalf -”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt interrupted, “because I don’t like this.” He moved one hand to Jaskier’s injured ankle, the touch feather light. Jaskier’s knees tightened automatically to hold himself in place, but it was barely necessary. Geralt was strong enough to hold him in one hand. It made Jaskier feel deeply fragile, but not necessarily in a bad way. More like something precious and delicate. Worthy of being preserved. It made his fingers tingle where they were latched together between Geralt’s collarbones, just at the base of his throat. 

“Oh,” he said, at a loss for words. “I didn’t know that it, um. Well - I’m really fine.”

“I know,” Geralt said, sounding tired and a little amused. “You always are, mostly. I still don’t like it.” He tapped a finger against the heel of Jaskier’s boot, still light, and then put his hand back to support Jaskier’s thigh. “Sometimes I forget that you’re not like witchers.”

Jaskier laughed outright at that. “I can’t imagine how you could lose track of that piece of information. I complain about my bad eyesight and sore feet daily, as you are certainly aware. I’m the same as any other human.”

“You’re really not,” Geralt said, so quiet that it almost seemed to be said to himself. Jaskier stilled at that, startled and somehow warmed by the sentiment. 

“Thank you,” he finally said. They were nearly to the outskirts of the village, where hopefully they would find a warm welcome with the alderman or another grateful peasant. They might be given a place to rest for the night, maybe a few, while Jaskier’s ankle healed. Maybe they would be asked to move along, and Geralt would let him ride on Roach for a few days, and in the evening he would give Jaskier the salve he used for bruises and pulled muscles. Maybe even rub it into his swollen foot himself.  “I’m sorry to burden you.”

“You’re not a burden, Jask,” Geralt said. Then he laughed, a dry rasp that Jaskier never tired of hearing. “Well, alright. Technically you are at the moment. But I don’t mind.” As they reached the first house, he gently set Jaskier on his feet, turning to offer support. Jaskier let him slip a broad arm around his back, Jaskier’s own stretched out across Geralt’s shoulder to grip at the rough leather there. After having Geralt’s face hidden from him on the walk back, the sudden confrontation with golden eyes and square jaw was enough to make Jaskier flustered. Their faces were close now, and it felt almost too intimate, too raw after being unable to see Geralt’s expression during the rest of their conversation. Geralt quirked a small smile at him, a fondness there that Jaskier felt echoed in his own chest. “I don’t like it when you get hurt, but I don’t mind saving you.” 

Jaskier couldn’t help but smile back, even though his heart was racing and he knew his face was flushed from their proximity. “I suppose I’ll have to let you keep doing it then,” he said, only the tiniest bit breathless. 

“Good,” Geralt said, and together they took their first steps into the village. “But for the love of the gods, at least try not to get yourself into trouble.”

Jaskier laughed even as his ankle flared with renewed pain and he spotted a few villagers stepping out of their homes, concern plastered across their faces for the injured bard. So it would be hot stew, he thought giddily, and a warm place by the fire, and Geralt would still probably rub that salve into his ankle. He could be satisfied with that. “Geralt, my dearest, just try and stop me.”

[rivendellsstuff]

𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 | Because Grisha Jaeger had placed a lot of expectations on all his children, but especially on (Y/N).

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1790;

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: Mentions of canon-typical violence. Inspired by the song “Brother“ by Kodaline; and, yes, that is part of a story that I will never publish.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: Hello! This is the second time I have ventured into writing a story in English. I hope, with all my heart, that I am managing to evolve and that the text is understandable. If you spot a misspelled word or anything else, feel free to let me know.

────── ▎She had no other pleasure that morning than to walk barefoot on the grass, still damp from the light drizzle that had occurred the night before.

She was lightly shaking a small basket, which she had made herself the year before from the thinnest branches of a cherry tree, while she sang a quiet melody among the bushes and trees that began to surround her. It was a very hot and humid afternoon. On the way to the apple tree, the light was so intense that she shielded her eyes.

The aroma of ripe apples began to gather strength around her. With her fingertips, she gently caressed the fruits she loved. They were ready to be picked, and she smiled, satisfied.

A slight rustling from the right side caught the attention of Grisha Jaeger's eldest daughter, startling her, causing her eyes to quickly search for the source of such.

It was Mikasa.

Her gray dress was a shade darker than her eyes and her black hair shone in the sunlight, her hands closed around her red scarf. She knew it was Mikasa's habit to do this to make sure it was always hanging around her neck. Somehow, it seemed to calm her.

''Hey,'' (Y/N) greeted the younger girl. ''Is everything okay?''

At the present moment, she barely spoke to her adopted sister, although everyone seemed charmed by her. Mikasa was an incredibly intelligent and strong child, no doubt she had managed to escape a terrible situation, the mere mention of which made (Y/N)'s stomach clench and her heart soar in her chest. The most remembered mark on the girl's personality, however, was her incredible sense of loyalty to Eren. Of this, anyone who had spent at least two days with her could tell.

And, yes, it was true that the two did not know each other very well, but in light of the short time they had been together, she had found out enough to know that Mikasa was real and part of the family.

''Yes,'' Mikasa answered, shyly, after a minute of silence. ''May I... accompany you?

''Oh, I don't see why not,'' the older woman smiled tenderly.

The two sisters raised their eyes to the apple trees and began picking them by the bunches. The sun was high enough to illuminate the whole place, although its light was in the treetops. A very beautiful and welcoming place. Beside her, Mikasa seemed to think the same, with a small smile on her face and barely blinking her little eyes, wanting to memorize every detail. Even under the intense heat, fatigue didn't seem to discourage either of them.

''Amazing, isn't it?'', (Y/N) inquired to the younger girl, who blinked twice before turning to her. ''Here, hold this.''

Mikasa nodded and held up the small basket.

As (Y/N) tried to balance on the higher branches, Mikasa brought one of the red fruits to her lips, tasting the acidic freshness in her mouth, and her eyes narrowed at the slight acidity that characterized them, while her ears didn't seem to want to part with (Y/N)'s frustrated gasps.

''Oh, no, no!''

Mikasa's eyes widened as (Y/N) falls to the ground. While the girl still had her mouth open in surprise, her sister began to laugh. She remained on the floor, not caring about the wetness, but she didn't let the shadow of a smile escape Mikasa's face.

''Oh, so you think that's funny?'' she asked, and she wiped a single tear from her eyes, shaking her head negatively at her own shame.

With her tiptoe, she pushed the younger woman's heel hard enough to make her fall beside her.

A second lost, and then another.

Finally, letting go of her surprise, she let out a laugh, still holding the basket. It was a happy afternoon, the happiest in a long time for the two sisters, and before they knew it, the sun was beginning to set.

It was a happy afternoon, the happiest in a long time for the two sisters, and before they knew it, the sun was starting to set.

''We'd better go, little one. Mother will be furious with us if we're late for dinner,'' she said, smoothing her dress over her body. ''Let me fix this.''

Mikasa raised one of her eyebrows.

She ran her fingers over the scarf, smoothing it over her body, then lightly pinched the younger girl's nose, just like her mother used to do once upon a time.

The fall of Wall Maria marked the end of an entire era. It was a tragedy; an atrocity. On the day that so many people were torn from their homes and their lives, a permanent shadow shrouded the hearts of Grisha Jaeger's children.

There were no songs in that land that could tell the pain of (Y/N). There were no songs that could tell of Eren's anger. There was no song for the darkness that was submerged in the hearts of the Jaeger's brothers.

Eren and Mikasa were just two children when tragedy struck, and Grisha Yeager's eldest daughter, whose light once lit up the old house in Shiganshina, suddenly becomes an adult plagued by responsibilities too great.

Long weeks after the tragedy, (Y/N) was always trying to protect those kids. To keep them safe. Grisha and Carla never had to tell her that, but (Y/N) always felt like that was her responsibility. She just wanted Mikasa and Eren to be children. Just for a little while longer.

But then there they all were, watching in terror as a crowd was dragged in to reclaim the lost lands. There was no excited shouting or cheering. There was only an annoyed and doubtful murmur from the rest, because everyone seemed to know that it was just a way for the government to get rid of mouths to feed. Men and women, young and old; people with those who had lived for many years, pale and with eyes glistening with tears.

That day, Armin lost his only family.

That day, (Y/N) hugged the three boys and pulled them close, and begged - to whatever divine creature there was - that they would get through it.

Little Armin made no effort to stop the hot tears that wet his (Y/N) clothes when the gates were closed. The hat in his hands, once so light, suddenly seemed to become too heavy, too big. His knees trembled and he fell to the ground.

I am tired of losing friends.

Mikasa tries to swallow the lump forming in her throat. Her gaze was not childish, but knowing, sad, frustrated - no child should have that look. Eren, whose eyes were fixed on his friend's back, felt as if the air was caught in his throat, as if he was suffocating himself.

(Y/N) crouched down at Armin's height. When he raised his face, (Y/N) saw hers eyes mirrored in his blue eyes. She stroked the younger man's face without saying anything, just trying to calm him down.

"I am with you, Armin," she whispered. "I am with you."

''We did it!

The graduation of the 104th Recruit Squadron was a highly anticipated date for Eren, (Y/N), Mikasa and Armin. The date had arrived together with cold and humid weather, with light rains and the presence of little lightning and thunderbolts, but whose noise echoed throughout the place.

Everyone felt something different; Eren was struck with such great courage that he felt as if he could face anything from that moment on. Armin was overcome with a sense of a job well done, mystery, and curiosity about all the things that might be on the other side of the walls. Mikasa felt as if she was doing exactly what she was born to do, and although she didn't show it in words, she was pleased with the prominent position she received among all the other recruits.

After the formal introductions and dinner, the Jaeger's brothers gathered outside on the steps and the moonlight illuminated the entire clearing. There, where they stood, hardly any trees grew. It was cold, but not cold enough to make them sick, only to make them shiver.

For a long time, the two brothers remained sitting on the stairs. Neither of them started a conversation, but they were satisfied that way. After all they had done to survive, they couldn't help but wonder what they would become. Their whole lives had turned upside down after the fall of Wall Maria. They were survivors. They were soldiers.

Whatever they would become, (Y/N) just wanted to be there for Eren. For all of them.

Finally, the older woman put her right arm around Eren's shoulders. Although he was startled by her unexpected attitude, Eren relaxed his muscles and leaned over her. And in the end, that small gesture had been enough.

''I'm proud of us, man. I'm proud of what we've done,'' she said.

Eren nodded.

He listened attentively to her and understood everything she was saying. They had traveled a cruel road, where friends and family were left behind. They had suffered, but they would not give up easily.

Because we are the Jaeger. We don't run.

They fought to survive. They fought to complete their training. They fought to get what they wanted: to join the human cause. This caused many scars.

Eren was just a child like many others, but he had been forced to grow up. (Y/N) was an adult. She could have gone away. There were all the opportunities and all the desires to take what had been promised to her since her late teens - from suitors to the opportunity for study. She could have lived elsewhere and had a family with them, become an ordinary woman. Eren knew that. It would be stupid for her to reject that, foolish for her to keep running.

But she was his sister, and one brother doesn't let the other wander off alone.

Suddenly, Eren remembers. The younger man remembers when they were little, and she would tell a stupid joke to distract him while she put on a bandage after getting into a fight with the bullies who harassed Armin. He remembers how she would take over some of his work in the settlement, or how she would divide the food among the three youngest.

"Thank you for not giving up on me, sis."

That's her nature, he thinks.

And his nature to protect her now. There is nothing in the world he wouldn't do for her.

Eren hugs his sister tighter.

At that moment, what mattered wasn't the graduation. It was that the two siblings were together that night, in that place, looking out into the rainy night and thinking how proud their parents would be.

[kigozula]

Gladiator Chapter 229

His fingers trailed over her face delicately, brushing a few stray hairs off her face, before saying:

"What sort of father could ever be disappointed in a daughter like you?"

Her words tumbled out of her in a clumsy, interrupted yet interconnected mess… and then they stopped once she felt the weight on the bed shifting, once her father took his seat by the side of her mattress. Azula swallowed dryly again, venturing a wary glance at his face…

His brow was drawn together… but not in wrath. Not in disappointment, or displeasure.

Was that… compassion?

"If what Zhao explained is true… then I'm not certain anyone could have done better" Ozai said "Whether you or anyone else. It may not sound encouraging of me to say so… but the threat you faced seems to have been one of the very worst the Fire Nation has handled so far. And to think it happened to rear its head exactly when you were substituting for me…"

"Do you… truly believe that?" Azula asked, her chest heaving as she breathed far more frantically "Y-you're not… disappointed?

Stray dogs often flinched out of habit when anyone raised a hand in their direction, assuming the world was out to get them, regardless of whether there was ill intent in the gesture or not. It was unexpected that a Princess would ever react the way such humble creatures would, and yet she gasped, recoiling when Ozai's hand appeared within her field of vision…

Only to cup her face delicately.

His eyes were golden, clear… and emotional. Far more emotional than Azula remembered seeing them. Was she imagining things? Was all this a dream, a rather strange one? Or was her father truly offering her a gesture of kindness… one she wasn't entirely sure she deserved?

His fingers trailed over her face delicately, brushing a few stray hairs off her face, before saying:

"What sort of father could ever be disappointed in a daughter like you?"

Her lips parted, though no words came from them. Her eyes gazed at her father, struggling to unravel this unexpected, unbelievable glimpse of the single kernel of kindness that still nestled in Ozai's dark soul. Her mind, muddled by the effect of her chi's corruption, couldn't process his words immediately.

"As far as I understand… you saved the Fire Nation with your actions, however reckless as they may have been" Ozai said "If the truth is as Zhao spoke it… then you were vital to ending this threat. As your Fire Lord… your loyalty to your nation fills me with pride. As your father, however…"

"As… my father?" Azula repeated, once Ozai fell silent for a moment. He swallowed hard, his teeth gritted.

"I'd rather appreciate it… if you wouldn't give me such reasons to fear for your health and wellbeing anymore, is all" he determined "I'm proud of you… but I am quite distressed by how readily you've jumped into danger, not only in this situation but in countless others. I want to believe Zhao, truly… that you did it because no one else could. But if you do anything like this again, and I discover someone other than you could have handled the problem without you jumping headfirst into danger…"

"You'll… scold me?" Azula asked, her question more childish than she expected it to be. To her surprise, Ozai laughed softly.

"Perhaps" he said "It sounds so very daunting when you put it that way, doesn't it?"

"It… it does" Azula smiled too, weakly.

"Then I suggest you give me no reasons to do so" Ozai said, lowering his hand. Azula grew keenly aware of its warmth only once it wasn't touching her skin anymore "You… you're recovering slowly, from what I've heard?"

"I guess… I'm not too aware of my improvements yet" Azula mumbled "I was unconscious until yesterday in the morning, I think… I don't really know. I can't remember much… not from yesterday, or from the previous day"

"You can't remember how you wound up in this shape, then?" Ozai asked. Azula bit her lip.

"Barely. I… I was hoping to help my dragon, and then… then I was wounded" she whispered "My guards kept the Spear in check, I… I think. Then I was on my dragon, and then… then Sokka helped me"

"The gladiator?" Ozai asked. Azula tensed up, as though she had forgotten who she was talking to.

"Y-yeah. He… did something. I don't really remember what" Azula whispered: it wasn't a lie, at this point she only knew something had exploded before Sokka found her, and she didn't even dare ask what it was "He tried to help… t-then I fought the Spear with my fire a-and his sword, and… I can't remember what happened to me after that. Just… woke up here"

"I see" Ozai whispered: again, he startled her by reaching to brush her hair out of her face "It seems the world constantly wants to put you to the test, does it not? The challenges you've faced… it's uncanny that someone has been able to overcome them as often as you have"

"Maybe I'm just… a lot less lucky than I thought I was" Azula said, with a weak grin. Ozai smiled and shrugged.

"I suppose. Though that you've survived, and recovered, from all your ordeals so far indicates that maybe fortune still favors you, to a fault. Perhaps it will favor you this time as well"

"I… hope so" Azula said, closing her eyes as Ozai withdrew his hand again.

The weight on the bed had been comforting, to a fault: it vanished once Ozai rose to his feet again

[thehangeddemon]

Waiting for a Tuesday || Self Para || September 14, 2021

☠ WARNING ☠

This work contains graphic descriptions of violence, gore, and torture

Reader discretion is advised

“More tea, sir?”

Xavier glanced up from his newspaper and gave the waiter a pleasant smile. He shook his head. “I’m fine, John, thank you. You can bring me the check as soon as y—”

“Actually, John. Why don’t you go ahead and bring us another pot of tea? Anything but English breakfast,” he added with a chuckle that almost sounded condescending. “I don’t share my son’s fondness for it.”

The waiter watched as a man, who had seemed to appear out of nowhere and was dressed head to toe in black, invited himself to sit opposite Mr. Rossmara. He’d said ‘son’, but he didn’t really look old enough to have a son Mr. Rossmara’s age. He didn’t really resemble him either but that seemed less strange somehow.

What was strange was the way Mr. Rossmara was looking at the man across from him. He looked…stunned, like he’d seen a ghost or something. But beneath the surprise was an indiscernible emotion on Mr. Rossmara’s face that John thought looked just a little like fear.

At the stranger’s expectant look, John collected himself and cleared his throat, addressing Mr. Rossmara. “…Sir…?”

Xavier seemed to collect himself as well, though far more subtly. He folded up his newspaper and put the pleasant smile back on his face, determined to make it seem like nothing was wrong. Only someone who looked very closely would see how forced the smile was, or how measured his movements were.

“Yes, of course. Does earl grey meet with your approval?”

The man smiled like the proverbial cat who ate the canary. “It does.”

“Very well. A pot of earl grey then, John.”

The waiter nodded. “Right away, sir.”

Xavier waited until John was well out of earshot before he spoke again. “Hello, Father. I didn’t expect you.”

Zagan let out another of those condescending laughs that set Xavier’s teeth on edge and dragged him right back to all his memories of Hell. “No, I’m quite certain you did not.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“My dear boy, it was hardly a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes. For as long as you’ve had your shipping business, you’ve come to San Francisco every Tuesday without fail to check in. And without fail, you finish your work just before teatime. By your own admission, this hotel has the best afternoon tea in the city. All I had to do was remember the name of the hotel and wait for a Tuesday.”

Zagan helped himself to one of the cucumber sandwiches that remained on the tray. “You’ve become predictable in your old age, my boy.”

Xavier had to fight to keep from shifting in his seat. Not any-bloody-more. He’d be changing that particular habit immediately. It didn’t suit him at all for someone outside his household to have such intimate knowledge of his movements, especially if that someone was his father. Such information was dangerous in the hands of a man like Zagan. It didn’t matter if it was only the day and location of a standing reservation for tea and cake, Xavier knew from experience that the less his father knew, the better.

Which was largely why he didn’t take any great pains to see him. Unless, of course, he was forced to.

“I see,” Xavier said, settling for an amused smile since a laugh was impossible. “I suppose I am becoming a bit predictable. Anyhow, it’s nice to see you, Father. Have you been well?”

“Well enough.” Zagan was watching him carefully, studying every nuance in his expression, listening to the tone and inflection of every word. Becoming familiar with anything that had changed since the last time he’d seen his demonic progeny.

Thankfully Xavier didn’t have to endure it for very long. John soon returned with their tea, giving him a reprieve from paternal scrutiny as it was poured. It was the only thing that would for the next little while.

This time it was Zagan who waited until they were alone again before he spoke. “So. Tell me. How is that shipping business of yours doing? And your myriad other ventures?”

The next hour or so was spent in what one could call easy conversation. They spoke of Xavier’s businesses, the sights he’d seen, the things he’d collected, the weather, the state of the world. Perfectly light, perfectly casual. At least from an outsider’s perspective.

From Xavier’s point of view things were far more fraught. Everything he said had to be carefully weighed, and there was a desperately thin line between revealing too much and appearing withholding, between looking at ease and projecting discomfort.

Having a conversation with his father hadn’t always been this difficult. In fact, just a few years ago Xavier would have been—and had been—completely comfortable not only talking to Zagan but spending entire days in his company. He’d even sought him out once or twice. But then, Xavier had had far less to lose a few years ago. He hadn’t had a child, a fiancé, staff that depended on him, friends he cared for.

He had all those things now. He had more than he’d allowed himself to have in fifty years, and the memory of how things had gone then still lived all too vividly in his mind.

Getting back to a point of comfort with Zagan after that hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it. There hadn’t been a choice. It was either swallow his pain, grief, and desire for vengeance and make nice, or tempt his father into carrying out his threats.

Sitting here now, Xavier felt much the same as he had then; trapped, resentful, and desperate to get away.

He had no illusions of being able to do that any time soon, however, even when his father finally asked for the check. After such a long absence, Zagan was sure to take up as much of his time as possible.

His suspicions were confirmed almost immediately.

“Come,” said Zagan, getting to his feet. “Let’s take a walk.”

Xavier remained at the table while his father stepped outside, indulging himself with a long, weary sigh the moment it felt safe to do so. It had only been an hour and he was ready for another five-year interlude in their relationship.

What had brought Zagan up from Hell anyway? Surely this visit hadn’t only been for tea and a walk with him. His father hated humans, hated looking at them and being amongst them. There had to be another reason and no doubt it was something Xavier really didn’t want the know the details of.

“Probably scouting his next project child,” Xavier muttered to himself as he pulled his card from his wallet.

Bill settled, he stepped out into the late summer evening and breathed deeply. There was a chill in the air that said autumn was well and truly on its way. Soon the days would grow shorter and the nights longer. His collection of coats would emerge from storage. Every hearth in the manor would roar to life with cheerful, welcoming fires.

He sighed again, longing for the comfort of home as he looked for Zagan among the crowd of people in front of the hotel. That expression of disdain was easy to spot.

“Where shall we go?” Xavier asked, approaching him.

“I don’t know how you can stand it.” His father’s tone all but dripped disgust. “Being here day in and day out among these…creatures and the stench of their cities. It’s revolting.”

“I’d rather smog than brimstone.”

“I think I prefer brimstone.”

Right. That nipped the notion of walking on the street squarely in the bud. If only that were enough to dissuade his father, but alas.

Fortunately, there was a park nearby.

Zagan didn’t say a single word as they made their way there, clearly preferring to stew in his distaste until they were well clear of anyone who might catch a snippet of their conversation. Of course, he hadn’t been nearly so averse to it back at the hotel.

Xavier would just chalk that up to the difference between a well-appointed dining room and a crowded street.

His father’s demeanor seemed marginally more pleasant as they entered the park. It wouldn’t be empty for a good while yet, but it was an improvement from the street. Hopefully it wouldn’t be enough of one to tempt him to stay much longer.

A few long minutes of not-quite-companionable silence passed before Zagan saw fit to fall into conversation again. The additional privacy meant they could discuss things that were far more relevant to his father’s interests than the weather or the goings on at a shipping company. Namely, any magic Xavier had learned, magical artifacts Xavier had acquired, and any kills Xavier had made.

The latter would perhaps prove to be a bit of a disappointment. Not only did Xavier kill less frequently these days, his choice of quarry had changed. The people that he’d once hunted were those he found interesting or amusing or intriguingly intelligent; only on the very rare occasion did he hunt someone who truly deserved it.

That was no longer the case. Lately when Xavier hunted it was only people who truly deserved it. He went for rapists and abusers. He went for people who hurt children, including and especially priests. There was immense satisfaction in knowing exactly where those people were going and what awaited them when they arrived, and even more in describing it in vivid, excruciating detail as they bled to death among the debris of a forest floor.

Hell was a far greater torment than anything he could visit upon them, and he was more than happy to send them on their way.

Zagan let out a loud, derisive laugh at that. “Are you indeed?” The old demon laughed again, putting Xavier’s back up and setting his teeth on edge. “My dear boy, you have been away from Hell too long. Who would’ve imagined? My son, the divine hand of justice for ne’er-do-well priests the world over. Never mind predictable; you’ve grown positively moral in your old age.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Xavier said softly, fighting to unclench his jaw.

His father gave him an amused look. “No?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve merely…unearthed an intolerance I didn’t give sufficient regard to before.”

“Have you? Well.” Zagan chuckled and adjusted his sleeve, looking positively chuffed in a way that both infuriated and unsettled. “You never did like priests. Who would, having had your childhood? I suppose that particular aspect of your personality was bound to rear its head again eventually. Perhaps…it’s entirely appropriate that it should do so now.”

Xavier didn’t register the movement until it was too late. He only had a moment to feel his father grabbing his arm before he was whisked through the familiar vacuum of demonic travel, and even less to register his new surroundings before he was thrown bodily against something cold and unyielding.

“You unearthed an intolerance, did you?” Zagan’s voice, so casual and amused just seconds ago, now quivered with rage.

Xavier went flying again, this time into something that splintered beneath the force of his weight. Wood?

“And when exactly did you do that, Xavier? Was it perhaps around the time that you became a father?”

Again, back into the unyielding cold. Stone. “Father, plea—”

“Not that I can even tell, since I’ve scarcely seen the child—my grandchild—more than twice since the day he was born!”

Xavier cried out as he was flung for a fourth time, several bones breaking upon landing forcefully on a stone floor. There was something soft beneath him, but whatever it was, it hadn’t been enough to cushion his fall.

He braced for another hit, relieved when none came. He could still hear the echo of his father’s furious footsteps, however, which meant the torment wasn’t over. Far from it. The pleasant Zagan of earlier was gone, and who had remained in his place was someone Xavier was very, very familiar with.

Familiar enough to know that he had only a few precious seconds to catch his breath and orient himself.

There wasn’t much he could see from this position apart from the ceiling of whatever edifice they were in but, not wanting to draw attention to himself too soon—or move lest he worsen his breaks—he observed what he could by turning his head.

Said ceiling, high and crisscrossed with thick wooden beams, appeared to be constructed of the same stone as the walls and floor. Dusty chandeliers covered in thick cobwebs were hung every few feet, the candles in them long unlit. The same went for the metal sconces on the walls.

He appeared to be lying in the middle of an aisle bordered on either side by what he could only assume was the wooden something he’d been thrown int—

No. Not just wood. Pews.

Xavier struggled into a sitting position, heedless of his broken bones and desire for inconspicuousness in his rush to confirm his suspicions, to confirm what he already knew.

Panic rose in his chest as he saw the cross silhouetted in stark relief against the waning sunlight streaming in through the stained-glass window.

They were in a church.

Had this been any other time on any other day Zagan wouldn’t have missed the opportunity to mock and use his son’s fear against him. Xavier’s childhood memories of being harrowed and abused by his stepmother and local priest amused him to no end but on this day, he didn’t so much as comment.

He just stalked down the aisle toward Xavier and slammed him back against the floor with a flick of his hand.

“After all,” he said, voice dangerously soft as he crouched beside his son. “I can hardly drop by for a visit now, can I? Not with all those wards you have on the estate that threaten to annihilate anyone who comes in unannounced.” He almost smiled. “You’ve amassed quite the bag of tricks over the last fifty years.”

Xavier could only shake his head. “The wards aren’t—”

“Aren’t what? Aren’t meant to keep me out?” Zagan scoffed, giving Xavier a dubious look as he grabbed a handful of his hair from the back of his head and stood. “Dear boy, do you really expect me to believe that?”

He gave Xavier’s hair a good hard yank, ignoring his son’s cries of pain as he dragged him down the aisle and deposited him on the small set of stairs leading to the altar. “You didn’t ward against me fifty years ago only because you didn’t know how to. If you had, you would’ve done it in a trice to help keep that pathetic little slave of yours out of my grasp, but I’m sure that’s already occurred to you.”

Indignation fought its way in beside pain and panic, and Zagan noticed. His son’s emotions had always been pitifully easy to read, moreso when they ran as profoundly as he knew this did. The servant was still a sore spot even after all this time.

Zagan paused.

“Had you realized?” he asked, crouching again to run a single finger down Xavier’s cheek, those ancient eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. “That this year marks the fiftieth anniversary? Had you realized, my beautiful boy, that half a century had passed since you came so close to defying me?”

Fifty years of pain and rage and grief so rarely expressed churned in Xavier’s gut and pulled at his soul. That his father could speak so cavalierly of Maximus and his loss made him want to scream and be ill in equal measure.

Had he realized? How could he not, when every day for the past year and a half had been a battle against remembering? How could he not, when every day he walked halls and sat in rooms identical to those Maximus had once drawn breath in, only to remember that they had burnt to the ground?

How could he not, when dead leaves and rose petals and ash were still enough to bring him to tears?

The same tears that streamed down his face now. Xavier was powerless to stop them and even if he could have, he likely wouldn’t have. After what he’d done to Maximus, an acknowledgement of his grief was the least Xavier could give him, even if his father was the only one who witnessed it.

“Oh my, look at that.” Zagan stroked his son’s face again, collecting those tears and rubbing the moisture between his fingers. He tsked, shaking his head. “My dear, it’s been an absolute age since then. How can a measly little servant still cause all this upset, hm? There now.”

Zagan slipped one arm under Xavier’s knees and the other behind his back, lifting and carrying him the rest of the way up the steps as if he weighed absolutely nothing. He gathered Xavier close, even took care not to jostle him too much.

Such loving gestures were not uncommon for the old demon. There were times in Hell when he had been the absolute image of gentleness and paternal affection, when he had held him as he did now and given him a reprieve from the torture.

But more torture had always followed. Showing him affection was rarely meant to comfort; it was meant to torment.

“I’m sure you feel like the past few decades have been a trial, but you see, I don’t think that’s entirely accurate.” Zagan set Xavier down as carefully as he’d picked him up, petting his hair as that indignant look returned to his son’s expression. “Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t doubt you’ve suffered a great deal over your servant. I don’t see why you would when they’re so readily available, but I don’t doubt it. I just think you haven’t quite…put things in perspective.”

With of wave of his father’s hand, every sconce, chandelier, and candelabra flickered to life, allowing Xavier his first real look at the derelict church. Not that there was much to see. No one had set foot in here for a very long time, let alone used it as a place of worship.

But when he turned his head, Xavier saw something that made his blood run cold.

Until now he’d felt trepidation, resentment, emotional anguish. Only when he saw the lines of a demon trap scorched into the threadbare carpet beneath him did he finally feel fear.

“Father…?”

“You see, my dear, I don’t think you realize how easy you got off all those years ago.” Zagan shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

“Father, please—”

Zagan knelt beside him. “My own son considers rebelling against me, disobeying me, gives a servant pride of place over his father, and what does he have to pay for it? Absolutely nothing.” He unbuttoned Xavier’s suit jacket and shirt, undid his trousers. “My son defies his father and still he gets to keep his estate, his businesses, his treasures. His life. All these things my son gets to keep, he goes virtually without punishment for fifty years, and does he realize that? Does it occur to him how generous his father has been in his infinite mercy? No. Rather than show gratitude, he has the childish audacity to believe he is the aggrieved party!”

Xavier didn’t see Zagan move. There was just an awful squelching sound, then searing pain as his father, having pierced his torso with a bare hand, sliced it upward and gutted him like a fish from groin to sternum.

“Which doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed your efforts,” Zagan said calmly above the echoing din of his son’s screams. Casually. “You’ve been such a good boy, treating your papa to afternoon tea and accompanying him for a walk. But I have been far too lax with you. You see that, don’t you?”

He gripped the jagged edges of Xavier’s wound and forced them apart to another chorus of screams. “All those wards, the prolonged absence.” Zagan shook his head. “There comes a point where it all gets to be a bit too much. What’s that expression? Getting too big for your britches? I think you’ll agree you got too big for yours a very long time ago. What’s more, I think you’ll agree that it’s high time that you paid the piper.”

Zagan got to his feet and made his way over to the wooden table beneath the stained-glass window at the head of the altar. He retrieved a hammer, a covered metal bowl, and a set of railroad spikes and brought them over to the demon trap, kneeling again.

Xavier could only watch him, borderline delirious as his chest heaved and his wounds bled. He didn’t dare lift his head to look at the damage; he’d seen enough of his own insides in Hell.

There was a vague hope that his blood would break the demon trap and allow him to get away, but he knew it was impossible even as he thought it. Zagan had prepared for this.

There was no getting away, especially once the first spike was hammered through one of his feet, piercing shoe leather, flesh, and carpet as it was driven into the stone beneath. Xavier bit back another scream, only to give in as his father pinned his arm above his head and drove the second spike into his hand.

“A necessary precaution,” Zagan explained, moving around to repeat the process on Xavier’s other side, barely reacting to the scent of demonic flesh charred by iron. “To make things easier for both of us. Remember what I always used to tell you?”

The third and fourth spikes were driven into Xavier’s free hand and foot, rendering him not quite immobile, but significantly limiting his range of motion. He was left completely vulnerable to Zagan.

“Well?”

He turned toward his father. The demon was looking at him expectantly, warmly—a complete contrast to that cold smile on his face that never quite reached his eyes.

“The more you struggle,” Xavier began, breathing raggedly, “the more it will hurt.”

“That’s exactly right. Good boy.” Zagan bent to kiss his brow and set the hammer aside. “Now be a love and stay still for your papa while he works.”

“What are you going to do?” Asked in a voice too soft and timid to belong to a demon.

“I thought you might ask. You see, I needed to come up with an appropriate punishment.” Zagan reached into his abdominal cavity and tore out a chunk of his liver, placing it on the carpet beside him while his son howled in agony. The shock and blood loss weren’t enough to kill him, of course, but there would be a great deal of both before Zagan was done.

“It had to fit the crime, else how could the lesson be truly felt?” His stomach joined his liver, spilling its bloody contents as it hit the floor with a sickening plop.

Xavier hadn’t felt pain like this since Hell. He wondered for a moment if he was in Hell. That endless red sky and the ceiling of the church blurred together in his mind while the stone under his back became the rocky banks of that boiling river of blood. He heard a scream—or perhaps a thousand—but no longer registered it as his own.

When his father spoke, he heard it as only an echo.

“I mentioned taking your estate and your belongings but upon reflection, that wouldn’t be a practical solution to the problem. You could always acquire more, and really, what do I want with a bunch of wine and trinkets and land?” The other half of his liver followed, then his spleen and pancreas, all added to the growing pile of viscera.

Zagan turned to Xavier, whose screams had quieted to pained whimpers as he began coughing up torrents of blood. “No matter how you look at it, it would only be an inconvenience to us both. An inconvenience, not a punishment. That was when I realized that there was something I could take from you that would serve as an appropriate punishment.”

The old demon reached into Xavier’s body with both hands this time, ripping through sheet after sheet of connective tissue as he worked to tear out Xavier’s intestines. Messy work but very necessary, although he did find himself wishing he’d brought a blade to speed up the process. But that’s what happened when one was forced to move with haste; things were bound to be forgotten.

To Xavier, that process seemed to take hours. Perhaps it did. He couldn’t help but think it would’ve been kinder to just kill him.

His only comfort was that the shock setting in made his body go almost numb, a small mercy for which he gave profound thanks. It was liable to be the only one he got. He only wished he could go deaf as well, or better yet, fall into blessed unconsciousness so he wouldn’t have to listen to or feel the rending of his flesh.

More hopes he knew would be dashed.

Such was Zagan’s concentration on his task that he fell silent. Humans did have such a lot of parts, but he had gotten most of it. It would do.

He gathered the slippery mass in his hands, considering adding them to the pile before deciding to simply drop them on his son’s lap. They didn’t need to be removed entirely, just moved out of the way.

“Right,” he sighed, looking around at his handiwork while he gathered his thoughts. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Your punishment.”

Zagan scooted a bit closer and tenderly took Xavier’s face in his hands, smiling beatifically as he stroked his son’s cheeks and smeared that handsome face with blood. “I believe you’ve lived in poor dead Christian for quite long enough, my precious one. Don’t you?”

For the second time since this ordeal began, panic took hold of Xavier. Not just a trickle of it, but huge, violent waves that made his adrenaline surge and had him struggling against his restraints despite the burning pain of the iron.

Please, God, let him not have heard correctly. Surely it was the delirium, the blood loss making him think his father had said what Xavier thought he’d just said. Or if had said it, perhaps Xavier just didn’t understand his meaning. It could mean anything, everything. Too much. Was it to be his life, a return to Hell? Was it—

“Settle down, Xavier,” Zagan chided, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What did we say, hm? The more you struggle the more it will hurt, and this is going to hurt quite enough without you thrashing about like a landed fish. Settle.”

“Wh-what is?” Xavier’s voice was a raspy, choked sound, devoid of its usual elegance. For all that he struggled—or tried to, before pain and fatigue forced him to stillness—it was a battle to get out every single word. “Fath…father. What are y-you going…?”

“What am I going to do?”

At his son’s jerky nod, Zagan smiled and stroked his face again. “Just what I said. You’ve been living in Christian Deidrich’s body for far too long and it’s time for a change.”

“But w-what—”

“I’m going to take you out of Christian, Xavier. You will be removed from this vessel and placed into a new one.”

Xavier looked at this father in abject horror for a few silent, eternal moments before panic and adrenaline flooded back in with a vengeance.

He began to struggle to free himself in earnest as his father’s words and their full implications sank in. Whatever he’d suffered so far—gut-wrenching reminders of the past, the sear of iron, the removal of his organs—it would be nothing compared to what he knew awaited him now.

At this very moment, even the full weight of what it meant to lose Christian as his vessel couldn’t hold a candle to Xavier’s fear.

This reaction pleased Zagan immensely, and unlike before, he was perfectly happy to let Xavier wear himself out. In this weakened state it was all he’d manage to do, which would only make things easier once the real work began.

Besides, even if by some chance Xavier did tear the wounds around the spikes and freed himself, he was still inside the trap. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Zagan hummed to himself, giving his son’s cheek one last pat before getting to his feet.

One by one, he brought candelabras over to the altar. Not many remained after so many years of the church having been abandoned, but they were enough to give him the light he needed. The larger ones were placed around the perimeter of the trap and the smallest just inside. A single candlestick was placed beside Xavier.

Had he been able to, Xavier would’ve knocked that stupid candle over and set fire to the rug. Something his father probably would’ve considered if he wasn’t so obviously confident that it wouldn’t happen.

Xavier couldn’t deny that he was right to be. Already he was exhausted to the point of giving up. Physically, at least.

“Father…” he wheezed. “Plea…please…don’t—don’t do this to me…”

“Ahhh, I see we’ve moved from anger to bargaining,” Zagan chuckled, returning to his son’s side. “I understand, of course. A new face will be an adjustment after so many decades spent looking at the same reflection in the mirror, but don’t worry, my dear one. You’ll get used it.”

Xavier shook his head, swallowing back more tears. He didn’t want to get used to it. He wanted to remain in his body. No matter how mangled it was, it was his, and leaving it would mean suffering beyond measure in more ways than one.

“The spell…”

His father nodded patiently. “Yes, yes, I know. You locked yourself in. An excellent notion, truly. After all, one can never know who does and does not know an exorcism rite. No doubt it would have spoiled your fun if in the middle of a hunt, your quarry dispatched you back to Hell.”

Zagan stroked his hair again. “Pity that your good judgement should have to hurt you now.”

Tears began to flow freely again as Xavier tugged at his restraints with all the might he had left. It was precious little. “Fat-ther, please…please d-don’t…please…”

“Hush now. Begging won’t save you, Xavier.” Zagan picked up the bowl that until now had sat untouched beside the revolting mess of entrails. “As I’m sure you’ve gathered from the very fact that you’re able to be here, the church we are currently in is no longer consecrated ground. Faith left this place…” he shrugged, “a century ago, perhaps more. But despite that, there is one thing I’m so terribly curious to know.”

He removed the lid. “I wonder…despite the decades of absent devotion…if this water is still holy enough to hurt you.”

“N-nononono wait, don’t—!”

An awful steaming hiss drowned out his protests as Zagan slowly began pouring the bowl’s contents into Xavier’s abdominal cavity.

“You’re making it worse,” he said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the cacophony of tortured screams and howls of demonic pain.

His admonishment fell on deaf ears. The moment the first drop of holy water had touched his mutilated insides, Xavier had begun thrashing about in a desperate, mindless effort to escape from the torment.

Exhaustion had no hope of stilling his movements, even if those movements caused the water to splash and slosh about and cause even more pain. This was beyond the physical, beyond the human. Short of an exorcism this was the greatest suffering that could be inflicted on a demon, and Xavier had the great misfortune of knowing that was precisely what awaited him next.

He screamed, he sobbed, he begged his father to stop. At some point he even succeeded in tearing free of two of the spikes. But still the ordeal continued and would until the bowl was empty.

It would continue even when the bowl was empty, because for all that Xavier had moved about, a good deal of holy water remained on and inside of him. As long as it did, nothing would stop the screaming.

“Shhhh, darling, shhhh,” Zagan cooed at his son, pulling out the spikes that still restrained Xavier’s limbs so he could turn him on his side and empty out the water. It had completed its intended purpose and was thus no longer required.

He eased Xavier onto his back again and picked up the candlestick. “Right. I would very much like to say that’s the worst of it over, but we both know that’s not the case. Tell me, should I bother asking where you carved it?”

Although agonized groans and broken sobs had replaced blood-curdling screams, Xavier wasn’t in any condition to listen to his father, much less respond.

“I thought not. No matter. I have a fair idea which rite you used, and I believe that particular one calls for the inscription to be placed on the spine.”

At last, the true reason for the evisceration revealed.

Zagan brought the candle close to the gaping void that was Xavier’s torso, using its light to find exactly where the spell had been carved into the bone—a slightly easier task now that the holy water had rinsed out most of the blood.

“Ah, there it is.” Zagan tried to make out the symbols to confirm his suspicions. “What did I tell you?” he chuckled, setting aside the candlestick. “Predictable.”

Xavier had been left even weaker than before. His chest barely rose. His skin, already pale from loss of blood, looked gray and lifeless. There wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t burning in agony. The dread and fear and grief he should have felt eighty-six years ago when the hangman’s noose had been placed around his neck fell upon him now, far more heavily than they would have then.

Still, he had to try just one more time.

With what little strength he had left, Xavier turned to his father. “Please,” he begged, the barely audible whisper ragged and frail. “Father. Please…please don-n’t. You don’t—don’t kn-now…” he gasped for breath, “…what you—you’re take…tak-king…”

There was a beat of silence during which Xavier thought, just for a second, his father looked apologetic.

“But I do,” Zagan murmured, taking Xavier’s bloody, tear-stained face in his hands. He stayed like that for several moments, studying his child’s features one last time. He loved this face. It gave him no pleasure to destroy it. “I know exactly what I’m taking. My beautiful, beautiful boy.”

He bent to place a tender kiss on Xavier’s forehead. “Don’t fret. The pain won’t last. You’ll still be beautiful, I promise. I could never take that from you. You’ll even look like your brother.” He kissed Xavier’s forehead again, his brow, his cheeks, allowing them both the indulgence of true affection for just a moment.

Perhaps it would offer some comfort in the days to come.

Sighing, Zagan took the candlestick again and made another examination of the spell his son had used to lock himself in. It was simple, but perfectly effective against exorcisms and other such attempts to dislodge a demon from their vessel.

The symbols themselves were spread across four vertebrae and, upon closer inspection, appeared to be burned into the bone rather than inscribed. He had no doubt the process had been rather painful; things like this always were.

He reached in and carefully tore the first vertebra from Xavier’s spine, ensuring he removed only bone and nothing else.

Painful, yes, but not as painful as its reversal. Not in his hands.

Zagan recited a small incantation under his breath, brushing his thumb back and forth over the symbols as if merely rubbing away a bit of dust. With every swipe the symbols grew fainter and fainter until they disappeared altogether, leaving behind nothing but clean, unmarred bone.

He held it up to the candlelight and examined it again. Pleased, he tossed it away and pulled out the next one.

Xavier, no longer strong enough to scream, could only groan and sob as his father ripped yet more parts out of his body, overwhelmed by fear and pain.

But there was another sensation as well; an odd, supernatural pull somewhere deep inside his being. It seemed to exist independently of the pain, and had nothing to do with what was happening to him physically.

It did, however, have everything to do with what was happening to him magically. This body, having been technically dead for so many decades, was dying again. In all reality it had already died again, and as his father methodically did away with his lock, Xavier’s hold inside his vessel began to loosen.

By the time the last vertebra was torn from his spine and the symbols on it erased, that hold was all but nonexistent.

“There we are,” said Zagan, sighing again as he smiled to himself. “Now the real work begins.”

Even if he’d been inclined to bother with an exorcism, it was no longer necessary. Given enough time Xavier would be forced to leave Christian’s body on his own, but Zagan wasn’t inclined to wait.

Instead, he reached into his son’s abdominal cavity one last time, thrusting through dead flesh and fractured bone and into the very core of him, physical and metaphysical, feeling around until his hand closed around what he sought.

Making sure to maintain an iron grip on his prize, Zagan ripped Xavier free from what remained of his moorings. When Zagan’s hand emerged, bloody and singed, it held a cloud of oily black smoke that crackled with electricity.

There were no anguished screams to mark this final parting, no sobs or desperate pleas to echo off the stone.

There was only the burnt out, mutilated husk of a body, the scent of sulfur, and a cloud of oily black smoke.

Zagan smiled at the smoke and released it, leaving it free but still stuck inside the demon trap, before pushing the husk out of the way to give himself more room to work.

What came next would require every last ounce of his will and concentration. This was magic he did not inherently possess, and if he could not see his vision clearly, if he could not believe in it wholly, it would not bear fruit.

He closed his eyes, steeling his will as he began to draw every bit of energy in the room outside his own toward him, no matter how small. The remnants of Xavier’s emotion, the electricity of a demon in true form, the lifeforce of the plants surrounding the church—all were taken and absorbed.

Even the candles were drawn in, extinguishing themselves one by one as Zagan pulled their heat and energy close, inserting his will and chanting ancient magic to manipulate the mass of energy to his whim.

And there, in the middle of the demon trap, it slowly began to take form. A single point of light that pulsed and grew as yet more light surrounded and encased it, becoming a womb for an old demon’s creation.

With every pulse, the air shimmered as it regained its charge, making Zagan’s skin prickle and burn to the point of pain. But still he did not buckle, digging even deeper and giving even more of himself as he watched the light become something at once both liquid and solid, something that elongated and molded itself until it resembled a human body.

Almost done.

He looked up at where the cloud of smoke hovered above his head. It would be cleaner to do it in one fell swoop. Faster. Even for a being as old as he was, keeping this level of concentration took its toll. Mere seconds could be the difference between success and miserable failure.

The new vessel was almost complete; the moment it was, he would draw Xavier into it and seal him inside. He had to move quickly, but gingerly, with the precision of a surgeon.

Zagan took a deep breath. Clenching one hand as tightly as he could to hold his creation in place, he used the other to draw his child down and guide him into his new vessel.

A different kind of light began emanating from the body as it was slowly given life. Zagan grit his teeth against the strain as it grew in strength, as he was pushed to the very edge of his limits by the effort of controlling so much raw energy.

No sooner had the last wisp of black smoke disappeared from view than the light burned out with enough force to shatter every window in the crumbling church.

Zagan fell back, utterly exhausted but brimming with triumphant hubris as he gazed upon his creation. His vision, made flesh.

It was perfect.

Zagan spent a few moments catching his breath and recuperating some of his strength, after which he got to his feet to gather himself. He adjusted his sleeves and went to retrieve his coat, brushing off bits of colored glass before slipping it back on. He placed the bowl and the candlestick back on their table, took a piece of glass and sliced through the carpet, breaking the demon trap.

And when he finally approached the unconscious, supine body that now belonged to Xavier, and watched as he drew his first breath, Zagan bent to place a kiss on his forehead.

“Perhaps now you’ll learn,” he whispered. “My beautiful boy.”

A rustle of wings, and Xavier was left alone in the darkness.

[kiapet2]

where the two ends meet

The newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman knows two things:

First, that his brother is dead.

And second, that it is his fault.

But when Roman journeys into the witch’s forest on a quest of penitence, he discovers that there is more to the story than he could have known. What he finds there may be his salvation— or his ruin.

Takes place after @whenisitenoughtrees‘s fic thrice for another day. Can also be read on its own.

Pairings: Platonic Creativitwins, Background Intrulogical

Word Count: 4,029

Warnings: death mention, grief/mourning, blood and injury, abusive parents

AO3 Link

Nearly a month after his family buries an empty coffin, the newly-elevated Crown Prince Roman slips out from his castle room and walks alone into the forest.

Unlike past evenings, Roman does not turn into the stretch of woods closest to the castle. At this point, he could likely name every rock and tree and still not find what he’s looking for. Instead, he walks in a straight line, heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

There is said to be a witch at the center of this forest, one who preys on the surrounding villages and whom no man should approach lest he meet his end. Roman had once thought to adventure into the woods to slay such a foul creature, but his intention tonight is far different. He has need of help only a wielder of magic can provide.

And if the venture is to end in his death, so be it.

...

Roman hasn’t been walking for long when he becomes aware of someone following him. The feeling comes and goes— a tingling on the back of his neck, like he’s being watched— but as Roman scans the woods around him, he cannot detect any signs of unusual activity.

The third time he feels the presence, Roman comes to a sudden halt and places a hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Show yourself, whoever you are!” he calls, then scans the trees around him for any sign of a response.

“Why have you entered my woods?” an irritated voice says from somewhere behind him.

Roman whirls around and draws his sword in a single, fluid motion.

The person standing behind him raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. Roman takes the man in: dark hair, a sharp-featured tan face, and piercing dark blue eyes that seem to peer straight to Roman’s core through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Despite the man’s simple clothing, Roman knows with a deep certainty that this is the witch.

Ignoring all his instincts, Roman sheaves his sword and holds out his empty hands in a gesture of peace.

“I have been searching for you,” he says. “I have a request to make of you, and am prepared to reward you well.”

“I don’t make a habit of dealing with royalty,” the witch says coldly.

Roman’s eyes widen in surprise.

“Yes, I know who you are, Prince Roman of Thaylar,” the witch says, “and I am surprised you would dare come here, considering your family history. You are either very brave, or very foolish.”

“Both,” Roman says, “but I mean you no harm. If you would hear me out—”

Dark blue energy forms in the witch’s hand. “I have nothing to hear from you, witch-killer. I would advise that you vacate my premises, before I am forced to take action.”

Roman swallows and takes an involuntary step back. Perhaps he should listen to the witch’s warning, abandon this fruitless quest and return to his bed.

It’s not worth it, his father had said after they found Remus’ trail leading to the forest. He couldn’t have gotten far anyways.

Roman straightens his spine and lifts his chin. He owes this to his brother— owes him so much more than this, but it’s the only thing left that Roman can do.

“I only wish to find my brother’s body,” Roman says, “So that I might bury him. Aid me in this and I will ask of you nothing more.”

The witch seems to search Roman’s face for something, his expression unreadable. Then he nods once, sharply.

“That, I can answer easily enough.”

Without another word, the witch turns on his heel and heads off into the forest. Roman hurries to catch up, biting back the urge to question where they are going. The walk lasts far longer than it feels like it should, and Roman suspects the witch is leading him around in circles so he will not be able to tell how to get into his lair. Or how to get out, some part of his mind whispers. He shoves it aside.

Finally, they reach a small clearing with a wooden cottage that looks surprisingly simple and well-kept for a witch’s lair. The witch leads Roman around the back of the house to an herb garden, stopping at a small pile of stones. For a moment Roman wonders what spell the witch intends to cast here; then the shape of the stones registers fully.

A cairn.

“I found him a little ways out from here,” the witch says. “His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he’d been bleeding internally. It was a miracle he managed to make it even that far.”

Roman lowers himself to his knees and hesitantly places a hand on the upturned earth, trying to comprehend that under it is all that remains of his brother. Even now, it feels like all of this is a terrible dream, and one day he’ll wake up and Remus will be alive and driving him crazy again.

“I am sorry for your loss,” the witch says stiffly.

Roman’s chest feels tight, and he swallows past something lodged in his throat.

“He would like being buried here, by the garden,” he chokes out. “He always went on about how everyone becomes food for worms and fungus eventually. If you were to grow your strangest plants over his grave, it would have made him very happy.”

It feels wrong, to speak of his brother in the past tense.

“Might I ask what happened?”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, holding back the tears that burn at their corners. He doesn’t deserve to cry, not over this.

“I gave him up as a witch,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, and the words seem to grate and tear at his throat. “He trusted me with his life, and I betrayed him.”

The silence behind Roman is telling.

“Thank you,” Roman rasps, “For putting him to rest.”

He stays there, kneeling in the dirt, long after the witch has returned inside.

...

Remus cries out as he tumbles into the tower room’s wall, jarring harshly against the rough stone.

“Father,” Remus cries, “Father, wait—”

“You are no son of mine!” Father snarls, lifting Remus by the front of his shirt. “Foul demon!”

Roman’s mind screams at him to do something, to run forward and grab Remus or yell at his father to stop but instead he just stands there, frozen in horror, as in one great motion his father shoves Remus through the tower’s window and dangles him out over open air.

Time seems to slow as Father screams curse after curse in Remus’ face, as Remus clutches at the hands holding him above a dizzying drop. Remus’ gaze slides over to meet Roman’s, and for one terrible moment Roman sees in his eyes pure devastation. The agony of betrayal.

And then Father releases his hold, and Remus is gone.

Roman wakes up screaming.

He rolls over onto his side and curls up in a ball, taking harsh, gasping breaths. It takes a moment for him to register that he’s not standing in the castle tower staring in horror at the empty space where his brother used to be— the space that was right there in front of him as if Roman could have reached out and touched him but he was already gone and it was too late—

Breathe.

Roman closes his eyes and listens. In place of the screams that still ring in his head, he hears only the sound of wind swishing through trees. He reaches a hand out and feels loose dirt beneath him. He’s lying on the ground, outside. Roman opens his eyes and sees a dark sky full of stars.

Perhaps Remus is among those stars now. Would he like that? He’d probably think it was boring, to be honest. The thought brings a slight smile to Roman’s face.

Roman sits up, focusing on his breathing. It takes another moment for him to recognize where he is: the witch’s clearing, right by Remus’s... by the grave. It is dark except for the light of the moon— full, a poor omen. Roman had meant to be home by this time as the forest becomes vastly more dangerous at night, but apparently his many nights of lost sleep have finally caught up to him. There’s no use to it now; he’ll just have to wait for the light of dawn to find his way home.

Father will not be happy when Roman returns after dawn has already broken.

Roman has been much less concerned with keeping his father happy, as of late.

No, what bothers him most is why he’s been allowed to stay here at all. Considering the witch’s initial hostility to him, Roman figured admitting to turning in his own brother for using magic would result in being thrown out at best and murdered in his sleep at worst. And yet here he is, sitting in the witch’s clearing un-murdered.

Roman reaches out and touches Remus’s cairn with reverent fingers. He can’t bring himself to regret falling asleep here, dangerous though it may have been. It feels right to have slept beside his brother one last time.

“Well isn’t this sweet! Roro, I didn’t know you cared so much.”

Roman freezes. He knows that voice. But— but that’s impossible—

Roman scrambles to his feet and turns, heart in his throat.

Remus stands before him, illuminated by the light of the moon. He’s clad in the clothes he died in— Roman would know, he sees them in his dreams every night— and there’s a stain of something brown on his shoulder and neckline that Roman doesn’t particularly want to identify.

Roman gapes. “Re, what— how—”

Remus’ smile is bright, but his eyes are cold. “I think you know, Roman.”

Roman feels the blood drain from his face.

They’ve all heard the legends: spirits of magic-users who roam the earth, invested with their magical power and seeking vengeance on those who wronged them. Roman’s father once taught him the proper ways to... dispose of... witches to prevent such a phenomenon from happening. It was Roman’s least favorite lesson by far.

“There it is!” Remus cheers as the comprehension dawns on Roman’s face.

Roman falls to his knees, trembling.

“Remus,” he breathes, “Remus, I—”

He breaks off, lost for words. Roman has thought about what he would say to Remus if he had the chance dozens of times, dreamed up countless scenarios where he prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness or explained himself in a way Remus would understand. Now that he’s actually here, those dreams seem childish and futile in the face of everything that’s happened.

“So funny story,” Remus says, “I’ve thought it over and someone must have told the king about me, right? But I never practiced where anyone could see, and there’s only one person I ever shared my secret with. The person I always shared everything with. Got any idea who that could be, brother?”

Roman’s stomach feels like lead, and he can’t bring himself to look Remus in the eye.

Remus laughs softly. “That’s what I thought.”

His face twists in sudden fury and he shoots forward, getting in Roman’s face and forcing him to flinch back.

“Do you know how it feels, Roman? To have every bone in your body shattered, shards of your own ribs stabbing your insides until you drown in your own blood? Do you know how it feels to lie helpless and dying on the forest floor, knowing your corpse will stay there forgotten, with you replaced without a second thought? How it feels to be betrayed by your own twin, the one person in the world you’d thought you could trust?”

“Stop!” Roman cries, clutching at his head.

“Aw, is baby Roman too sensitive for all that?” Remus croons mockingly, pacing around him. “Do we need to protect his innocent little ears from the icky details of his brother’s brutal murder?”

Tears gather in Roman’s eyes, and he struggles to keep them from falling.

“Remus, I swear, I never meant for any of this to happen.”

“Then what did you want? Why did you do it, Ro? Did you want my throne that much? Or did you just hate witches more than you loved—”

“No!” Roman protests. “No, Remus, I could never hate you!”

“Then why?” Remus says, and the raw pain that fills his voice is so much worse than the anger. “Why did you tell him?”

Roman’s throat is tight and his eyes burn, but he forces the words out anyways. Remus deserves to know.

“Y-you kept hurting yourself. You’d come in bleeding and half-dead from experimenting with your magic and you wouldn’t see a doctor and, and I thought that one day you were going to kill yourself and it would be my fault for not stopping you. I thought if I— if I told Father, h-he would make you stop—”

Remus laughs bitterly. “You thought old daddy dearest, who has scores of magic users killed every year, would what— let me off with a warning?”

Roman flinches. “You’re his son! I didn’t— he was understanding before when I—”

“He was understanding of you,” Remus says. “You are his son. I’m sure he was thrilled at the chance to get rid of me.”

“I’m sorry.” The words force their way out in a whimper, and Roman’s stomach twists at their inadequacy.

“You’re sorry,” Remus says flatly.

Roman’s response catches in his throat, and instead he just bows his head, refusing to defend himself further. Nothing can make up for what he’s done.

Remus laughs suddenly, loud and manic. He snaps his fingers and mutters under his breath, and Roman is lifted into the air, a gentle pressure holding his arms against his sides with far more control than Remus ever had in life.

Remus gives him a vicious grin. “And what if I said ‘sorry’ wasn’t enough? What if I said I was going to have my vengeance, right here and right now?”

Roman’s tears finally overflow, and with them the pain that has been building ever since Remus went out that window.

“Do it,” he sobs. “Kill me.”

“What?” Remus says, sounding startled.

Roman bawls, not the pretty tears of the heroes in his books, but in wracking sobs that tear at his throat and send streams of tears and snot running down his face.

“Please, just kill me. I killed you. I killed you, and I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I killed you.” He cuts off with another sob. “Do whatever you want with me, please, I deserve it. I deserve it.”

The force holding Roman releases and he drops heavily to the ground. He curls up, chest heaving, and waits for the first blow to fall.

But the touch that falls on his arm isn’t painful; it’s soft and warm. It pulls him up and holds him tightly against a chest that is solid, breathing, beating.

Alive.

“I’m not going to kill you, Roman,” Remus says, his voice strangely choked, and Roman can feel it reverberating through his chest. “You’re my brother.”

Roman’s heart feels like it’s going to pound out of his chest. Remus, he’s... he... how did he—

The world spins, and Roman sees a brief flash of Remus’ worried face before everything goes dark.

...

“Roman! Roman, please!” Remus screams. He clutches at Roman’s hands where they grip his shirt, his face a mask of terror as his legs dangle over nothingness.

Roman fights desperately, screaming from deep within his mind, but his body doesn’t move.

“Why, Roman? I’m your brother!” Remus whimpers, tears gathering in his eyes.

Roman hammers at the boundaries of his mind but is helpless to stop it as his hands steadily, inexorably loosen.

Remus screams again as he slips through Roman’s fingers and falls into the darkness.

“Roman!”

“Roman! Roman, wake up!”

Roman jolts awake, his heart pounding as he gasps for breath.

“Ro? Hey, can you hear me?”

Roman blinks blearily and a face fades into focus above him. Worried red eyes, that ghastly mustache, a white streak in his hair...

“Re?” he croaks.

Remus grins. “There we are!”

“Remus,” Roman breathes. He reaches out with one shaking hand to cup Remus’s face and feels warm flesh beneath his fingers. “Are you really here? Or— or am I dead?”

Remus gives him a lopsided smile. “Takes more than getting thrown out of a tower and smashing my bones to smithereens to kill me!”

Roman surges upwards, wrapping his arms around his brother and burying his face in his shoulder.

“Hey, come on,” Remus says as Roman begins to shake, his tears wetting Remus’ shirt. “You’re going to dry yourself up if you keep crying this much. Just shrivel up like a human raisin until you end up a dried-out mummy and someone finds you like a thousand years later and wonders what the hell happened.”

The thought is so gross and ridiculous and Remus that Roman finds himself laughing through his tears.

“Gods above, I missed you.”

Composing himself, Roman pulls back and looks Remus over. He’s wearing simple, weathered clothing, his hair is an absolute mess and there are dark bags under his eyes. He’s the most beautiful thing Roman has ever seen.

“How?” Roman says, his voice cracking with emotion. “I thought you were— that I’d— How are you even here right now?”

“I healed a bit and then dragged myself here,” Remus says. “Logan did the rest.”

Remus looks back over his shoulder with a surprisingly soft smile, and for the first time since waking Roman tears his gaze away from his brother’s face to look at where they are. Roman is sitting on a cot in a simple wooden room, bare except for a small table and worn bookshelves lining one wall. The witch’s house, Roman assumes. The witch himself is standing stiffly a little ways behind Remus, his face transitioning from warm concern to dark displeasure as it moves from Remus to Roman.

“You lied to me,” Roman says. “You knew he was alive all along”.

“Technically, I never spoke a falsehood,” the witch— Logan— says coolly. “I did find Remus with the injuries I described. I merely was able to heal them, if barely.”

“We had to be careful,” Remus says. “I didn’t know, if...”

If Roman felt any real remorse for what he’d done. If he would turn Remus in again, once he found him.

Roman rises from the cot, causing Logan to dart forward in alarm. But Roman just lowers himself to one knee, bowing his head and placing a hand over his heart.

“I swear to you on my life, I never meant to harm you in any way,” Roman says. “I have regretted what I've done every day, every moment, since we parted.”

“Yeah, I got that from the whole bursting-into-tears-and-telling-me-to-kill-you thing,” Remus says. “Which was dramatic even for you, by the way.”

“People will often show their true selves during states of heightened emotion,” Logan says, adjusting his glasses. “The ruse was a logical course of action to discern your intentions.”

“And also fun!” Remus says. “You should have seen your face, Ro, it was so white! I make a pretty scary ghost.”

“You were terrifying,” Roman says honestly, which makes Remus beam.

Still on one knee, Roman turns to address Logan. “And thank you, my good witch, for saving his life. I am forever in your debt.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Logan says sharply. That and his icy glare make it quite clear that he is not as forgiving as Remus. Roman winces internally; this whole debacle is not the best first impression to make to a sibling’s lover.

And that’s what Logan is, or at least what Remus wants him to be— it’s written all over his brother’s face. Before... before, Roman would have teased Remus about it, and then Remus would probably have made some sort of lewd comment that would make Roman sputter and shove at him. They’re not quite at that point now, he thinks. Not yet.

Roman inclines his head to the witch. “You have my gratitude all the same.”

“Look at us, all making up and being friends!” Remus cheers, but Roman knows him well enough to see the lingering discomfort in the slant of his shoulders and curve of his smile. Remus isn’t as okay as he’s pretending to be.

Roman rises and clasps Remus’ hand in his own.

“Remus, I have done you a grave disservice. While I cannot take back the pain I have caused you, I can offer you back the crown. If you wish it, I will give you my blade and the clothes off my back so that you may return to the castle in my stead and reclaim your birthright under my name.”

Remus stares at him for a moment, then throws back his head and cackles. Something deep in Roman’s chest loosens at the sound; he hadn’t realized how much he missed Remus’ laugh.

“Like hell am I going back to that burning trash heap!” Remus says. “Look, getting thrown out a window sucked major ass, but finding this—” he gestures to the house around him— “is probably the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Behind Remus, Logan’s face turns bright red. Well that answers that, then.

Remus takes Roman’s other hand, meeting his eyes. “If you really want to make this up to me, go back. Become king. And change things.”

Roman bows his head once more. “I do not deserve this second chance, brother,” he whispers.

His hands tighten on Remus’s and he meets his twin’s gaze again, determined. “But I will do as you ask. I swear it, with every inch of my being: I will make things right.”

Remus shouldn’t trust Roman with something this important, not after Roman made it so clear what his word is worth. And yet, Remus nods as if satisfied and steps back.

“It is past sunrise,” Logan says. “I will not have you drawing search parties into this forest when the castle discovers you are gone.”

“I’d best be off then,” Roman says, knowing a dismissal when he hears one.

“I’ll walk you back!” Remus says.

“Absolutely not,” Logan snaps. “I will not allow you to walk that sort of distance while you are still on the mend.”

“It’s been a month!”

“And you were bedridden for weeks!”

“Logan can show me out,” Roman says firmly. “The last thing I want is you hurting yourself more over me.”

Remus’ eyes go watery. “But we just found each other again.”

Roman pulls him into another hug. “I will return, as long as you will have me.”

Remus nods into Roman’s shoulder, tightening his arms around him. They stay like that for a few moments more before they reluctantly part.

“Right, then,” Roman says. “Goodbye, for now.”

“Goodbye,” Remus says, unusually subdued.

Logan shows Roman to the door, and together they begin to walk across the clearing to the trees.

“You should know,” Logan says, “that if you break his trust again or hurt him in any way, all the guards in the castle will not be enough to stop me from killing you.”

Roman laughs heartily at that.

“I knew I liked you, Specs!” he says, slapping Logan on the back. “I’m glad Remus has someone like you looking out for him.”

Logan blinks. “Right, then. Good.”

“Wait!”

Roman looks back to see Remus standing in the house’s doorway. He looks... concerned?

“I know it’s going to take some time to be okay with what happened,” Remus says, “For both of us. But you weren’t the person who threw me off that tower. The king was. Just... remember that, okay? Remember that and come back.”

Roman nods mutedly, and the door closes.

“Right,” he says, clearing a mysterious obstruction from his throat, “let’s go then.”

With that, Roman turns and walks into the woods, headed back to the castle. Back to the duty he promised Remus he would fulfill.

And this promise, Roman intends to keep.

[the-lady-writes-what]

29. Dabi

          Theme: Frankenstein’s monster

          Kinks: Size kink, cowgirl, doggie style, slight fluff*

*Due to the dark nature of the previous chapters, I changed the content here ever so slightly for more light-hearted content. 

Masterlist

You trembled as you walked into the chamber. The cold, damp walls made you shiver, just as they always did. No matter how many times you trekked down those steep stone stairs, you always bundled up when venturing to your father's laboratory. The heat rising in your face was little comfort against the chill. You stole the key and made a copy of it, which you now carried in your hand. You hurried to the last cell in the subterranean labyrinth. You fixed the key in the lock and turned it. The iron door moaned as you opened it before you quickly stepped inside and closed the door behind you, leaving the key in the lock. You lit your lamp and cast its dull orange glow around the room. Each item made your heart sink.  On the many of those parchment sheets covering the walls were written letters, poems, and journal entries, things your father never paid any attention to. His interest resided only in what his creation was capable of physically doing, not its mental processes. If only you could make your father see the truth. The cell's furnishings were minimum: a rickety old desk and chair, a basin for washing, and a large bed. There wasn't anything else. The creature didn't eat; didn't need to. Even sleeping was something of an illusion. It—he never tired. You were an excellent witness to that. On the bed, a lump was formed out of several layers of quilts. You tiptoed to the bed and set the lamp on a stool. You peeled back the covers and slid up to the body hiding underneath. You kissed the patches of stitched skin that made up his shoulder. "Dabi, are you alright?" You whispered. The body next to yours shifted. Your father's creation rolled over unto its side, facing you. Regardless of what your father said, Dabi was not a 'creature' and certainly not an 'it.' Dabi was a 'he' and 'he' was a person. You couldn't make your father see the truth when he looked into Dabi's turquoise eyes. He couldn't witness the fire burning behind Dabi's eyes. All he cared about Dabi's attributes and how they could be used. As far as your father was concerned, Dabi was an assembled puppet of his own making and one that contained no soul. You two would never see eye to eye ever again. "I am now," said Dabi. His long arms and strong hands wrapped around you. "I have good news." "What is it?" Dabi rubbed his eyes as if rubbing the sleep from them, an absurd habit one he probably retained when he was still a living human. "I managed to get a wagon. I'll be spending all day tomorrow hiding it on the grounds. Father will be so busy with other things that he won't even notice. Tomorrow night, we fly!" You smiled. "Tomorrow night?" Dabi's eyes widened. You nodded your head with enthusiasm. "Tomorrow night!" Scarred lips pressed against your smooth mouth. Fingers held together with stitches, and iron staples scraped along your skin. Your warm body was held flush against his cold torso. The dichotomy of his cool flesh and your warm skin was palatable. The first time Dabi touched you, you shivered. He wouldn't speak to you for a weak because he thought you shivered out of fear. It took you twice as long to make him understand that wasn't the case. "We'll both be free," said Dabi. "Yes, you and me together. Out of this place. For good!" "I do like the sound of that." Dabi rubbed infinite circles into your hips. "Sounds like a reason to celebrate." "What did you…have in mind?" You asked innocently enough. "I want to have you, all of you. I want to feel your warm walls surrounding me as I—how did that writer put it? Rearrange your guts?" Your cheeks darkened; you should have never given him that "romance" novel. You and Dabi hadn't yet gone all the way, but what better way to inaugurate your last night in the castle by fucking under your father's roof. Dabi wasn't brain dead, as your father claimed. Several lessons from you proved Dabi to be a fast learner. But his size. Dabi was large, assembled from different pieces of men of unique proportions. During your other escapades, you felt his cock hardened between your legs as you straddled Dabi's hips. It didn't take much imagination to know that he was packing heat between his legs. "Do you really want me?" You asked. Dabi rolled unto his back, taking you with him. He lifted you like you weighed nothing and made you straddle his waist. Long, thick fingers dove under your dressing gown's ruffled skirts and bunched it around your hips. Your thighs and what lay between them were exposed to Dabi's view. If he was shocked by your lack of underwear, he didn't make it known. His giant hands palmed your outer thighs; they were almost big enough to wrap around your legs. He stroked your legs up and down and came to your hips to massage them. You hummed in appreciation of his gentle touch but wished he could be a bit rougher with you. A man his size could do all sorts of wonderful things to your tight little body. "I should be asking you that." Dabi untied the knot that held his drawstring pants up and pushed down the thin material. His cock had been straining in his pants since the moment you tiptoed into the room. He'd been waiting patiently for several weeks to get the courage to ask. He felt your sopping—what was it called again? Cunt? He felt your sopping cunt drool all over his stomach. He fisted his cock and let you feel it against your ass. He loved how your face turned two shades darker when you felt him. Dabi grabbed your hips and shifted you upwards. Your body hovered over his cock. Slowly, he sank you down on him. You were being impaled by him. Your walls didn't accept him quickly, but they stretched and stretched until you were fully seated on top of him. You threw your head back as soon as the blunt head teased your cervix. You steadied yourself by placing your hands on his waist before moving. Dabi reached for the hem of your dressing gown and pulled. Your breasts tumbled out for him to watch bounce while you rode him hard. Dabi wasn't your first man, but he was your biggest. He was impossibly thick and broad, and the ridged veins rubbed against your walls better than no other, before or even after. "Fuck, D-Dabi!" It was a good thing you were all the way in the dungeons. No one could hear you moan and scream in ecstasy. "Does it feel good?" Dabi asked with the nonchalance of a man who had several women under his belt before. "Y-Yes." You bounced harder on his cock, moving faster up and down the shaft. Your walls cinched around him. "Then show me. Show me how good I make you feel, little thing," Dabi grunted. He thrust upwards into you. You flicked your clit while impaling yourself over and over and over again. All too quickly, you came undone around him. Your juices coated him. Dabi pulled out as you were coming. You dripped all over him before you were shoved face down into his bed. You felt the bed shift as Dabi moved behind you. Your legs were spread open for him. His cock was still hard as a rock. "My turn," he growled. Dabi buried himself deep into your womb and pulled back until just the thick tip remained. He pushed inside you again, all the way in. You dug your hands into the blankets and fisted them, and your cries were muffled by the musty pillow covering your face. Dabi's hands bruised your hips as he brought you flush against him. "Do you still feel good, Y/N?" "Yes!" Your eyes rolled into the back of your head. "D-Don't stop!" "As you wish," Dabi chuckled and redoubled his efforts. Dabi moved at a punishing pace. The sound of your flesh colliding with his made it all the more lewd. You couldn't help but squirt and clench around him. Dabi snapped his hips into you hard. Ribbons of hot cum painted your walls white. You wailed as it hit you and filled you up. Dabi stayed buried in you until your body stopped shaking. Cleaning you, his hands were gentle as if he hadn't spent the last hour or two making you come all of his cock. You fixed your clothes and bade him goodnight. You hated to turn the key that locked him inside. Your only consolation was that it would be for the last time.