#nor can I ever be bothered to remember how to spell the names of you-know-who's seven sons

[sillylotrpolls]

Bonus internet points will be awarded to anyone who actually tries this exercise before voting.

Assume you need to get the spelling at least somewhat close, and if a character has multiple names, only one counts. Also, if a character doesn't have a canonical name, I'm sorry, but "that guy's wife" doesn't count.

For reference, if you can name the 9 members of the Fellowship, the eponymous Hobbit and his 13 dwarf buddies, 3 prominent women, and the guy who runs the Rivendell B&B, that's 27 characters right there. And you probably also know the name of a dragon.

For further reference, Tolkien Gateway has 637 (!!) pages dedicated to Third Age characters. (Don't click that link until you've voted, of course)

Edit: Your humble pollmaker gave this a try, and got as far as 73 before deciding she was too tired to keep trying to remember dwarf and Silm names. If you also want to share (and don't mind people being incredulous at your having forgot ____), pastebin allows you to paste text and share it for free. :)

[skylarstark4826]

Shuri, who is born with a name already engraved on her wrist, doesn't bother to look it up on any Wakandan registry, already making peace with the fact that she will find no matches. It wouldn’t take a genius (though Shuri prides herself on the fact that she is one) to recognize her soulmate, with his name spelled in foreign characters, is not a Wakandan citizen nor is he of Wakandan descent. 

At seven, she starts studying her soulmate’s language in secret. If in case he did not speak any of her languages, then Shuri will be there to communicate with him in his mother tongue. By the end of the month, she has already mastered writing the alphabet, and her free time is spent poring over the books in her soulmate’s culture. 

By twelve, Shuri grows impatient. She ponders the idea of becoming a War Dog and thinks of being assigned to the offshores of Mexico, dreaming of finally putting a face to the name on her wrist. Ultimately, she decides against it, content to stay in her lab to search for other, more alternative ways to find him, wherever he may be. 

When her brother is suddenly taken by sickness, Shuri temporarily holds off the topic of soulmates, and trades in her knowledge of history and linguistics for biochemical engineering and medicine. 

On the eve of her brother’s passing, Shuri is no closer to finding her soulmate, though she has since stopped looking. 

—

Shuri touches the painted walls of Namor’s grotto and starts to recall long-forgotten memories. As her fingers trace the waves, she is reminded of the warriors who speak her soulmate’s tongue. For years she had wondered what he would look like and now…

Now there is a slim chance that her soulmate might be blue. 

“It did not help my case when the Spanish priest had seen my bare skin, devoid of any mark, and branded me as el niño sin amor shortly after. I have reserved that name for my enemies ever since.” 

“So, I’m taking you don’t have a soulmate?”

There is a knowing glint in his eye when he says,  “I did not say that.” Then his gaze wanders briefly downward, leading to her arm. Where her mark is. 

Shuri, remembering that she is without her kimoyo beads, clutches her arm closer to her chest. One of her prerequisites during its early design stages was for the beads to be big enough to hide soulmate marks, so as to deter people from asking too many questions. A prerequisite that, up to now, Shuri still thanks her younger self for coming up with. 

To her surprise, Namor’s brows do not furrow in confusion, unlike the warrior who had bested Okoye. Nor does he glare at her in suspicion, much unlike the warrior next to him who had killed the American officers in cold blood. No, instead, the edge of his lips quirks in silent delight as he appraises her. 

He moves to grab her hand and brings it closer, Shuri along with it. She frowns at his boldness. The nerve of him, touching her without permission. She has to bite her tongue before any insults could fly, reminding herself that she is still a guest in his home and the probability of her negotiations ending in success depends solely on the extent of her self-control. 

“Your warriors took a good look at my wrist back there. They wouldn’t happen to know anyone with this name, would they?” She mentally sends Riri an apology and hopes the young scientist will find it in her heart to forgive Shuri for her selfishness. Surely she would understand if she delayed the negotiations for a few minutes. Just until she can wean out the identity of her soulmate. Perhaps maybe even his whereabouts if she asks nicely enough. 

Namor thumbs the pulse point located below her wrist, fingertips touching the edge of the second character. Shuri notes how big his hand is compared to hers, how easily it encompasses her slim wrist, but thinks nothing more of it. She had to focus. “They had looked at it because you are the first surface dweller in years to have a name borne from Talokan. And a princess no less.” He says simply, nodding like he has confirmed something in his head before letting her go. “But no, they wouldn’t know who it is.”

Her wrist is aflame, but it doesn’t deter her from asking, “But you do?”

Namor shows her his teeth and Shuri cannot stop thinking of a great white shark. 

“I do.” 

Before Shuri can question him further, he is already unclasping one of his bracers. When it drops to the floor, Shuri watches its descent. When the sound of its clanging reverberates along the walls of his hut as it slowly slides under his hammock, Shuri watches it, still. Namor raises his forearm to her face and the last few echoes of the golden accessory are the furthest thing on her mind right now. 

The words register immediately, but Shuri still has to blink—once, twice, just to make sure that what she is seeing is actually real. If her mind has decided that now was the perfect time to start playing tricks on her before she wakes up to find herself in her own bed. But the image does not leave her and the words do not change no matter how many times she repeats them in her head. 

There, on his wrist, is her name in familiar Wakandan text, barely legible to anyone save perhaps the author and its wearer. There, between the lifelines and long blue veins, is Shuri Udaku, written in rushed, easy strokes like she had been writing it in haste and proper penmanship was merely an afterthought. 

It is a shame, Shuri thinks, her head still reeling. Her soulmate is stuck with the chicken scratches she makes while running on seven cups of caffeine and pure genius, when usually her handwriting was neat and orderly. 

In one of her earliest memories, before her parents realize her mind would not be properly stimulated in a normal Wakandan school and decide to switch her to higher and higher grade levels, Shuri is five and showing her father a poem written by her own hand. She is sitting on her baba's knee and starts to talk of the baobab trees that grow strong and tall in Wakandan soil before he takes a peek at her paper and smiles, complimenting her on her shorthand. Five-year-old Shuri smiles too, preening at the praise. 

Now Shuri is twenty-four and does not sit on anyone’s knee nor does she write any more poetry about baobab trees. Instead, she stands with her feet planted directly on the ground, her spine ramrod straight, and swallows. The shock, the disbelief, the outrage–all of it goes down her throat, heading towards her esophagus. Her stomach ingests it in the silence. 

Her name might be on his wrist, but that does not mean he was her soulmate by default. There are many cases in which one half of a soulmate pair share a name and the other does not, which is rare, yes, but not impossible. On top of it all, Shuri is by no means an idiot and if he takes her for one then he will be greatly disappointed. She knows how to write his name in Mayan lettering and no matter how many ways she can put it, in how many ways she may twist it, K’uk’ulkan will never, not even in a million years, match the name on her wrist. 

Because how can Shuri ever accept the fact that this immortal god-king, who has trapped her with him in the cold dark caves he calls his home, and her mysterious soulmate (who, at this point, had practically been a childhood relic left hidden in the recesses of her subconscious) be one and the same?

As if reading her mind, he says, “You don’t trust me, I understand. But I told you this once before, princess, and now I will tell you again. I have many names. For my people, I am called K’uk’ulkan. For my enemies, I am Namor. But for my pixan gemela, for you, I am Cha’ah Toh Almehen."

Shuri blanched. “Can you prove it?”

Namor smirks almost as if he had expected her answer. With gentle hands, he picks up the bracelet Shuri has been eyeing ever since she walked into his hut and places it on her waiting hands. 

Shuri’s brows furrow at this, but he only juts his chin in the direction of the bracelet, silently urging her to inspect it. Though her head is still filled with doubt, she starts to examine the bracelet’s intricate jade beading. Her fingers run along its faint bumps and ridges carefully before she freezes in place. She has traced these lines before, hasn’t she?

In her lab, when she pauses her work to rest and takes off her kimoyo beads to massage tired wrists. In sleepless nights, when she tosses and turns in bed and brings a hand to cover her face. In the mornings, when she wakes up and it’s the first thing she sees—

All of a sudden, her head shoots up, almost smacking the side of Namor's skull. She looks at him, eyes wide and full of barely concealed emotion. “It’s really you,” she gasps, and he grins as he closes the distance between them.

Her soulmate might smell of the sea, but she finds that his tongue does not share any of its salt. Shuri is just grateful that her first kiss doesn’t taste like fish. 

—

“It would please me greatly if you accept this simple token of affection,” he says, already tying his mother’s bracelet to her wrist without waiting for an answer. “I have kept it close to my heart so that my uláak' chúumuk could wear it and think of me.”

They sit at the entrance of his hut, where Shuri can see her reflection in the water and Namor holds her hand with a certain reverence. It must have been hours now, she notes, since he had shown her his kingdom and yet his grip on her does not once falter. Not even when the bracelet is already safely secured on her wrist. 

She notices the size of it first; big enough to fully cover her mark. Almost like it was designed specifically for her in mind. Shuri is reminded of the promise made to his mother and, in a way, that might hold true. “It's very beautiful,” she says, in awe at the way the pearls shine against her skin. 

Namor brings her hand up to meet his cheek, and her thumb moves to feel the soft skin underneath. He sighs, leaning into her touch. “For years, I had dreamt of this day, wondering what name you would carry with you. Whether it was the name my people called me or if it would be the name that belonged to my enemies. Recently, I have even toyed with the idea that I may find both. But it is a great comfort to reunite with the name my mother gave me, even after all this time.”

Shuri’s eyes glance briefly at the water, her distorted reflection returning her slight frown, then back to him. “No one calls you by this name?”

His head shakes sadly and his beard starts to dig at her skin following the movement, tickling her. “I only allowed my mother to use it. My ears have grown used to hearing the same two names after she passed.” 

Until me. Her brain supplies, but she dare not voice it out.

“Would you like me to call you by Cha’ah Toh, then—only when it's just the two of us?”

Namor smiles then and Shuri thinks, not for the first time that night, how utterly beautiful he looks like this. She has seen his kingdom and even witnessed his vibranium sun in all its glory but none can compare to her soulmate’s kind warm eyes glittering against the low lights, looking contentedly at her like she was something to be worshipped. Like just the mere sight of her was enough to bring joy to his face. 

He kisses the inside of her palm, still smiling. “If it would only please you.”

Later, he will have to leave her for the surface, where her mother waits, but not without kissing the name–his name–on her wrist one final time, his nosepiece cooly pushing at the edge of her hand. Playfully, he will start to plant soft kisses on the pads of each of her fingers before she shoos him away, giggling at his antics.  

Later, she will be whisked away and leave death at her wake. Later, she will look at her mark in anger and she will hide the bracelet where it will find no light. Later, Shuri will see him as nothing but a curse to wear for the rest of her life. 

But here, in the now, she is with her soulmate who looks at her with stars in his eyes and warmth in his heart. Here they sit in comfortable silence, facing each other, and Shuri starts to envision a future with this man. One where she is not burdened with duty nor is she haunted by death. 

In her head, there is already an image of her smiling. This Shuri wears delight on her face like it belongs there. There is no grief to tug down at the corners of her mouth because he is there to kiss it away. 

[grassyhorizon45]

Changed. || Marauders - 23

A quick 3 min per chapter Marauders Era fanfic starring Faith Solace as reader × Sirius/Remus, and Minuet McGonagall (an OC of mine hehe)

Warnings: Nicknames? idk how to write these man

Word count: 586

Minuet's POV

Minuet kept the fact that she had likely predicted the future to herself. She figured it must've slipped Lily's mind because Lily never brought it up after their conversation on “Immobulus”. Come to think of it, Minuet never really saw the scene she predicted unfold… So, what would that make it?

A groan escaped her lips as she tried to brain it all, eventually giving up by the time dinner came.

Severus joined her and Lily at the Gryffindor table as per usual, cross-house sitting wasn't uncommon either so it never bothered anyone. 

“What's got your brows all furrowed Minuet?” Severus asked as he helped himself to some salad.

“Me? No, all good. I'm fine,��� she responded a little too quickly.

Lily nudged her gently, “Still tryna remember where you learnt that spell?” Minuet shook her head. 

“Hm? What spell? Did I miss something?” Severus perked up, his day was as dull as ever and he was just itching for a little bit of excitement.

“Not much,” said Lily. “Just Potter and Black getting into a fight and Minnie here casting a super cool freezing charm to stop them!” 

In truth, ‘not much’ was a complete understatement. 

“Potter and Black got into a fight? With who?”(Severus)

“They fought each other,” Lily rephrased.

Severus found this quite far-fetched. “Really?”

Minuet nodded.

“Wonder why,” he mumbled.

“No clue,” Lily chimed.

Minuet stayed quiet, the little mystery still lingering in her head. Should she talk to Lily about it? Would Lily just brush it off? How about Severus, what would he think?

“Hey Snape… Can I talk to you?” She tapped his shoulder lightly when Lily went to chat with some other Gryffindors.

“Sure, sure. Everything alright?”

Minuet shook her head, “Not really. You see……”

She told him everything that was bothering her, from the weird vision to the unconscious spell. Minuet was glad she decided to talk to Severus instead, knowing Lily to just shrug it off and tell her not to worry.

“So that's what got your mind in fumbles, hm?” He smiled at her.

“Yeah. I just… want to be normal you know?”

“Oh,” Severus seemed surprised by this. “And why may I ask is that?”

Minuet thought about her answer. “I guess I just don't like drawing attention… Honestly, I don't want people to think I'm mad; nor actually go mad myself……” 

Severus had his way with words, always. Minuet finding herself in a little pep talk from him about how being “special” wasn't a bad thing was proof of that. 

“But I still think you should talk to a professor, Minuet. At least tell your sister maybe?”

Minuet nods. “Alright, alright. I will. Thanks Severus…”

“Actually, we should nickname you…” Minuet blurted. “No offence but ‘Severus’ is a mouthful.”

Lily was skipping back over. “Ooh, ooh! What are we doing, what are we doing?”

Severus chuckled. “Minuet wants to give me a nickname.”

“Count me in!” Lily said without any hesitation whatsoever. “Verus!”

Minuet shook her head, “Sounds silly…” Severus nodded his agreement. 

“Sever sounds like you chopped someone's head off so that won't work either…” Minuet continued.

“You guys could just call me Snape—”

“Nuh-uh!” Lily retaliated. “No last name calling.”

Minuet giggled. “I say Sev. Sounds like seven buuuuut we don't pronounce it ‘sev’, we pronounce it ‘serv’.” She paused. “Am I making any sense?”

Lily nods. “I get it, I get it.”

“I think it's nice too,” said Severus.

“Then it's settled. Pleasure doing business with you Sev,” Minuet grinned.

a/n: I really really REALLY almost called Severus "Snap" :sobs:

Previous chapter | Next chapter

[brightblessed]

@nivaera (x):

Eyes sweep over the Branded man. Seen as naught more than an inhuman slave, this Roi Coello had every reason to be seething with rage.

Once upon a time, Dion would have thought the same. He would have immediately used him as he saw fit then discarded him when he became far too overrun by his curse. Yet, ever since the Remembrance Ceremony, his view on Branded has been irrevocably changed, swayed muchly by the kindness the Rosarian duchy showed towards those who should only be seen as tools.

Now, though... now, Dion cannot find it in himself to think as the populace does. The curse that smears Branded bodies is nigh the same as the marks Dominants gain over time with overuse of their magic. It is the reason why Dion all but refuses to allow any Branded to join his Holy Order; the only slaves that came under his service were healers that his father blithely assigns without askance.

This man is much the same. His father had encouraged more Branded amongst his dragoons, had been convinced that Dion need absolute loyalty, yet... it aches knowing that his father has not yet seen the loyalty his order already shows him. He need not use fear nor pain to incite fervent passion, only the respect and leadership they deserve.

And so Dion sees no reason as to why Roi Coelle should not undergo the same treatment. Albeit in front of his father's eyes he must act his part as uncomfortable as it will be, but right now, they are away from such scrutiny.

Dion inhales slowly. Exhales. Hands fold behind his back as he appraises the Branded man.

"Then you will serve on your feet." Dion's tone brooks no argument as he beckons to a dragoon. They immediately move toward him and hand him a sword, of which he examines with a keen eye. Sharp. Not at all for training. He approaches Roi and, without hesitation, holds his hand out for the man to grasp the blade for himself.

"I would see your skill, Roi Coello," Dion says. Regardless of the clear anger emanating from the soldier before him, Dion keeps his gaze steady and strong as his other hand reaches out to take a lance from his second-in-command. "If a sword is not to your liking, then speak your mind. Otherwise, mayhap it is best you start this spar."

⸻ ✦ He could not remember the last time he had been called by his name. It feels almost like a secret spell. A test to see his reaction. He flinches. Part of him feels waves of warmth spread through him. But that warmth quickly sparks into rage. How dare he speak that name. The name his mother gave him. The mother he watched die due to the empire. Speak the family name they had stolen from him.

He grits his teeth, still kneeling despite being told to stand. If only because the emotions rooted him in place. He wanted to cut out his dignified tongue and force it down his throat. He wanted to parade his head in front of the imperials. He wanted him to beg for forgiveness.

Roi raises to his feet, hands tightened into fists at his sides. He gazed at the sword being offered to him. It was smaller than he was used to. Roi had found it easier to use larger swords. To use the size of it to strike only once to kill and the weight to hit harder. But he had been originally been trained with smaller swords. Not his preference, but he would make do.

He takes the sword, spinning it in his hand before taking a stern grip on the hilt.

"Smaller than my usual, but that's fine. Can I use magic?" Roi didn't care about the curse or dying or anything. What good was his life? He was living so the people who died to protect him could rest easier. If someone killed him in battle or he died of the curse due to being Branded, it wasn't his fault. They couldn't hate him.

He barely waits for an answer before raising his free hand toward the prince and shooting tendrils of darkness toward him. Such magic had awakened in him after he lost his unit, but he didn't bother questioning it.

Using the attack as a distraction, he leaped toward the man with the sword, aiming for his neck.

[twistedmusings]

My Kind of Human

Ramshackle stayed silent throughout the night, the moon and stars shining light into each room. 

All except one. 

I swear on my askbox that I am working on requests but this idea popped into my head and now it won’t leave and people always tell me to find a niche and I think my niche is angsty smut. And in this niche I will dwell ò uó. Aside from that, I’m very asexual so if my sexy scenes are bad you are more than welcome to roast me.   Reader is [G/N]  Warnings: Lemon soda (smut), possessive Malleus, bareback, dub-con and our good ol’ dragon boy just putting you under a spell so he can have you all to himself. 

“Do you have someone special, Tsunotarou?” 

Malleus stops walking as he looks down at your frame, your eyes staring up at the sky while you both are sitting down at the step of Ramshackle. 

“Special?” 

“Yeah.” you sigh as your eyes remain fixed on the stars, “Someone special. Like someone you wouldn’t trade for the world.” 

His first thought is his Grandmother. She had taken over the role of ruler of the Valley of Thorns and had let him grow in a somewhat normal fae childhood. He had heard many stories of children being forced to take the throne early on in their life and how damaging that decision turned out to be not just for the country but for the child as well. He was glad that his Grandmother remained steadfast and strong. There was also Lillia. Lillia, despite his constant antics, was always a guiding hand for Malleus in things he did not understand. Even now, Lillia would lend an ear whenever Malleus had a question about social interaction. Whether he would get a straight answer or a joke, that was just up to the older fae. 

“I have some people I consider that important.” Malleus looks up with you, “How about you, child of man?”

Your eyes remained fixed on the stars. 

You nod, “I do.” 

He laughs, “Is it your first year friends? I am sure Sebek would be glad to hear you say that.” 

“He would yell in my face before telling me he felt the same, you know how he is.” 

You two share a giggle before letting silence take over once again. “But it isn’t like that. The way I love Ace, Deuce, Jack, Epel and Sebek is different from what I’m talking about.” 

Malleus watches your eyes shine under the bright stars, some of them being reflected on your irises as you tilt your head and lean back to let your legs stretch out. 

“I’m talking about a person who you can’t live without, you know?” 

“I’m afraid I might need a bit more of an explanation.” 

You shrug, “I can’t fully explain it without sounding crazy but…imagine you one day find yourself completely alone. There is not one single person who understands what you are going through nor do they bother because they might believe that it is too hard to comprehend. You find yourself so alone that you start getting used to that loneliness.” 

The way your eyes sadden are not lost on him, copying your movements and leaning back so that he can stretch out as well. With how you are both positioned, your fingers are almost brushing. 

That wouldn’t do. 

You continue talking, not paying attention to how Malleus places his hand over yours. 

“But one day someone comes in and changes everything.” 

He lets himself feel the fluttering in his heart, having lost himself to this feeling a long time ago. The way his heart would beat faster when you smiled, when you laughed, how you would approach him without fear. From what Lillia had said, this was something akin to falling in love with someone. When asked who it was he was falling in love with, Malleus simply shook his head and avoided answering the question. 

What he felt for you was not for anyone else to know. 

“They just ‘get’ you.” you smile and close your eyes, “Everything thought you have, they somehow complete it. Long distances become shorter when you are with them and for a brief moment time just...stops. You find yourself yearning for this person and wonder if they think about you the same way, to the point of losing sleep. You want to be to them what they are to you.” 

You tilt your head towards him. 

“Am I making any sense?” 

Malleus nods and sits up, “More than enough.” 

He stares into your eyes, your color reflected back on his as he instinctively leans closer towards you. You were building up to something, he could feel it. The feelings you described, they were identical to the ones he felt for you. It hadn’t been that long since you came into his life but he couldn’t see himself not popping by Ramshackle dorm every night to share these talks with you. Malleus wasn’t necessarily that attached to you when you two first talked but the more you sought him out the more he opened himself up for you. 

Your conversations, your little adventures, your attention. 

It was all slowly consuming him and making him realize that you were no longer a human but his human. 

The question slipped out of him faster than he could think of it. 

“Who do you speak so highly of?” 

You turn to look at him, your body leaning towards him as well that he allowed himself to dwell in his imagination for a few seconds. His own body covering yours as you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer and asking him to take you with him the moment he graduated from this place. 

“It’s kinda what I wanted to talk about with you tonight.” you sit up with him and grin excitedly, “Remember what I told you about Crowley trying to find a way home for me?” 

He would answer your plea, taking your hand and kissing your palm before his lips made his way up your arm. 

“Well...he finally found it.” 

Malleus is pulled out his fantasy as he blinks twice, your smile shining just as bright as the stars above despite the awful revelation you had just given him. 

“I’m going home, Malleus.” 

You used his name. A part of him hoped that you would use his name when you two were in a much different and more favorable situation but you had just used his name to stab him in the heart with your wonderful news. 

“I was just saying all this because--I can’t believe I’m telling you this--before I came here I had these feelings about this person. They are everything to me but I was almost afraid to admit it? And this distance just...it just solidified what I felt for them.” 

He has to stop himself from reaching out to you and grabbing your wrist, thinking that the moment you got too far he would lose you forever. 

“Crowley says that I am going to be able to go back next week. So I’m just preparing myself to tell them everything I felt.” You turn to him and hold out your hand to help him stand up, one of the many things that Malleus loved that you did solely because he had an excuse to touch you. 

“I think a part of me just wanted to share this with you because I trust you. We’ve talked like this for so long that I think I just...tell you everything.” you smile sheepishly, “Which I hope you don’t mind, I did just spring it out of nowhere.” 

You were leaving him. 

“Tsunotarou?” 

You were leaving him for someone else. 

“Malleus?” 

You were leaving and he couldn’t stop it. You had these sorts of feelings for someone else and he couldn’t stop it. You opened him up and you were going to close him as if you were able to make the decision without any repercussions. You weren’t theirs, you also weren’t yours, you were his---

A hand shakes him from his thoughts as he focuses in on your eyes, his heart melting when he sees panic in them. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? What did I do?” 

He shakes his head and smiles as he takes your hand so you both could stand up. 

“Nothing.” Malleus pats your head, your size difference being made apparent to him even more than before, “I guess this is goodbye?” 

“No need to make it dramatic.” you lean into his touch, like a pet to their owner, “I’ll find some way for us to keep in contact. And if there isn’t--well then I will make one.” 

“I feel the same.” 

Malleus looks down and digs into his school jacket, smiling when you make a comment about this being a goodbye present. He puts a finger to his lips before pulling out a spool of thread, the top of the spool decorated with a sharp needle. “Give me your hand, child of man.” 

You nod and smile, doing as he told. “Is this going to be a blood pact of sorts? You don’t seem like the type, Tsunatarou~” 

He chuckles, “It is just a customary practice in the Valley of Thorns. Something that I believe will make our connection unbreakable.” 

Malleus brings your finger closer, the tip touching the spool as he expertly pricked your finger. You hiss for a second before smiling as you wave your finger. “Strangest friendship ritual ever, but it is very you so I will gladly partake in it…” 

A feeling of vertigo overtakes you as you lose your footing, your eyes closing as you feel yourself fall to the ground but finding yourself pressed against something warm. 

“...Mal--?”

You try to look up at him but gasp softly when your legs are swept under you, Malleus picking you up bridal style as you feel your eyelids growing heavier. Almost as if it was a chore to keep them open. 

“A true unbreakable connection.” 

Malleus opens the door to Ramshackle quickly, looking behind to see if he would need to take care of any pests that had made their way to the old dorm. Without any in sight, he closed the door, the lights on Ramshackle’s doorstep snuffing themselves out as the smoke drifted up into the starry sky. 

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

“Fgnaaa~!” Grimm yawns as he floats towards Ramshackle, yawning as he rubbed at his tired eyelids. 

Hands roaming up and down your torso, slowly undoing buttons as your hands rested on his wrists. Sloppy kisses shared between two amateurs but in between said kiss there seemed to be a forced passion, a need for the person above you to communicate how much he had wanted you. He had been caught stealing some food from Monstro Lounge and Azul had put him to work just like before, it had been a redo of what happened in Octavinelle all over again. 

Wanted wasn’t the right word, needed was the way to describe how he was feeling. His mouth traveled from your lips to your neck, your mouth opening up to let out a soft moan but being quieted down by his fingers slipping inside so they could rub against your tongue. You could barely keep your eyes open but with how you were looking at him, it almost made him believe that you were the one that initiated this. 

“Hnng?” he looks to see the lights in Ramshackle are all off, his head tilting in curiosity. When did you start going to sleep this early? 

Legs parted, eyes looking away, your chest rising up and down as his fingers pressed deep inside of you to rub and prod at whatever he found. He used his other hand to turn your face, your eyes meeting as he whispers a couple of words. A veil is cast over your eyes as he feels you open up like a flower for him. Hips grinding down to meet his fingers, arms opening to welcome him closer, his name falling from your lips making him eager to finally show you how he felt about you.

Grimm opens the door and yawns as he makes his way to the kitchen, licking his lips as he imagined what you had cooked for dinner that night. However, the only thing he finds are three deluxe tuna cans and a note that certainly wasn’t in your handwriting. 

Your hold on him is tight, legs wrapped around his waist as he sinks deeper and deeper into you. Hands in his hair, going up his horns and then traveling down as he bit at the juncture between your neck and your shoulder blade in order to keep himself from pushing all the way inside. But your warmth was calling out to him, inviting him to push deeper and deeper until all you could feel was him and him alone. 

Even with the magic affecting your brain. 

“Don’t feel so good. Going to sleep early.” Grimm sits down on the counter and frowns as he opens one of the cans and starts munching down. 

“Say you love me…” 

You gasp as you feel him push your whole body up with his first thrust, the bed creaking in protest in your ears but no sound being heard outside of your door. 

Were you sick? Grimm takes a giant bite and hums as he thinks. With him being this tired he would immediately go up to the room you two shared together and cuddle himself on your chest but if you were sick…

“I love you! I love you I love you--Malleus--!” 

The sounds were all mixing together. Your moans, his groans, the protests from the bed and the wet slaps of his body meeting yours over and over again. You were so full, all the way up to  your throat that the words he so desperately wanted to hear were spilling out despite you not remembering thinking of them. You were thinking of nothing. Every time you tried to think about what you were doing a sharp pain would stop you, instead keeping you attentive to the pleasure the soon to be ruler of the Valley of Thorns was giving you. 

“You are mine, child of man. Body and soul...all of them mine!”

“Silly human. Getting sick like that. They should be taking care of themselves.” Grimm shakes his head as he keeps on eating the tasty treats you had left behind. If you had left something this good for him, he guessed he could forgive you. 

Your toes curled as you felt something warm gush inside, lips covering your own and drinking up all the sounds you were making. He whispered something into your ear but you couldn’t quite make out what he said. Something about heirs and a kingdom. Was he telling you a story? He pulled away to look into your eyes, your brain moving your hands so that they would cup his cheek. Your comfort seemed to stir something inside him as he brought you closer, your arms now wrapped around him as you rested your forehead on his shoulder. 

Ramshackle stayed silent throughout the night, the moon and stars shining light into each room. 

All except one. 

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

"Home of the Lost: Chapter 16"

Let me know what you think! 💜

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

"He is gone, David! How the fuck do you think I'm doing?"

David stood in the doorway, looking at the scene in front of him. Several paintings laid on the floor, bowls once filled with ingredients - for a spell he realised - had broken, and we're now spread out all over the place. And right where Marko had been sitting, there was a dark spot on the ground, as if something had burnt there.

"Well maybe you shouldn't have fucked around with magic, then? Was Eleanor not enough of an example?"

"Don't say her name! If you hadn't treated her like that-"

"So it's my fault, hm? You better remember your place."

"I'm way older than you."

"And I can still make you do what I want. You know the line. You crossed it. Crossing it means consequences. Got it?"

Marko glared at David. "It was a fucking mistake joining your pack. We were bloody fine on our own."

David chuckled. "Sucks for you. You're kind of stuck with us now."

"Get out."

"Or what? You fail at a spell, again?"

"Would you two stop it?"

Both men looked up, surprised to see Star standing behind David.

"What?"

"Shut up. How can you be so insensitive, David? How do you think you can lead - whatever this is - if you act all high and mighty and -"

"Don't speak like you know anything about our live here. You're an outsider, and you will be until you feed," David growled, causing Star to stare at him.

"I did."

"What?"

"I fed. Dwayne was with me. Helped with the clean up and all. So, am I still an outsider, David? Or was that just an excuse for you to explain why you treat everyone as a lesser being?"

Marko couldn't help but grin. He definitely didn't need her help. He could take David on any day and win, but seeing him being chewed out by this baby vamp? It was beyond satisfying.

"You better shut up now. I can still kill you."

"No, she's right, David. You want to play the big scary leader? Fine. Go ahead. But don't forget that we are supposed to be a family as well."

"Great, you're all siding with the baby?" David glared at Dwayne, who shrugged.

"She has a point. That you act all high and mighty on the boardwalk, fine. But you should know better than to do it here. You wanted to sire Star. You tried to erase Eleanor. You did everything you could to drive a fucking wedge between all of us. For what?"

"You were all stuck in the past. Still are."

"No," Marko looked at him. "We just didn't try to erase it. We moved on. Things got easier. You just had to pull the strings. You declared her dead. You did everything you could to erase every memory of her even being here. And for what? Out of fear, we would not stay?"

David was quiet. He had quickly realised this had been orchestrated. He had caught bits and pieces of Dwayne's thoughts, realising how much he had started to despise his actions. He had heard the fights between Marko and Paul. He had heard how Star had been seeing things and how she was scared to change. And yet he had forced her to see his killing spree that night. He had been an ass. To all of them. He knew that. He knew they were right to be angry. Maybe Star not so much, since he had really tried to be good to her, but the other two?

"I miss her too."

The room was quiet. It wasn't an apology. It was just that. He had missed Eleanor. She had been his sister, even though they weren't bound by blood. The two of them had hunted together. Shared a love for books. He had taken her to some drive in cinemas, where they'd spend more time scaring the guests than watching the movies. When he'd met Star, she had just seemed like a replacement of sorts. Not a true replacement. He obviously knew she wasn't Eleanor nor that she would ever be Eleanor. She was supposed to be their new sister.

"I'm going out for a smoke," David left the room after he said that, not bothering to look at the other vampires.

"Do you think he was ever real around me? Or was all of it just one big manipulation act?"

"I think he did like you. Enough to turn you anyway." Dwayne said softly, looking at her. "Don't let it bother you too much."

"I'm sorry about Paul." She turned to Marko.

"I just hope he found Eleanor."

"Maybe next time the widow could be there when we perform the spell." Dwayne said as he sat down on the bed.

"What do you mean 'we'?"

"You don't think we're going to let you do this alone?"

"Dwayne, come on. We both know magic is not your thing."

"Clearly, it isn't yours either. Just like it wasn't Eleanors."

"You think it's our bloodline that's causing the magic to go all wonky?"

"Or vampires aren't supposed to do magic?" Star said, causing the two others to chuckle.

"Or that."

"Do you think David will be mad at us?" Star asked as she finished cleaning the spilt herbs.

"For a bit. He knows he was wrong, and he knows he was an arse." Dwayne said, "He'll come around."

"I take it he normally doesn't know those things?"

"Nope." Marko grinned, stopping when he noticed the red notebook. It had flown open, the pages turning and turning over and over.

Once it stopped, a bright light shone from within, illuminating the words written on the pages.

"Paul's here. We need to get out. Now."

[pretty-face-breaker]

Emir Says Nothing

c.w. brutal whipping, punishment, abuse of power, forced to watch, implied past torture, public humiliation, military whump

—

“Gentlemen.”

Levkin’s eyes are hard as he stares down the healed-over back of the man leaning against the wall, his fingers splayed across it. The welts on his skin are faintly red, ghosts of the not-so-distant past. They had been a gift for speaking up and out of turn, for disrespect and what a relief it had been to think the little soldier had learned his lesson.

He hadn’t. 

“I would like to demonstrate, today, for all of you,” he starts in thick consonants, “my feelings towards disrespecting those who are in charge of training you, leading you.” 

Emir keeps his face perfectly still against the awe of the men gathered around him that stare on and on. In his stillness, he finds the most security. There are few ways to look into a man’s soul when he refuses to let one look at all, and this he does. Now, with Levkin’s monologue, all he can do is fix his eyes and fingertips to the cold wall and breathe evenly.

To breathe and await the demonstration. 

Levkin paces with the coil of leather in his hand. He can feel the steely, anticipating looks on his wrist. “Suleiman, when I asked you how well you had been getting along with your fellow soldiers, what was it that you responded with?” 

The garden of eyes washes over his skin with every word. Emir says nothing. His lips are pressed, not uncommonly, in a resilient line and he leans against the wall with focus on a little, dark groove. If he had turned around, he could have sworn that the ice in his stare would have made the General think twice about whipping him again and chosen instead to beat him senseless.   

“I s-said,” he mutters.

“Louder, Suleiman. Do not mumble under your breath.” 

His inhale stutters audibly. “I said that we were getting along as well as one could with his captors.” Laughter rolls through the onlookers. They had heard him say it and when he had, they had listened with annoyance first and then went still as he fixed his back spat at the General.   

It had landed on his cheek. Clinically, if Emir remembered well through the memory of the absolute dread he had felt at that moment, Levkin had moved his palm and wiped it away. During the motion, his eyes had become overcast. He swears that the General had fought down a little smile that had begun to bloom at the corners of his mouth. 

Now, he rolls his wrist in absentminded preparation. “I cannot blame you for that comment. What I can blame you for is what you did after.” 

Emir’s pulse can be felt through his throat and the pressure of his heart slamming against his ribs disorients and thrills him all at once. A giggle escapes. “I spat at you—.” 

He hears the whip sooner than it crashes down onto him. His fingers curl into the wall as he only grunts, breathing quickening just slightly. Murmurs can be heard among the men that Levkin won’t bother hushing, evaluating the force, whether it was his first time or not. Buzzing lightly, he can feel the welt light up his back and notices just how perfectly it fits over the memory of the previous one. 

Levkin winds his arm back again, eyes blazing. “Repeat yourself without laughing.” 

“I spa—agh.”

His repetition is cut off with another deafening crack that has one of the soldiers flinching. Even tighter now, Emir squeezes his eyes with his mouth agape. It feels like another body has barrelled full force into him where his only support is the wall, forced to endure in front of a crowd of two dozen. That was the worst part, knowing that when he hobbled back to his dorm, hardly able to stand, that they would all know. 

The marks on his back from the first week here had been speculated upon by a few—maybe it’s from prison, or maybe the General got time alone with him. I wouldn’t be surprised. He likes breaking the new ones in with the leather. 

Now, there would be no speculation. As if looking them in the eyes had ever been easy, it was only going to serve as further torture. Christ, the idea of what Pavel would say after he saw him, what he would do. 

“Spat at you,” he finishes tightly, just in time for the next. This one makes his arms quake and he locks his elbows on instinct to stop himself from hitting the wall. Once, a memory lit up. Three times now, he was starting to feel the aftershocks, the throbbing. He wonders through his focus whether other people screamed or if they opted for silence like him. 

“I should have you gagged as you train, for that.” Levkin hits him again, grunting on the impact. “It’s about time you learn that this is conditional. Learn that you will not live if you keep this up.”  

The whip hits him a few more times in rapid succession, crossing over itself until a faint quiver can be seen in Emir’s wrists, starting to protest. Nearby watchers can see the resolve in his jaw start to give and his eyes, almost undetectably, start to cloud. 

“Now, count. Maybe if you had counted the first time…” The General trails off, smiling as the man breathes slowly in preparation. A moment’s wait, and then the tail lunges again, slamming into him and leaving behind a precise, beautifully livid welt. Then, it happens. Emir whimpers.

“Odin,” he says, clearing his throat. Crack. “Dva.” 

Crack. Hiss. 

“Tri.” 

A chuckle and a quick murmur to the crowd. Crack.

From the front of the crowd, Pavel watches his stoicalness fade in little movements and how they wane like a shore’s wave. Admittedly, he admires the force that the General puts into each hit, how the resounding crack from each flick of his wrist spells obey, and how the shallow defiance of the little foreigner fades and fades. 

He admires how the General runs things, deals with issues in a way he aspires to. It’s efficient and, when done enough times, orderly. 

Watching the boy’s body glisten and struggle silently under the command of the leather is a sight for sore eyes and he can feel his chest swell with content when his voice breaks a little on the half-contained whimpers, the shaking of his fingers he’s trying so desperately to stifle. It’s something he wishes he could inflict with matching intensity. 

Emir Suleiman. The name of his tongue sounds divine to break. A broken cry of pain snaps him out of his thoughts. 

“Agh—” His shoulders are shaking like his hands once were by themselves. “Tridsat pyat!” 

Pavel’s eyebrows prick up in surprise that he has taken that many already, having seen others collapse screaming and wailing for mercy before thirty with the brutality of the General’s demonstrations. Their backs would look just like his does now, lacerated with stray drops of blood, perfect for a brine solution to be poured onto later in the dorms.

He smiles to himself.  

Emir’s cheeks are tear-stained. As low as he hangs his head or tries to shield it with his quivering arms, the sight is unavoidable. Shuffling forward slightly, Pavel stares on, intrigued with his agony. It’s something close to foreign. 

He snakes his way through the crowd amidst the snaps of the whip, as if generously moving to allow someone to take his front-row seat, and moves to the side of the half-circle where the boy can properly be seen. 

Pausing for a breath, Levkin pipes up again. Pavel could shiver at the fire in the man’s typically cold eyes. “When a soldier snaps his tongue at me, I do not deny him this very same treatment. Foreign or homeland, it means nothing. Do you understand me?” 

The crowd answers in near perfect unison, Pavel making sure his voice is neither too quiet nor trampling the rest. Seeming satisfied with the answer, the General turns and resumes the beating. 

Incredibly, even through his tears, the boy manages to count out each one, only stumbling for a moment. Probably learned to keep count from me, Pavel’s mind supplies and he can feel the onset of a smirk as that lovely voice, rough with a sob, sounds again. 

The crowd departs some time after the General has left after the final controlled show of slowly cleaning his whip and tucking it back into his waistband that leaves some awestruck. Emir has crumbled to the ground and only a single, shivering hand remains slack on the wall as the eyes roam him. His mind is too bogged with pain and the instinct to scream another number to recognize that the punishment is over, so he stays. 

“Disperse immediately!” 

All obey but Pavel, remaining enamoured with the remnants of the scene. The soldier stays far longer after the command is brayed, watching the collapsed man whose short breaths can just be heard. When he feels it’s been enough time spectating, he approaches slowly and self-consciously crouches to his level. 

A quick look around. I’m out of sight anyway. 

“Nice job there, Suleiman,” Pavel mimics the voice. 

Emir says nothing.His eyes roam the wounds which would be perfect to abuse further now but doesn’t follow through. 

He clears his throat. “I’ll, uh, help you to your room. Come on.” Again, he says nothing, likely afraid his voice wouldn’t work anyway. Annoyed with the continued silence, he tsks quietly and hooks two arms under him, heaving him up and catches him before he can hit the wall. 

There’s a distant, pained look in Emir’s eyes that Pavel could look at all day.

—

Tagging: @straight-to-the-pain @heathenville @quirkykayleetam @yet-another-heathen  @undertheburrow 

Ask if you’d like to be added/removed!

[tanzen-neko]

Only in Dreams (Mammon x MC)

Only in Dreams (Mammon x MC)

Obey Me!

Warnings: graphic nightmare with mentions of harm and blood, smut that turns into fluff, Sad Mammon.

Takes place during MC’s return to the Devildom (I am the queen of procrastination)

It seemed to all be happening in slow motion: the unfurling of Levi’s wings, his rage so palpable it hung in the air, you turning to him arm outstretched with his name on your lips, and his slipping. His damn slipping. Except this time, Lucifer didn’t make it to you. At least, not before Levi did. The snarl on his face before he grabbed you seared itself in his mind’s eye. The floor dissolved and you all fell into the endless black…

He landed hard on the floor and was instantly assaulted with the coppery smell of blood. Yours. So much of it as Belphie threw you against the wall, his claws deep in your throat until you stopped screaming. He dropped you unceremoniously as his insane laughter rang out through the hall. He ran to your side, and it was so hard to move. Why was it so hard to just save you? Snatching you up in his arms, he rocked back and forth, unsure of where to stop the bleeding first. Your neck? Your stomach? The gash across your forehead? There was so much blood, he couldn’t breathe. Was choking on it. Your eyes were closed, but it was ok because you would come back. You came back right? Unbeknownst to himself, he was whispering “please, please, please” under his breath like a mantra. Like a spell that would bring you back. One that would just open those eyes of yours again. He didn’t care if you chose another of his brothers, or berated him. Because then at least you would be alive. Belphie’s laughter faded, and he looked up. The hallway was smoldering clouds of black nothingness, the pain in his heart hurting more than when he was cast down from his first home. He would take the Fall a thousand times if you would just smile. But you didn’t. Instead when he glanced back down at you, your eyes were full of rage and betrayal. “You!!” you ground out in a harsh voice. You sat up, neck at an unnatural angle, and Mammon scrambled backwards in fear as you stood up. You walked towards him, an unnatural, shuffling due to your broken foot. 

“You did this Mammon. You were supposed to watch me, protect me. But you didn’t. Twice you let me get hurt. Twice!!! Useless, dirty, greedy scumbag. You only care about money. You’re nothing, and now I’m dead. I hate you. Hate, Hate, Hate!!” All he could do was shake his head no. He would take the blame if you lived. But not like this. Not this angry ghoulish thing who screamed the word hate at him. He balled into himself, rocking back in forth….

Mammon woke up with a gasp, tangled in his sweat soaked sheets. He panicked in the darkness of his room, his demon form demanding to be let out. “There’s a threat. Eliminate the threat, eliminate the threat!” He forced himself to calm down, to breathe, and get his bearings .It was so hard when he could have sworn he could still smell her blood in the air. As his head cleared, he recalled his surroundings. He was in his bedroom. He had gone to bed in fit shortly after dinner due to his brothers monopolizing his human after her surprise return to the Devildom.  His human!! His heart leaped up as he remembered his dream. He panicked again, falling out of his bed. Barely registering the sharp pain to his wrist, he jumped up, and stumbled to his door before realizing he was naked. For the first time ever, he cursed himself for sleeping without clothes on. He promised himself never again unless it was with her clasped in his arms. He flipped on his light and searched frantically for any type of bottoms. He finally grabbed a crumpled pair of sweatpants with his school crest blazoned bright and bold on the pockets. He wrenched his door open, almost taking it off the hinge in the process. Not bothering to close it, he raced down the hallway, his fear choking him to the point where his feet barely touched the ground, the halls a blur of color and indistinguishable shapes.

The annoying pounding wouldn’t stop no matter how many times she slammed down on her alarm clock. Finally pulling the blanket that was covering her head off in a huff, she sat up and switched on the bedside table light. The bright, aggressive light on her clock revealed it was only 1 in the morning. 

“Oi! Are ya awake? Can I come in? Please, please let me come in. Wake up, human! I just need to see ya!!”

Mammon. With an aggravated sigh, she reluctantly crawled out of the comforting sanctity of her bed to make her way to the door before he could wake his brothers up with his incessant pounding. Wrenching it open, she could barely get the angry “what?!” out of her mouth before the demon moved with almost blinding speed into her room, the door closing behind him before he buried his face into the corner of her neck. He enveloped her in his arms, and lifted her off her feet in a crushing hug.

“Mammon! Too tight!” she managed to squeak out. He barely eased off, but he did lower her back to the ground. She tried in vain to work her hands between them in order to push him off, but he wasn’t relenting. Instead, she shuffled herself backwards step by step until they hit her bed and she could sit down. Belatedly, she realized Mammon was crying into her neck, deep shuddering sobs that seemed to cause his body to shake. She made soothing noises as she rubbed his lower back, confused and distressed to see him like this. Mammon was hardly serious, let alone this upset. 

“Mammon, hey. Tell me what happened.” He gave one last shudder before he raised his head. His tear streaked face was red, and his beautiful blue and yellow eyes seemed dulled and frantic. Strands of his silvery white hair clung to his face, soaked in sweat. 

“I couldn’t…” He hiccuped, interrupting his sentence. “I couldn’t save you. I wanted to, I did. But I couldn’t. Two times. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He started crying again, his hands dropping to his lap. He couldn’t seem to stop the tears, nor could he bring himself to look her in the eyes. He had never felt more ashamed in his life; ashamed at failing her, and even more ashamed at waking her up over his silly nightmare. She could tell that he was waiting for her to fuss at him for waking her up, but she no longer felt any anger. Instead, she felt her heart ache at seeing him let this. 

“Hey, hey look at me. I’m ok, see? It’s ok Mammon.” She cupped his flushed cheeks with her hands, making soothing noises as she brushed his tears away. She pulled him in close, dotting his cheeks with gentle kisses in order to calm him down. He kept letting out little hiccups, but slowly his tears subsided. To be honest, she wasn’t sure who kissed who first. All she knew is that one moment she was still kissing his wet cheeks as he clung to her, and the next his nose was bumping against hers and then their lips came together. It must have shocked him too, because he jolted before pulling back. But when he looked up at her with heavy lidded eyes, it was her choice to close the distance. His lips were gentle as they slowly devoured her, and she could taste the sour bite of sleep when his tongue entered her mouth to wrap around hers. She could hear a constant stream of whimpering over the roaring in her head. She wasn’t sure if it was coming from herself or him. All she knew was that his kisses felt so damn good. He pulled her onto his lap and she locked her arms around his neck. She was sure she was practically strangling him with how close she was holding him to her body, but Mammon didn't seem to care. If anything, the way his fingers were digging into her sides let her know that he was feeling it as much as she was. They broke the kiss for a brief second, but only so they could struggle to remove the tank top from her body. As the cool air hit her skin, Mammon’s roaming hands seemed to restart the burning heat throughout her body. He ran his hands over her chest, stopping to pinch her nipples through her sports bra before dragging them up and down her sides. He gently brushed the back of her neck, sending a scatter of shivers down her spine. All the while maintaining the tight seal of his mouth against hers. As their kisses grew more feverish, she had no choice but to  break apart for a moment to gulp in air. Not one to lose an opportunity, Mammon’s mouth attacked the front of her neck, and he nibbled along her collarbone. Leaning her back a bit, he sucked hard at her nipple through her bra. She let out a strange noise, but she was too busy pulling his head closer to her chest to feel self conscious about it. After he gave her a gentle bite, she grinded against the hard length of him, threading her fingers through his hair in order to wrench his mouth back up to her lonely one. He kissed her in such a desperate manner that she felt her heart clench in her chest. Her spinning head still hadn’t seemed to catch up to the current events. Yes, she had been aware of the sexual tension between her and Mammon; he was her “first” after all. But she hadn’t ever thought that they would ever end up like this. In fact, she had made it a point to not even allow herself to fantasize about it. And yet, here they were grabbing at each other like two inexperienced teenagers. As if he read her thoughts, Mammon pulled back again. 

“Oi, oi, hold on human”, he managed to gasp out. 

Fighting back the childish urge to whine, she just dropped her head on top of his as they both tried to get their breath back. Wiggling his head underneath hers, she let out a chuckle as his soft hair tickled her face.

“Did, did ya’ just do this cuz I was cryin’?” His question came to her muffled against her chest. She tried to pull his head up to meet his gaze, but he stubbornly refused.

“I don’t want your pity, ya’ know. Besides, I’m the Great Mammon! I don’t need anyone’s pity.” Despite his boisterous words, his voice still held a trace of uncertainty and even confusion. She let out a soft sigh as she stroked the top of his head. Now that both of them had cooled down, she felt a bit of embarrassment creeping upon her. She hadn’t meant for things to go that far, especially since they had never even confessed to each other. Did she want to try it with him? Nodding her head to herself, she made up her mind. 

“Hey Mammon, look at me.” He resisted at first, but she was finally able to force his eyes to meet hers. He tried to avert his eyes from her, but his blushing face was still a give away to his embarrassment. 

“Seriously, when did he get so adorable?!” she thought to herself as she squeezed his head. He struggled halfheartedly to pull away again, but his pout didn't really reach his eyes. 

“Listen Mr. Mammon. I think you’re oh so cute, and sweet. And if you don’t mind, I would very much like to take you out sometime.”

“Like, like a date?”

“Yep.”

“Like, like a real couple? Not like when ya’ go out with my brothers?”

“Yep. Like a real couple. A couple that holds hands, and hugs, and touches…” She whispered the last bit in his ear before giving it a playful nip. Mammon squirmed a little, his hands wrapping back around her waist. 

 “Well, I’ll have to check my schedule, ya’ know! The Great Mammon just isn’t free all the time. But if it’s for my human, I guess I could move some things around. But don’t go expectin’ this special treatment all the time.”

“Oh I wouldn’t dare.” She held back the smile that threatened to break out as she went along with his bluff. Mammon pursed his lips at her for a kiss, and she happily obliged. Breaking away, he rubbed his nose against hers.

“We should probably go to bed. I mean to sleep!! Just to sleep! Nothin’ else. I’m not tryin’ to put the moves on ya’ or nothin’! I mean, I would if ya’ want me to!”

She cut off Mammon’s rambling by placing a hand over his mouth. 

“I gotcha’. So how about you just stay here the night, and I’ll hold you tight to keep all the nightmares away, yeah?”

The two of them smiled goofily at each other before climbing under her sheets. Mammon’s body heat was already making her hot, but she wouldn’t have pushed his clinging form away for anything in the world. She stroked his hair, and soon her room was filled with the soft sound of his snores. Not too far behind him, she drifted off, giving the top of his head one last kiss before slipping into a wonderful dreamless slumber.

[magicmanias]

The Wanderer

Episode 2 of Polaris

[per - uh - jee] (n). Astronomy. the point in the orbit of a heavenly body at which it is nearest to the earth

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Summary: A fugitive out of time + interdimensional space travel + a love story. Always on the run, and while Loki might be able to escape the TVA, he always gravitates towards you. Not even bending the fabric of space and time itself can cut his heartstrings.

Occurs after the events of Endgame. Replaces Loki mini-series timeline.

Warnings: You know it’s gonna be angst. You just know. Come on now.

Word Count: 3.0k

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I have exams coming up, so I’ve been having to study for those a lot. Once exams are over at the end of May, you know I’ll be writing like a maniac. Also, the word count will definitely increase as the chapters go along. It's been a bit short, but right now, we're just building traction! And yes… You will come across a part that is vague and opens up more questions about the reader who I have named Goddess Divine.

<- Previous | Next -> (Coming soon)

“Thank you.” Loki rubs his wrists as the chains fall to the ground. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“You—My husband taught me,” you said. Loki nodded but offered nothing in response. “We need to leave here. I know a way.”

“Hey, hold on.” Loki reached out to grab her wrist, but lowered his hand once he got her attention instead. “We don’t have the Tesseract.”

“There are other ways to leave this planet.”

Loki scoffed. “I don’t think you understand how powerful that thing is.”

You turned fully to face him, craning your neck to meet his eyes. “I know more than you. Trust me. It’s better if you forget about it.”

The children are constantly at the forefront of your thoughts even as you searched for an escape in the caverns under Asgard. Memories of posies in hand and your old, favorite pink dress drew all your attention from the damp halls illuminated by enchanted flame. This place… this time that you’re in was all-too-well ingrained in the core of everything you remembered of your home.

Your calves started to strain and it took you some time until you realized that you’ve been trying to sync your steps with Loki’s, an unconscious effort you would always put in walking alongside your husband. The difference was that his doppleganger didn’t take care to shorten his strides to allow for you to keep up.

“We’ve fallen into a past timeline of yours.” Loki glanced at you over his shoulder. “Those children were you and… your husband.”

“Yes.” You give up on trying to keep up and let him take the lead. “I remember why we were up there. Today was the Perigee.”

Loki was curious. He’d never heard of such a thing. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

You made a confused look on your face, but then immediately understood. “I suppose you don’t observe that in your world.”

“No, I can’t say that we do. Is it a celestial celebration? We only commemorate the coming of the seasons.”

At the end of the hall, you finally arrived at the center of the caverns, a chamber of nine interconnected murals telling the story of creation. You and Loki used to play under these paintings, waiting until Thor would find you at last.

“The Perigee is not of Asgard. It exists on Midgard, the mortal planet, when the moon is at its closest point in orbit to the earth. It happens so often there, but we hold the festival when Asgard, too, is at its closest point with Midgard.”

“That seems a bit arbitrary,” he commented, now gazing at the murals of his father above him. Odin was painted in a beautiful light as he constructed the world. Ymir simply seemed to disappear from the artwork, but the muralist failed to convey that Odin slew the giant and used his body to form the cosmos.

“There is a story behind it, like all great Norse holidays have. It tells the story of Gaea and Máni. A tale of forbidden love. Lofn loves to tell the story for all the children at each festival. She claims that without her, they would never have ended up together,” you laughed, “I remember pulling Loki from his books so we could make it on time.” You giggled at the memory.

“Máni? I haven’t ever heard of him retiring from pulling the moon. And Gaea has been sleeping for eons.”

“Our history is different, perhaps. I do not exist in your Asgard, yes?” You continued to walk, choosing the fourth passage from the left that led to the waterfall beneath the palace.

“No. No, I’m afraid not.” Loki paused in thought as he contemplated your assumption. Surely you must have existed somewhere in his world. “So what was so forbidden of their love?”

“Where I come from, Gaea was truly the first realm to exist, made of the blood and dust from a time even beyond her. In an empty universe, she was lonely, though she was a goddess of life itself. So she collected more dust in the reaches of space and breathed life into Máni. He was born, bright like the stars and light in his heart. He was grateful for life, and in return, he gave her his love… and her children. The mortals. But when they came close to embrace one another, he came too close and scorched the earth, burning her children. Gaea mourned, crying until Midgard flooded with her tears. From the water, the plants regrew and the animals emerged, but still, she missed her children. Máni couldn’t bear to see his love so saddened, so he sacrificed almost all of his power to breathe new life in the mortals. He grew dim and small, no longer so mighty without Gaea’s magic. Now in a realm of eternal darkness, Sol had finally caught up to Máni. She was born with the duty to bring light to the mortals, but Odin also tasked her with the job to separate Gaea and Máni when they became too close. Every day, she shines her light on the earth, but when she goes to rest, Máni returns to see Gaea before Sol wakes up once again to warn Máni. Yet sometimes, Máni can’t help but to come a little bit closer to Gaea—the rising tides his only warning. We call it the Perigee.”

“And what of Lofn? How did she contribute her skills in this forbidden love?”

“Oh yes. Lofn told us that she was the only being to give her consent to their love. The rest of Aesir vehemently rejected the bond. She used to try and match all the children up in the village and she would host all the play weddings. We must have been married by her hundreds of times. She could never resist the idea of the God of Mischief with a maiden Vanir.”

The sound of water crashing down into the abyss grew louder and louder as natural light started to creep into the passage.

“What is your role?”

“My role?”

“Yes, what do you do? What do you reign over?”

“Oh, I’m really no one. I don’t even think the Midgardians are aware of me. My role is quite insignificant compared to the likes of your brother or even the infamous trickster.”

“What is your role, Goddess?” he pushed once more.

“Seidr,” you shrugged, racing your finger along the stone wall.

“I would hardly call that insignificant. The power of prophecy is a force to be reckoned with.”

“I was born with a divine title, but I can’t even perform a healing spell,” you admitted.

“Your husband never taught you?” Loki smirked, the tease hanging loose from his lips.

You frowned. “No, he couldn’t.”

A rumble of footsteps approached and neither you nor Loki hesitated to make a final run towards the end of the tunnel. As you started to gain some speed, you suddenly froze, completely still as a hazy orange light encased you. Loki’s hand glowed green, battling against the force that trapped you, but just as quickly as he tried to free you, he was captured.

The TVA launched you through the exact same process as the first time. Long lines, an infinite number of signatures on documents you didn’t understand, and a maze of doorways. You didn’t see Loki again for a long time. It felt like days, but in a place as distorted as this, you couldn’t keep track of the hours.

Another agent guided you into a holding cell. It looked strange—more like an inn room more than a jail. There was a bed, a tiny washroom, and a square box that showed what looked like a play for children. The characters chattered silently while their simple dialogue was scrawled in the glass. The door opened.

“It appears we’re roommates this time.” Loki strolled into the room and the agent closed the door behind him, the lock clicking in place.

The box flashed and the program changed to the man you had just become acquainted with before your escape. “Well that was fun, wasn’t it? Unfortunately, we will have to keep you here since you didn’t seem to enjoy the more open kind of hospitality we offered you last time. Just until everything is processed. You know how bureaucracy is. I’ll see you in a few.” Mobius winks and the moving picture contraption clicks off with a warm hum.

“Tell me about myself.” You looked up from the book provided by your captors. Loki leaned back in the desk chair with his legs on the table. He fiddled with a glass cup, tossing it in the air and catching it.

You dropped the book in your lap, still open. “I’m sorry?”

“Well you were married to an alternate version of me. He’s lived more life than me. Surely you must have something to tell me that would be of use.” He shrugged, not bothering to drag any more of his attention away from the glass.

You were sure you looked surprised as he followed his answer with, “Am I so different from him? Come on now, he must have been at least half as charming.”

“Oh… He was charming.” You closed the book and placed it on the table next to the bed. The edge of the sheet rubbed between your fingers while you considered what to tell him. “He was my best friend in childhood.”

“Tell me about the children. The younger versions of yourselves on that day. What were you doing?” Loki placed the cup on the desk and crossed one leg over the other.

It was so easy to answer. In all the years, you never forgot that particular celebration. “It was my idea to climb the hill. To pick flowers before we watched the Perigee. Lofn had paired us up for her little wedding ceremony to host in front of the children and I wanted a bouquet… for the morning gift. I didn’t know what they were at the time, but I figured it could be anything.”

“Aren’t morning gifts usually given to the bride? And… in the morning?”

You tossed your head back in calm, tired laughter. “Yes, but that wouldn’t have stopped me anyway. I think I gave them to you after we said ‘I do.’ We were… eight at the time.”

“Goddess Divine…” He kissed her hands. The red skyline fades into purple as the water at the dock darkens below. “Never doubt my love for you. Will you miss me?” said he.

“As much as there are stars in the sky.”

“Always the poet’s tongue,” said he.

“Well, I had some inspiration,” said she.

He looks wearily past the Goddess, but smiles warmly once more. “I’m afraid our time has come to an end, Goddess. I love you.”

“No resurrections this time...” No. It was supposed to happen like this. Thanos. He wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s happening all over again.

“LOKI—”

Warm water tickled your cheeks and then you were enveloped in a pool of water. Your husband’s arms wrapped around your waist as the water climbed the walls of the tub. No, this wasn’t him… It wasn’t him. It wouldn’t ever be him. “Goddess…”

“Let me go! Let me go… I want to go.” You grasp desperately at the edge of the tub, wringing yourself from Loki’s grasp. You fell onto the tile floor of the washroom, your wet clothes heavy on your back.

“Wait, just—” Loki cuts himself short when you stumble into the bathroom doorway and pull the knob to the bedroom.

“Shit—Loki…”

“You need—”

“Don’t tell me what I need! You don’t kn—know.” Your body felt weak. The walls felt like they were closing in on you. No matter how hard you tried, it seemed like you could never get enough air.

“I know being alive is certainly better than suffocating in space.”

“Is it!? I can’t even grieve for him! Be-Be… Be—cause I… Becau—se I ke-keep…” You choked, breaking out into a violent sob. Your legs buckle underneath you, but you managed to catch the ground under your hand. Tears stained the fabric covering your lap as you struggled to breathe in between your bawling, forcing you to hiccup only further fueling your frustration. “Why am I here?”

Loki knelt down and watched as you pulled your knees up to your chest and buried your head in the space between. “Heartbreak is… a sorrow that I am all too familiar with. The feeling of your chest burning and freezing and being crushed all at once. But I didn’t give you a moment to simply… catch your breath after I, admittedly, forced you to escape with me. And I will never understand what it’s like to have to look at the face of your husband every minute of every day, but I do know this…” Loki let out a steady breath. “I will never leave you behind. Ever. Until I am able to fix this mess that I have brought upon you.” Loki lowered himself onto his knees. “That is my vow to you, goddess.”

He placed a hand over yours. It was a small gesture, leaving you wanting more. You tugged on his hand, manually tucking his arm underneath yours. He leaned into your motion, sitting on the floor behind you and pulling you close between his legs. Your eyes pierced him like venom, toxic but more addictive than the sweetest wine. A Goddess Divine.

Loki grew older in recent years, but his eyes had never changed. A sea of chaos and calm. He was there, your husband. Right in front of you, holding you.

“I always liked your eyes,” you murmured. You dragged your finger across the top of his cheek, tracing a line under his eye.

And I, yours.

You slid your finger up and cupped his face in your palm. Your husband. “I love you.”

Your lips swept gently along his; hesitant, yet your hand dragged through his hair, pulling him closer. Loki held still, but made no move to stop you. Your breaths grew harder as you grew more persistent. Even though you knew you would never be able to utter a word about this after, the need for him overcame you. In the sickest of ways, he was your only chance at truly saying goodbye to your husband.

Never doubt my love for you.

Your lips were soft. As irrational as the better part of him knew it was, he couldn’t help but think this felt almost habitual. He knew he should have pushed you away or reminded you of who he was. But when your fingers glided through his hair, Loki lost all sense of what was proper. He leaned into your touch, letting you relax in his lap as you continued to kiss him… eyes clenched shut. Loki wished he could look at your eyes and pretend he was the man you were pretending he was.

“Thank you.”

The agents dragged Loki to a door labeled “INTERROGATION ROOM #603521.”

An agent walked into the room, reviewing several documents attached to a clipboard.. “Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Laufeyson?” She didn’t bother to look up from the papers as she sat down in the seat on the other side of the table.

“Where is she?”

“I’m afraid your questions will have to be saved for the end of this, Mr. Laufeyson. Please comply.”

Loki lifted his head lazily, shifting his legs wide in the metal chair. A grin curled at his lips. He didn’t know how they were going to escape this hell. Running from an infinitely powerful force existing beyond time. It would never end… Was he ready to drag you through eternal hell with him?

Yes.

He would rot in hell for all he cared, but the TVA was no more than a joke—a circus of clowns playing their parts… and he would find you.

“I’m going to burn this place to the ground.”

“Never teleport me again. This is worse than the Bifrost.” You placed a clenched hand to your forehead and winced. The pounding in your head was ceaseless, though you were too cold to be completely tortured by it. The TVA was left in shambles, subjected to Loki’s wrath after he found you freezing in the depths of space. He hadn’t said a word to you since he discovered you, nearly lifeless. The ice burned your skin and your vision was useless for the time being. You could hear the crackles of flame and stone beneath your feet. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know, but we need to heal these burns before they scar.” Loki carefully lifted your hand, examining your wounds. “Are you in pain?”

“I can’t feel anything. Just cold.” You inched your feet closer to the heat of the fire. It wasn’t as painful as you had expected it to be. Dying in space wasn’t such a bad way to go… You only wished Loki had anything else less painful.

He hummed in response. The burns begin to warm. A peculiar feeling tickles your skin and makes its way down your torso.

“Seidr?”

“My mother taught me. I can teach you.”

“What?” Loki placed more wood on the fire. Perhaps Thor’s boyish interests were good for something…

“You need to learn how to use your powers. A seidr goddess is no goddess without seidr.”

“I told you. I don’t have it. I’ve tried. You’ve tried.” Loki didn’t answer, but footsteps fell away from you.

Loki watched the asteroids floating in the foggy atmosphere. Odin once told him stories of how he acquired all his wisdom. Life itself is knowledge, he would say. War, politics, distant planets. They all have something to offer, but there is a place where wisdom flows like water in the roots of the Tree of Life. “The Allfather once traveled to the roots of Yggdrasil to attain knowledge and guide his reign. Perhaps we can go there.”

[damn-stark]

Branded

Chapter 14 of Different light

A/N- This series will only get more exciting!!! I can’t wait!!

Warning- Angst, violence, talks of death and self harm, SLOWBURN.

Pairing- Harry Potter x Malfoy!reader

(Let me know if you want to be tagged)

————

“You know what you have to do,” his voice hissed in your ear.

It was now a memory, but it was so persistent that you swear he’s repeatedly saying the plan in your ear. It made the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stand up, it made your fear heighten and made you jumpy and unaware of your surroundings.

Yet that memory wasn’t as bothersome as the dark mark on your arm.

Or maybe that’s what kept the memory of the plan so fresh in your mind, because everytime you looked at the black outline, it was a painful reminder of the burden you now carried on your shoulders. Everyday after you got it marked on your arm was a reminder of the burden you now carried, a burden you couldn’t keep Draco away from. As much as you fought, he fell into the dark pit with you.

Yet there was one positive side to all the chaos. Draco and you were closer than ever before. It seemed that you were both inseparable now. He was kinder to you, he had dropped whatever petty, foolish anger he had for you and he no longer poked fun at you, nor did he annoy you, just like you didn’t annoy him either.

Perhaps it was because of how he had found out about your Dark Mark...that too was something you couldn’t forget—Draco had barged into your room after returning from school, he didn’t knock, nor give any warning he was coming. He just barged into the room most likely to demand an answer on why you never returned, or simply just to bother you about what had unfolded, that he was going to snitch. It doesn’t really matter why, all that mattered was he barged in. And when he did, he found you in the corner of your room, basked in darkness violently trying to scratch the Dark Mark off your arm, sobbing and bleeding on the floor.

Draco had stayed stunned in front of you, lost on what to do, he called at you to stop, but you only cried out harder and tried harder to remove that brand off. Draco tried, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, he was too stunned to this unknown part of you. So instead he ran to get Narcissa and watched her calm you down from behind her.

You never meant for him to see you, you wanted to keep a strong facade for him, but he caught you off guard. So maybe it was pity that made him change his attitude towards you. That or shared trauma now since you both shared the same burden.

Whatever it was, you were happy that you weren’t completely alone.

“So how did it go? Can he fix it?” You asked Draco promptly as you saw him walk out of the shop, Borgin and Burkes and join your side.

Draco scoffed and he shot a last glare at the shop. “The stupid old man is useless he can’t fix it without seeing it. How did you escape mother?”

You both stop a few feet away from the shop briefly to discuss what couldn’t be shared with Narcissa before you met up with her again. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed to get her off our back. So what are we going to do now? It’s not like we can move the damn thing. It’s enormous.”

A sly smirk curled onto Draco’s thin lips and he confidently revealed what didn’t surprise you. “I threw my fist down and threatened the old idiot, he was basically shaking out of fear, he’ll be cooperative and try something for a change.”

No matter how close you were, how much different he was, there were some parts of him that remained the same. It was the worst parts too. You wanted to scold him on his spiteful behavior, but as you parted your lips to argue, a bang close by the shop caught your attention. Both Draco and you looked to your side to identify what it had been, but when you looked there was nothing, the street was empty.

You kept your eyes searching the area for a moment longer while you dropped the subject and began to urge him away. “Let’s go.”

Draco didn’t hesitate to do as you said, leading the way out of Knockturn Alley and joining the main alley where nothing but the new big, bright shop of the Weasley Twins stuck out like a sore thumb even from several feet away. And how could it not with most shops closed because of what was happening in the Wizarding world. People disappearing out of the blue.

The news of the Dark Lord returning made everyone finally cautious and believe what had been repeatedly denied. Even if you were part of his cult, Narcissa was evermore so cautious and protective too, it seemed she was even careful around her own sister, she clung unto Draco and you, it was a surprise she even let Draco and you out of her sight.

But because she was out of sight for now, it left you with the perfect chance to wander off on your own.

“Draco, I’m going to see if I can find something to get rid of this scar,” you speak up as you come to a stop a few feet away from the joke shop. “Let’s meet up in the middle of Diagon Alley in fifteen.”

Your brother stops in his tracks and turns to meet your gaze, he puts his hands in his pockets and looks at you with a raised brow. “Alone?”

“Yes,” you nod, “I’m sure you have things left to get.”

“I suppose.” He squints his eyes and tries to see if there were cracks through your facade. But he found none. “Fine.” With one last look he turns and walks down the cobblestone street, turning a corner and disappearing to another street. Letting you put your hood on and slowly turn on your heels to walk towards the joke shop. Feeling as if with every step you took forward they became heavier, and your heart thumped faster. The need to turn around and just reunite with Draco was tempting, but you knew if you didn’t see your friends dreams come true you'd regret it.

So just as you reached the top of the small flight of stairs, you drew in a deep breath and slowly breathed it out as you stretched your hand out and pushed the door open. In that exact moment that you pushed the doors open, getting welcomed by the bright shop packed with many young people. As you stepped in, everywhere you looked there was something to see, different items that caught your eye and nothing left bland. There were things to use for pranks, and items for jokes, the whole shop just screamed out fun and joy. Everything was as expected for you, everything was what they talked about and you couldn’t help but let happiness fill your heart. You were proud of their achievement.

“Y/N?”

At the sound of your name, you freeze and lift your eyes from the shelf of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, to look at a purple wall and hesitate to look to the side to identify who it had been who called your name. Albeit they of course walked to your side to speak to you before you could run away.

“I’m surprised to see you here.”

You slowly twist your head to land your eyes on a familiar, cute brunette. “Harry.” You smile faintly, lifting your hand to pull your hood forward and try to cover the scar on your cheek. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

His blue eyes stay on you and search your face and study your figure until he once again persists in talking to you when all you wanted was to go undetected. “It’s good to see you’re okay, you had me worried when I didn’t see you return to school.”

“Oh,” you drop your smile and feel your body tense. “Yeah, well, I got in trouble for being in the Ministry of Magic. I’m returning to school though and well it’s not like I missed much, I passed every class.”

“It’s still a bummer though.”

While on the subject of previous events, the memory of the loss he endured came to mind….not like it ever left, you would see Sirius Black’s death in your dreams many times. You couldn’t imagine what Harry was going through. You can’t even comprehend why he even approached you just now. He should be furious.

“About that day,” you mutter with an audible crack in your voice. “I’m sorry about what happened Harry...I’m sorry for your loss.”

Said boy's demeanor faltered and his eyes flickered away, but he only showed a faint sign of grief before he met your gaze and replied kindly. “Thank you.” A moment of silence passed and that’s when he caught a glimpse of your scar. “What happened to your cheek? Did you get hurt that day?”

He tries to approach you, but you quickly step back and cover the thing with your hand. “No.” You try to assure him with a lie. “Not that day...it was a spell gone bad. Nothing...to worry about,” you finish with an assuring smile.

His eyebrows furrow and he tries to keep his eyes on you, but you avert your gaze and try to just escape before he could see your lie. “Well I should—”

“I think it’s cool,” he blurts, causing you to snap your gaze back to him and feel your breathing hitch. “It suits you, you shouldn’t hide it.”

“I…” you pause and feel your face burn, and your eyes soften, you try to hold back your genuine smile, but you couldn’t help but show it proudly. “Thank you, Harry.” You share a lingering gaze and you notice his eyes drop to your lips, but just before you could do the same you remember where you are and the time limit you had. “I should go find Draco, he should be looking for me.” You move to walk past him, and as you make it past him, he points out something that makes you stiffen.

“I saw him in Knockturn Alley, you should look there.”

You swallow thickly, but turn to show him an unfazed sweet smile. “Thank you, I’ll see you at school.”

Harry waves at you and keeps his eyes on you until you successfully leave the store without catching the twins attention, and shamefully leaving without what you wanted to get.

Yet it wasn’t a bad trip, no matter what happened before, or the time went without being able to talk to him, Harry still made butterflies flutter in your stomach. After all this time.

——

“So what did you do this summer, Pansy?” You question the brunette in the compartment seat across from you, averting your gaze from the way she was stroking your brother's hair in her lap, and pushing aside the fact that you had found her annoying and rude many times before, because now none of it really mattered.

“I went to my vacation house in Italy,” Pansy revealed proudly, “I of course invited your brother to come, but he never answered my letter.”

“I was busy doing better things,” Draco said, hiding the fact that he wanted to gloat.

You rest your chin on your hand and sigh as you look at the sun beginning to hide behind the green passing valleys outside the compartment window. “A vacation sounds nice, I wish I could've gone to that one Island in the Atlantic. Going there still sounds tempting, I might just drop out and escape there.”

A smile spreads on Pansy’s lips, but Draco does the opposite and frowns, kicking your leg with his foot and seething out, “that’d be idiotic.”

You roll your eyes and hiss out, “it’s better than doing this.” Of course by “this” you meant what was connected to the brand on your arm. Who you had to work for.

“Blaise about time,” Draco said as the Zabini siblings returned from their private dinner with a new Professor named Slughorn. “What did Slughorn want?”

Clementine slides on the empty seat next to you and offers you a quick warm smile—No matter what you tried to do to keep her away this summer, or tried to do to avoid her today, she was stubborn about sticking by your side. She alongside her brother were there at your house the day after they returned from school, (albeit Blaise was probably forced to be there), nonetheless she didn’t let you isolate yourself and even if she didn’t know what you were forced to be, forced to do exactly, she was one of the few people that kept you yourself. Not a death eater, but yourself.

“Just wanted to make up to well-connected people,” Blaise answered as he sat across Draco and next to his sister. “Not that he managed to find many.”

Draco scoffs and throws himself off Pansy’s lap to demand a more clear answer. “Who else was invited?”

“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” Clementine chimed in.

“He only got invited because of his uncle's popularity in the Ministry.” Blaise continued for her. “Then someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw.”

“Not him,” Pansy exclaimed, “he’s a prat!”

You slid your elbow off the table and fully focused on the conversation, whilst also noticing the judgmental little stare Clementine and Blaise shared over Pansy, before Clementine continued to share names. “Regardless, Longbottom, Harry Potter, and that Weasley girl were also there.”

Draco's eyes widened and a scorching fire fueled by jealousy filled his eyes and seeped through his tone. “Longbottom?! What’s he got that's so interesting?”

The Zabini siblings shrug and Draco continues to seeth out his venom. “And of course, Potter, precious Potter. Obviously he wanted to look at the Chosen one. But that Weasley girl! What’s so special about her!”

“Careful Draco, anymore spiteful comments and I might think you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous! As if!” Draco scoffs dramatically and throws Blaise and you a glare as you both snicker at his overly dramatic reaction—“Well I pity Slughorn's taste,” Draco quickly changes his tone to a much more overconfident one whilst he lays back on Pansy’s lap. “Maybe he’s got a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite of his. Slughorn, probably hasn’t heard my sister and I are on the train or—”

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” Blaise interjected, “Slughorn asked us about Notts father when my sister and I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn't look happy, and Nott wasn’t invited was he? I don’t think Slughorn’s got interest in Death Eaters.”

Draco and you share a quick panicked look, whilst Clementine smacks her brother's arm to scold him for such a true, yet daring comment. He of course pays no mind to it and just rubs his arm while Draco looks angry, but passes it off with a humorless laugh. You on the other hand just shift in your seat awkwardly, but don’t give any other reaction to it. You just let it fly over your head. Unlike your brother. “Well, who cares what he's interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher. I mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year. What a pathetic excuse for a school, I think I'll pitch myself off the astronomy tower before I have to continue for another two years.”

“Don’t say things like that, Draco,” you seeth.

“It’s true.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pansy demanded just as concerned.

“Let’s just say I don’t think you’ll see me wasting my time in charms class next year.”

Blaise snickers at Draco’s comment, making Draco pull his gaze from whatever he was looking at on top of his head to look at his friend and remark. “Amused Blaise? Let’s just see who’s laughing in the end.”

You look away from Draco and look down at your rings around your fingers and sigh. “I see Hogwarts, we better get our robes on.”

The Zabini siblings at your side slide off the seat to get their robes on and let you out to do the same. You walk to the rack above and reach for your small luggage, swinging it down and in that exact moment seeming to hear some type of gasp come from above. You look over your head, and from the corner of your eye you see Draco beside you seeming to look for the same source of sound. Yet, before you could investigate more, Clementine pulls your attention away. “Oh, I love your outfit, where’d you get it?”

You smile and glance at your clothes, “a shop in Paris. I’ll try to remember exactly where and I’ll tell you.”

“You better.” She finishes as she, like you and everyone else, pull on your green robes, waiting as the train comes to a shaky stop to wait for others to file out of the corridors to do so yourselves. Stopping at the door however, to look back at Draco lagging behind.

“You four go on,” Draco told you four by the door, “I just want to check on something.”

“Uh,” you hesitate for a moment, “okay.” Nonetheless you follow Clementine, Blaise and Pansy outside. You had the intention to wait for Draco, but nevertheless you were dragged to the carriage and returned to school. Where at least the atmosphere, the buildings, the halls, something as small and as insignificant as a decoration felt in many ways assuring. Seeing all of it made you happy to return to school. Unlike how home felt now….school was bright and an enjoyable place to be in. It was a chance to escape being home, you couldn’t avoid responsibility being here, but you avoided seeing the evil that you had to work for now.

The one thing that prevented this place to be a truly comforting place was seeing Professor Dumbledore. At the sight of him sitting down at the end of the hall, your heart dropped to your stomach, your breathing hitched and everything happening around you seemed to move at a slow pace; that’s where the loud commotion that was happening around the room seemed to tune out and drift to the back of your head, letting the cold words of Voldemort, echo loudly. “You know what you have to do.”

Chills spread all over your body and your chest tightened. Just as you could began to feel guilt deep through your mind, you snap yourself from your stupor and walk to sit around your house table, spotting Draco finally walk in alone and sit in between his friends, glancing towards Dumbledore just like you had and visabally seeming to mentally drift himself away from this room. Not like you were any different. Seeing Dumbledore reminded you what position you were in, it reminded you that you, like Draco, were in the dark pit surrounded by venomous snakes. No way out, no hope for—

Suddenly, before you could finish your thought, the sight of Harry walking into the hall incredibly late catches your eye. You sit up straight, but frown as you notice that he was bleeding from his nose. You have the itch to ask if he was okay, but you keep yourself glued to your seat and stay with the concern. Not like you had the time to ask him anything because Professor Dumbledore didn’t wait a moment longer to finally address the hall filled with students.

“Very best of evening to you all. First off let me introduce the newest member of our staff, Horace Slughorn,” the professor points to him as the new professor stands up and receives a big round of applause. “Slughorn, I'm happy to say, has agreed to resume his old post as potions master. Meanwhile the post Defense against the Dark Arts will be taken by Professor Snape.” Another round of applause erupts around the room, whilst you, like before, stay silent and just listen. But that got hard as the topic was changed to the master you served…

——

“...You know what you have to do…”

Your eyes snap away from the grey sky outside to focus on the tall man in all black in front of you.

“No one must know who you both work for, the brands on your arm must always remain hidden.” Professor Snape reminds Draco and you. “No matter how much either of you think you can trust your friends, you can’t tell them anything of what your plan is, or what you do outside of school. Everything stays between us. And if either of you need help—”

“No,” Draco cuts him in an agitated tone. “We don’t need your help because that task alone is meant for my sister and I. No matter what promises you seemed to make to our mother, we will find a way to do it all alone. We aren’t children.”

“Perhaps not.” Snape snapped back just as coldly, “but need I remind you this is not some school project Draco. This is a task for the Dark Lord, and if you get this wrong your entire family, including your sister and you will pay for it. Now is not the time to poison yourself with your pride. Accept the help you get offered. Because even your father knows how to play well with others.”

“I know that.” Draco hissed. “We are getting help. We just don’t need your help.” Draco shoots Snape a cold glare before sharply turning on his heels and storming out of Snape's office. Leaving you to clean up his mess.

“Thank you, Professor. We appreciate the advice, and I’ll try to make him come around.” You turn to leave, and as your hand is on the door handle, Snape throws out one last comment.

“How about you remind your brother what manners are as well. Seems with all the stress he’s gone under, he’s forgotten what those are.”

You respond with a stiff nod before walking out of the office and meeting Draco at the end of the dark hall. “Draco, you need to be kinder, he’s just trying to help.”

Said boy scoffs and shakes his head. “We don’t need his help. The task was given to us alone. Not us and Snape.”

“I know but—”

“But nothing,” Draco interjects, “we can’t afford messing this up. Not after father got sent to prison.”

You sigh and drop your gaze to the stone floor as you begin walking out of the corridor. “Right.”

“We’re going to make father proud.”

You blink to look ahead as you turn to another hall. You don’t answer Draco, but he didn’t need a confirmation to know you thought the same. Not like he'd hear any of it at the moment. His mind was solely focused on the door that could, or could not appear on the big empty wall ahead of you.

You passed by some birds chirping inside their cage, and stopped in front of the empty wall to wait. At first you thought the door you needed wouldn’t open, but you got proven wrong as the outline began to appear exactly as it did last year. Only this time the door led to another room. One packed with hundreds of lost, stored and hidden things that were packed away in tall towers scattered around the room, while the bigger items were more isolated around the room. The further you walked in, the more you saw inside the room of requirement. It was truly fascinating.

It was all breathtaking, except for the one item you came here to find. The one item that was the key to setting your plan in motion.

You stop before it, lifting your gaze to study it, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck rise, and goosebumps to grow on your arms. Nevertheless You stretch your hand out to feel the wood under your fingers, to just let yourself know that this was all real and not a nightmare. You turn to look at Draco, seeing him throw and catch a green apple in his hand, whilst he stops beside you and drifts his eyes away from the cabinet to meet your gaze, showing a serious expression that you could tell was laced with fear he was trying hard to hide.

“We’re going to fix it,” you say in the best assuring voice you could manage. “We’re going to fix this vanishing cabinet to complete our mission. I promise. We’re going to make mother and father proud.”

.

.

.

Tagged- @peter-laufeyson , @swiftlymoniquesblog , @spideyyypeter , @gsvshsjsbs, @accio-prozac , @cherriesanwine , @kokomaesadie @april-14-blog , @prettypinkpeachh , @pest-ill-ence , @ilovespideyyy , @m3ssytrash , @hogwarts-babe-blog , @yodaboo , @rafeyybabyy , @ms-dont-care , @seninjakitey , @aqua0928

[moonlightserenadeeznutz]

Top Surgery

Oneshot about (trans) Remus Lupin getting top surgery. Bit of wolfstar as well.

Disclaimer: To all my trans boys/trans masc people reading this. You are no less trans, nor are you no less male/masculine if you decide against top surgery, or if you don’t/can’t get top surgery. This goes for bottom surgery, binding, hormones, etc. Your body doesn’t define your gender, nor does what you decide to do with it. <3 ~ Remus wasn’t allowed to get top surgery until he was seventeen. Well... “top surgery” was the muggle name for it. In the wizarding world, a simple spell would do the trick. But there was a law in the wizarding world stating that parts of the body weren’t allowed to be removed from an underage wizard or witch unless said body part was detrimental to the child’s life, say, an unfixable limb, or a gangrenous leg. And despite Remus’ adamance that his chest was a detriment, specifically to his mental health, (when would the wizarding world take mental health seriously? He regularly thought to himself), the law disagreed. So he had to wait until he was of age.

In the meantime, he simply wore a shirt with a binding charm put upon it, which did the trick to make his chest look flat with his clothes on, but he was desperate to just be able to take his shirt off, in the hot weather or in bed. He forwent ever swimming in the lake with his friends because he couldn’t swim with his binder on, but he didn’t want his chest to be noticeable. So he had to sit by the edge of the lake instead, his feet dipped in and his friends splashing at him from within the water.

Another problem Remus faced was that, even when he did turn seventeen, he had no idea where to go to get top surgery. He lived in 1970s Britain. There were simply no resources, muggle or wizarding, and he didn’t have the money anyway. And Madam Pomfrey couldn’t do it. She was a school nurse, she wasn’t allowed to perform procedures. She could only give out potions and fix up bones. Procedures were for St Mungos. And St Mungos didn’t have top surgery as an option.

The days leading up to Remus’s seventeenth birthday made him rather depressed. He’d soon be of age, but it wouldn’t make any difference. He was stuck. Stuck in the wrong body, and there was nothing he could do.

Of course, he had been on hormones since second year, or at least the wizarding version of hormones, which was just a transfiguration potion, and luckily for him, it wasn’t against wizarding law as long as he had his parents’ permission, which he did. And the potion had changed his body considerably. His voice deepened, he had facial hair and he tried hard to work out so he had abs and muscles, which he knew wasn’t exactly necessary, and he didn’t go overboard, but really he was just trying to offset the dysphoria he got from his chest by making the rest of him look as masculine as possible.

He was in a similar situation with bottom dysphoria, but at least he was able to hide it. Getting surgery for that wasn’t as pressing as his chest, and because of the potion he at least didn’t have to worry about his periods anymore.

Compared to Remus’s misery before his seventeenth birthday, Sirius, James and Peter were clearly happy about something, but they wouldn’t tell him what it was, even when he threatened to hex them; a threat he regularly used but never went through with, so it didn’t do much to get them to talk.

But he soon found out what they were whispering about on the day of his seventeenth. Sirius handed him an envelope, unlabelled, and said “It’s from all of us.”

“You know, for two rich people, you guys can be real cheapskates.” They just continued smiling expectantly until Remus opened up the envelope and looked inside.

There wasn’t a card like he was expecting, but some sort of advertisement, or pamphlet. He read through it, and his eyebrows knitted together as he read further down the page. The ad was for a wizarding clinic, specifically aimed at trans wizards and witches. It was set up by a guy named Gray Jacobson, who was a trained Healer, and trans himself, and offered all different kinds of things, including top surgery.

“I... don’t get it?” Said Remus eventually, pushing down any hope that was making its way up through his body.

“What’s not to get?” Exclaimed Sirius, no longer containing his excitement. “It’s a secret clinic, away from the ministry and St Mungos and shit, and surgery is affordable. Free even, if you really can’t pay. But don’t worry about that, because we all chipped in-” he was talking a mile a minute.

“Woah, woah, slow down, Padfoot,” interrupted Remus. ““How do you know this clinic is trustworthy.”

“If we didn’t think it was trustworthy, mate, we wouldn’t have shown it to you,” said James. “We’ve been researching it for months, Sirius and I even visited it last half term. The guy, Gray, is really nice. He told us all about it. He can tell you as well. The procedure for getting rid of your chest is so easy. Takes a few minutes, then you have to take a potion every night for a week until you’re all healed up. But then it’s done! No more chest!”

“No more binding!” Grinned Sirius. No more chest. No more binding. God it sounded brilliant. Too good to be true.

“Really?” Was all Remus could manage.

~ Half term was already upon them, so Remus and his friends were able to visit the clinic the next day. And James and Sirius had been right, Gray was very nice. And Remus loved meeting someone else like him. He’d never met another trans man before, and Gray gave him hope for his future. The man seemed happy, content. Remus wanted that.

It didn’t take long for Remus to view the place as perfectly legit, even with his usual paranoid, distrusting self. And according to Gray, the spell really did only take a few minutes, even if he did have to be placed under a sleeping charm while it happened, and he wouldn’t be able to see his chest until a week later. That didn’t bother him at all. What was a week after six years of waiting?

He booked the next appointment for the following Monday, and he really couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this excited. When he left the clinic, Sirius immediately hugged him, and James joined in, until Remus couldn’t even move under their combined weight.

~ The day of the appointment, Remus was nervous. Excited, but nervous. His friends had all agreed that it would be a little overwhelming if they all came with him, so it was decided that Sirius was to be the one to accompany Remus. He was Remus’s boyfriend after all, and besides, wild centaurs couldn’t stop Sirius from being there to support his best friend.

Remus didn’t know what to wear, and he couldn’t help but feel very self conscious at exposing his chest, even for a few minutes. But it was the price he had to pay, and he chose a button up shirt and jeans. Nothing special.

“Here’s the sleeping potion,” said Gray, handing Remus a bottle of silvery liquid. “You’ll be asleep in a matter of minutes, and then awake in another matter of minutes. The only difference is, when you wake up, there’ll sure be a huge weight off your chest.” Sirius snorted from behind the man, and even Remus grinned at the stupid joke. It was definitely something his friends would say.

They were in the clinic now; they’d arrived around twenty minutes ago, and hadn’t needed to wait that long. Sirius held Remus’s hand the entire time, though he seemed to be more nervous than Remus was. Remus was nervous, but the nearer the surgery came to actually happening, the more impatient he felt. He wanted this to be over with, so he could finally feel like himself.

Remus uncapped the potion and drunk it down in one, and within seconds he started to feel light headed and drowsy. Gray helped him to lie back on the bed that he was sitting on, and the last thing he saw before falling asleep was Sirius giving him a very cheesy double thumbs up.

Somehow, within only a few minutes, his brain managed to conjure up what felt like hours of dreaming, although it was so nonsensical that Remus couldn’t make heads nor tails off it, and by the time he’d woken up, he couldn’t remember anything.

It took him some time to come round properly, drowsy as he was, but when the fog from his head finally cleared, he immediately looked down at his chest.

It was wrapped up in bandages, but one thing was certain: his chest was flat.

He ran his hand across the bandages. Yup. Absolutely flat. He almost started crying right then and there.

“Hello, love,” greeted Sirius, seeing that Remus was now awake. Remus stared up at him.

“It’s flat,” he croaked. Sirius grinned.

“It sure is.” Gray walked over to them. He’d been tinkering around with some vials, and he handed one to Remus.

“Take a sip of this every night for a week, it will help your chest to heal fully. Then you can remove the bandages. And if you need anything else, any help, or you have any questions, you know where I am.”

“Thank you.” Remus hoped the man could see just how grateful he was, as he was unable to form full sentences for the moment, the affects of the sleeping potion still lingering. But Gray let him and Sirius go on their way, and like last time with James, Sirius waited until they were out of the clinic, this time using the floo network in the clinic’s fireplace to take them home to their tiny apartment, to throw his arms around Remus. This was it for Remus, and he couldn’t stop himself from breaking down in tears. Good tear of course. Happy tears. If this was what he was like now, he’d be a wreck after a week.

And if Remus was impatient before, he certainly was now. Sirius had to constantly stop him from trying to unwind his bandages early.

“Keep doing that and I will personally pin you to the ground,” Sirius warned.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“In this instance it is solely a threat.”

“Fine.”

After what felt like years, the week was finally drawing to a close. And James, Lily and Peter arrived to see the big reveal. It was an audience that made Remus feel a little self conscious, but a part of him didn’t want them to miss this.

They were all crammed into the bathroom, the only place in the apartment that had a mirror. Rather than cutting off the bandages with magic, immediately revealing his chest, he opted for unwinding them by hand. His nervousness had returned to replace his impatience and he wanted to take it slowly.

As the last bandages fell away, he started into the mirror, and his friends cheered beside him. His chest was completely flat, and it looked exactly how he wanted it to look. It was a chest that could be shown off. A chest he could take a shirt off of and go swimming with. Finally. He never had to wear his binder again. He’d never smiled this much in his life, and it only faltered as he tried not to once again start crying. He failed. Sirius went over to kiss him, and soon all his friends were hugging him.

And the first thing he did when half term ended and lessons at Hogwarts were let out for lunchtime, was take his shirt off, and go swimming in the lake with his friends.

[nikosheba]

The Mystery of the Vanishing Elf

First of all, this is not my meta; I’m posting this on behalf of Azh, who wrote it and wanted it on tumblr. (They did say I could take credit for bothering them to write it, and for helping kick around ideas, so I will :D)

Link to the meta on AO3

[all page numbers from the 2007 HarperCollins edition of The Children of Húrin, ISBN 978 0 00 724622 9]

Thanks to starlightwalking for beta-ing!

So I just finished reading the Children of Húrin—which, let’s be honest, I was mostly reading to get the expanded version of the Túrin and Beleg content.  So at first when I started reading the second half — after Beleg’s death — I figured the reason I was less drawn to the text was because, well, Beleg was dead and therefore was less present in the narrative.  After I’d finished the book and put it down, though, I realized it was a little more than that.  Beleg wasn’t just less present. He was completely absent. This is no exaggeration: between the last mention of Beleg’s name in Chapter IX (“The Death of Beleg”) and Túrin’s death, when Gurthang asks to forget the “blood of Beleg my master” there is a single mention of his name, and it’s only a passing description of Gurthang itself as “the Black Sword of Beleg” (pg. 237).

Túrin never says his name again.

What’s going on here?  This is, quite frankly, bizarre. The entire first half of the narrative pivots around the relationship between Túrin and Beleg.  Beleg is the one who finds Túrin when he’s just a child his mother is sending to Thingol in Doriath. Beleg is his friend when’s growing up on Doriath — one of two really mentioned, the other being Nellas — and when Túrin is grown and goes off to be with the marchwardens, “Beleg and Túrin were companions in every peril” (pg 86).  When Thingol and Mablung and everyone else are ready to assume the worst of Túrin, it’s Beleg who shows up with Nellas to tell them what really happened, and it’s notable that this means Beleg didn’t see what happened; he just implicitly trusted Túrin and was the only one to do so.  They care about each other a lot. There is a brief portion of time while Túrin is with the outlaws that they aren’t together (that’s a whole nother post in itself) but Beleg returns to Túrin on Amon Rudh, “in this way, Beleg came back to Túrin, yielding to his love against his wisdom.  Túrin was glad indeed, for he had often regretted his stubbornness; and now the desire of his heart was granted…it seemed to [the outlaws] there had been a tryst between Beleg and their caption.” (pg 139).  These boys are in love. It’s textual.  There’s only one other character Túrin is described as loving in a similar way, and it’s Níniel (Niënor), whom he marries.

In fact, it’s staggering that Níniel is the only other one (pg 218 “Turambar restrained himself no longer, but asked her in marriage”), because there is a very big elephant in the room, and it’s the person whom Níniel is occasionally compared to, Finduilas.  Finduilas is mentioned three times in the text after her death, including twice by Túrin himself in direct quotations:

- “Then Turambar who led the men started back and covered his eyes, and trembled; for it seemed that he saw the wraith of a slain maiden that lay on the grave of Finduilas.” (pg. 214, when Túrin first finds Níniel)

- "But even as he spoke, he wondered, and mused in his mind: 'Or can it be that one so evil and fell shuns the Crossings, even as the Orcs? Haudh-en-Elleth! Does Finduilas lie still between me and my doom?’” (pg. 229, when Túrin is preparing to fight Glaurung for the last time),

- “Therefore he arose and went to the Crossings of Teiglin, and as he passed by Haudh-en-Elleth he cried: 'Bitterly have I paid, O Finduilas! that ever I gave heed to the Dragon. Send me now counsel!’” (pg. 253, after he’s killed Brandir and is desperately trying to deny that Níniel was Niënor, his sister)

This is huge. And it’s huge, because Túrin is not in love with Finduilas. This, again, is explicit, and textual, "In truth Finduilas was torn in mind. For she honoured Gwindor and pitied him, and wished not to add one tear to his suffering; but against her will her love for Turin grew day by day, and she thought of Beren and Luthien. But Turin was not like Beren! He did not scorn her, and was glad in her company; yet she knew that he had no love of the kind she wished. His mind and heart were elsewhere, by rivers in springs long past.” (pg 166, ”Túrin in Nargothrond”). So.  Túrin never falls in love with Finduilas, and, in fact, the reason he doesn’t fall in love with her is that his “mind and heart are elsewhere”.  Hmmmm. I wonder where his heart is?

Okay, so then why is it that Túrin repeatedly refers to Finduilas but not to Beleg?  It’s really obvious based on the quotes I’ve given so far that he was in love with Beleg (and for god’s sake, the man doesn’t talk for a YEAR after Beleg’s death), that he was not in love with Finduilas, and that he was (or thought he was, at least) in love with Níniel, enough to ask her to marry him.  So where the hell is Beleg in his thoughts for all this time when he’s falling for Níniel and thinking back to Finduilas?

For the answer to this, we need to consider the dual nature of Níniel’s relationship to Túrin, and what its source is.

Yes, Túrin loves Níniel, as his wife, but we know he also loved his sister Niënor, as a sister, and part of the reason he kills himself is that he can’t handle that he’s driven his sister to her death via incest (albeit accidental incest).  It’s notable that Túrin loves Finduilas as a sister,

“Then Turin spoke freely to [Finduilas] concerning these things, though he did not name the land of his birth, nor any of his kindred; and on a time he said to her: 'I had a sister, Lalaith, or so I named her; and of her you put me in mind. But Lalaith was a child, a yellow flower in the green grass of spring; and had she lived she would now, maybe, have become dimmed with grief. But you are queenly, and as a golden tree; I would I had a sister so fair.’” (pg. 164, “Túrin in Nargothrond”.)

So these references to Finduilas make a narrative kind of sense — in addition to it mostly happening as Túrin is passing her grave, it’s a textual reminder of a hidden truth: Níniel is not just Túrin’s lover, but also his sister.  He even finds her upon the grave of someone he loved as a sister.  But there’s another truth hidden in the text as well, and it’s related to Níniel’s nature as Túrin’s lover.  Because let’s be real, if he found her on the grave of someone he loved very firmly in a non-romantic way, why does he become romantically interested in her?  She’s his sister—obviously he doesn’t know that, but the narrative is saying it very, very clearly.  Well…there’s a confounding factor.

Here’s how Túrin finds Níniel (pg. 214): “Now it chanced that some of the woodmen of Brethil came by in that hour from a foray against Orcs, hastening over the Crossings of Teiglin to a shelter that was near; and there came a great flash of lightning, so that the Haudh-en-Elleth was lit as with a white flame.”

And here is how Túrin discovers that he has killed Beleg (pg. 155): “But as he stood, finding himself free, and ready to sell his life dearly against imagined foes, there came a great flash of lightning above them, and in its light he looked down on Beleg's face.”

The narrative does draw a parallel between Níniel and Beleg, an extremely strong (if subtle) one.  It uses literally the same phrase to set up the scene: “there came a great flash of lightning”.  So there’s a pretty clear answer as to why Túrin might associate Níniel with romantic love—he doesn’t just find her on his as-it-were sister’s grave, he finds her in a way that hearkens strongly back to the last time he ever saw his lover’s face.

So why doesn’t he think of Beleg now?

Why is the thought of his lover—whose loss cut him so deeply he didn’t speak for a year—so far out of his mind at this moment that his name isn’t even mentioned, even when narratively there’s no way he shouldn’t think of him?

Okay, I’ve drawn this out enough, so let’s cut to the chase: Glaurung. Glaurung, who is responsible for the first hidden truth that I mentioned, the more textually explicit one, that Níniel is Niënor, Túrin’s sister.  He bespells Niënor upon Amon Ethir, “Then he drew her eyes into his, and her will swooned. And it seemed to her that the sun sickened and all became dim about her; and slowly a great darkness drew down on her and in that darkness there was emptiness; she knew nothing, and heard nothing, and remembered nothing,” (pg 209, “The Journey of Morwen and Niënor”) causing her to lose her memories and with her memories her name and therefore any way for Túrin to know who she is.  Glaurung earlier bespells Túrin as well, “Without fear Turin looked in those eyes as he raised up his sword; and straightway he fell under the dreadful spell of the dragon, and was as one turned to stone.” (pg. 178, “the Fall of Nargothrond”)  The first, obvious result of Glaurung’s spell (and the only explicit one) is that he leaves Finduilas and rushes off to try and find Morwen and Niënor.  Now, we’re meant to believe that this is all that the spell does, since in “The Return of Túrin to Dor-Lómin”, pg. 166, the text notes, “And suddenly a black wrath shook him; for his eyes were opened, and the spell of Glaurung loosed its last threads, and he knew the lies with which he had been cheated.”

But I don’t think this makes sense.  I think Tolkien is being poetical here and the “last threads” he’s talking about are specifically the lies about Finduilas.  A number of Túrin’s conversations with Níniel point towards the fact that he’s forgotten something really important and that in that regard the dragon’s spell is still intact.  For example, when Túrin tells Níniel what to call him (pgs 217-218, “Niënor in Brethil”):

“Then she paused as if listening for some echo; but she said: 'And what does that say, or is it just the name for you alone?'

“’It means,' said he, 'Master of the Dark Shadow. For I also, Niniel, had my darkness, in which dear things were lost; but now I have overcome it, I deem.’”

“My darkness” is eerily similar to the repeated motif of Níniel’s darkness, which explicitly refers to the spell cast on her by Glaurung.  

“Behind her lay only an empty darkness” (pg 213, “Niënor in Brethil”); “it seem to her that the darkness that lay behind her was overtaking her again” (pg 214, “Niënor in Brethil”); “it seemed to her that she had found at last something that she had sought in the darkness” (pg. 215, “Niënor in Brethil”); and the two most relevant quotations, “And at that name she looked up, and she shook her head, but said: 'Níniel.' And that was the first word that she spoke after her darkness, and it was her name among the woodmen ever after” (pg 216, ”Niënor in Brethil”); and “when at length she had learned enough to speak with her friends she would say: 'What is the name of this thing? For in my darkness I lost it.’” (pg. 217, “Niënor in Brethil”)

So here it is: Túrin has lost “dear things” in “his darkness” (Glaurung’s spell) and he thinks that Níniel is what he has lost, but she isn’t—or she isn’t the only thing that’s missing. Glaurung has ripped out of Túrin’s mind the memory of the only person he’s ever had romantic feelings for—Beleg—and because he’s confused and trying to find something to fill that gap, Níniel gets cast in a dual role—not just sister (with her ties to Finduilas) but also lover (with her subtler ties to poor, missing Beleg).  

This theory also has significant implications for Túrin’s death, since that’s the only time that Beleg is mentioned again, apart from a tangential sidenote.  When Mablung finally confirms to Túrin what he’s already beginning to fear is the truth, that Níniel was his sister Niënor, he runs up to the Cabed-en-Aras, from which Níniel has thrown herself, and he asks his sword to kill him. His sword is Gurthang, which was Anglachel, made by Eöl, the sword that Thingol gave to Beleg and that Túrin used to accidentally kill him, and the response is somewhat unexpected, since up till now we haven’t had any indication that it’s a talking sword,

“‘And from the blade rang a cold voice in answer: 'Yes, I will drink your blood, that I may forget the blood of Beleg my master…I will slay you swiftly.’” (pg. 256, “The Death of Túrin”)

Interestingly, this is after the sword has been reforged, and there’s no particular reason it should refer to Beleg as its master — after all, Túrin has been wielding it for years, and it was made by someone else entirely.  So then, why?  And why does it ask to forget his blood in particular?

Because Túrin has remembered, finally.  Whether the sword is picking up on the mood, whether it’s a narrative device, or whether it isn’t even really talking and it’s just Túrin’s mind playing tricks on him in his last extremis, I don’t know—though I favor the latter interpretation, particularly because Túrin himself is referred to as “the Black Sword” on numerous occasions.  But the important point here is Túrin has remembered, because Glaurung is dead, and his memory spells die with him, “Then Nienor sat as one stunned, but Glaurung died; and with his death the veil of his malice fell from her, and all her memory grew clearer before her, from day unto day, neither did she forget any of those things that had befallen her since she lay on Haudh-en-Elleth.” (pg. 243, “The Death of Glaurung”)

So Túrin knows by now exactly what he’s done—not only inadvertently marrying his sister but betraying the one great romantic love of his life.  The one he has probably just remembered accidentally killing in great detail.  It’s probably quite present in his mind when, rather than throw himself over the waterfall as Níniel did, he flings himself onto the very same sword that killed the only person he was ever in love with, whose name he has finally, finally been able to bring to mind…

In sum, Glaurung erases Beleg’s memory so thoroughly from Túrin’s mind that only tiny, hidden glimpses remain, even in the text.  This is the solution to the mystery of the vanishing Elf; it explains why Beleg vanishes right up until the very end, and it ties together the sense I had when I was reading the second half of something missing, something hidden, something incomplete.  It is, I imagine, the same way Túrin must have felt after he awoke—as he thought, completely—from the spell that Glaurung laid upon him the first time they fought.

[A/N: I also wrote a fic based on this premise: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980519 ]

[anfie-in-the-box]

X-tra Dark Cream Teaser

Notes

I’m still very much not participating in Dark Cream Week, yet somehow this thing is done right in time, so I’m posting it with respective tags.

The story of X-tra Dark Cream is going to be pretty big and serious. Like, plot-wise, lore-wise, so-many-other-aspects-wise, you have no idea what you’ve got coming. And I just really hope you all will enjoy the ride.

What you need to know now is that I’m kind of getting back to my very own idea that you can find right here. Though it’s a different timeline, not Genocide Route. What they share is a concept of both Dream and Cross being villains, at first sight their atmosphere and aesthetic are kind of similar, but that’s it. What exactly is happening here will be explained in the story, and let me tell you, Dream and Cross have a long way ahead of them before they reach the point described in this little teaser.

So I’ve got a question for you. Answer honestly.

Would you like your Cream extra dark?

。。。

Just a Bad Dream

Once the portal is safely closed and there’s no more negativity pouring right into Dream’s cursed soul, he hurries to Cross’ side, hugging him tightly. Dismissing his huge knife, Cross hugs Dream back with a weary yet content sigh. “My greatest hero, once again taking down the whole world in my name,” Dream murmurs, ever so appreciatively and very, very gently. Cross caresses his spine through the clothes and the gloop, and, although he never really bothers to use words after a foray to one AU or another, the tremble of his hands is telling Dream enough. So, as much as the fallen guardian wishes to hold Cross like this forever, he lets go.

“I believe you are due for a good rest now.”

Dream cannot help a smile when Cross doesn’t argue, merely lingering to give his spine one last stroke. One could say they are finally figuring out their routine, grasping the ways to make their complicated lives easier, if only a little bit. For Cross it’s definitely lots of sleep and lazing around after all the work he’s done; no matter how much he doesn’t like it, and despite all the bad dreams that he’s most likely to have with all the LV, both old and new, still raging in his soul.

Dream, on the other hand, won’t be sleeping any time soon. It would do him no good at all — this lesson he learned the hard way. There isn’t much to be done when Dream’s whole being is brimming over with shattered positivity of the whole AU, — agonising grief and fear from those who survived; absolute despair from the last moments of those who died; guilt of those who were supposed to protect their people, parents and rulers all the same; at last, contempt and helplessness of every single soul. Oh, the two of them truly are beneath contempt, aren’t they? Breaking entire worlds, taking away a mere possibility of them functioning like they are supposed to. Monsters who only seek to twist and corrupt.

That’s what they say, Dream knows it all too well, both from careful whispers that no one else was supposed to hear and from straightforward, provocative screams right in his face. It’s good, exactly how he wants it to be, but right now he couldn’t care less. Dirt on Cross’ clothes matters more than this.

Actually, that’s what Dream’s going to busy himself with. Cross’ new uniform is piled up beside their bed, soaked in humans’ blood and covered in monsters’ dust. There’s no doubt washing these will be a real pain in the neck, but that’s exactly what Dream needs right now. Something basic yet not too simple. Easy enough for Dream to be able to pay more attention to Cross, whose even breathing and serene expression bring peace to the fallen guardian’s rotting soul, too. This way his hands are occupied, all of the energy he’s gathered is guided in the non-destructive direction until it settles, and his troubled mind is resting even without sleep. It’s a nice bonus to be able to look after Cross, ready to help him break free from yet another nightmare, for the dreadful, horrific visions are always haunting him in reality as well… At least in the first moments after waking up, although sometimes it takes Cross much longer to snap out of it, even with the aid of Dream. Hopefully, this time won’t be so… troublesome.

It’s so obvious that Dream isn’t in the slightest used to doing the laundry — any laundry at all, let alone something as tricky as washing all this blood and dust out, — it’s almost funny. Although, to be fair, it really isn’t supposed to actually be useful — a mere distraction, nothing more, nothing less.

Cross will overwrite his clothes anyway. And, if that fails (though lately the number of failures has lessened significantly; the thought makes Dream’s chest tighten with warmth and pride in his most loyal ally and dearest fiance), they’ll just trade new armor in some AU for the delusive sense of safety. Material needs don’t concern them anymore.

Dream’s progress on washing the uniform is still close to none when he feels a sudden powerful wave of severe distress, and merely a moment later the air gets heavy with magic. Bones and blasters are everywhere, there are so many of them there’s no speck of whiteness left, everything bright red and purple instead. It’s not the first time — neither it is the last one, Dream’s under no illusion about that part, — yet it’s no less mesmerising. If only it weren’t so dangerous for both of them.

Dodging all the attacks, getting closer to Cross is the easy part, that Dream’s doing effortlessly, without sparing it much thought; it’s not like Cross is able to properly hurt Dream, neither in his sleep nor while being fully conscious. Especially not like that. Cross wouldn’t gather enough harmful intent, and considering Dream’s nature is far from ordinary…

It’s even easier to throw Cross out of their bed, his body light, though trembling violently. He jolts awake the moment Dream’s hand touches his chest to grab the fabric of his shirt, but his mind is still very far away. Out of reach. It’s only the lack of resistance that shows Cross has recognised him, if only a little, on some kind of subconscious level. Nothing other than that — just pure black hate pouring down his cheeks and LV raging on within his soul. No way Dream will stand such a state of affairs any longer. Cross is his and his only, he doesn’t belong to whatever hell he’s seeing. And so the fallen guardian growls, as if his own life depended on it, “Wake up!”

Please, please let this one end quickly. Dream hates hurting Cross more than needed.

“Wake up!”

Of course that doesn’t work, it rarely does, but Dream has to try anyway. Besides, it’s usually when the struggling begins. Not this time though; good. Dream feels every single bone directed at his back, oh so clearly hears the Gaster blasters charging. Nothing ever comes. Nothing ever would; not when he’s close enough for Cross to feel the familiar warmth and weight of his body, that Dream knows for sure.

Holding Cross’ hands tight, chanting “Wake up, wake up, wake up”, as if it were a spell (or a plea,  or a prayer), Dream reaches out to Cross’ chest with one of his tentacles, pressing firmly right in the middle of the ribcage, forcing his soul to appear. Cross sharply inhales, obviously in pain, and even tries to arch his back, — only Dream doesn’t allow it, keeping him in place. That’s when his tentacles come in handy…

Other than that, nothing much happens. “Thank stars,” Dream thinks, taking a deep breath. From now on, he needs to be extremely careful. Souls are not to be toyed with. Or, well, the souls of those he loves are not to be toyed with. All the others are perfect but hollow dolls to be filled with oh so very hurtful fragments of their shattered dreams.

That’s what Dream and Cross do. That’s what they’ll continue doing, and no haunting visions would ever take Cross away. They’re together in this.

With his gloved hand Dream cautiously touches the soul, pulsing with LV and shining red and purple, no trace of it ever being one of a monster. Cross’ eye sockets and mouth open wide… It’s almost like he’s screaming without a sound, or maybe the sound merely goes just as far away as his mind is.

Dream’s never asked. He’s not going to ask this time, either.

The charged blasters fire all at once, and the bones are falling behind his back, yet none of the attacks ever land as Dream bawls, “I am Dream, and you are the one who swore an oath of loyalty and love, the one who saw through me, and accepted me, and stayed by my side! You are Cross, and whatever hell you’re seeing, you do not belong to it!” Cross’ mismatched eye-lights get a bit less blurry for a second, and that’s Dream’s cue to finally act with all he’s got.

And so he lets Cross go, leaving utterly motionless body lying on the floor, only for all of Dream’s tentacles to hit the soul at same time before it disappeared once again.

This time Cross actually screams; there is unparalleled agony in his voice, unexpectedly hoarse, as if he’s been screaming like that for hours. It hurts so much to hear it.

Dream is certain it’s better than whatever Cross has just broken free from. As Cross himself once said, “At least in reality I’m in this mess with you.” Very vividly Dream remembers his own response — a warm smile and quiet, confident “Likewise.”

That was then. Now Cross is looking at Dream with lost, pained, vulnerable expression, and his eye-lights, though faded to white, are still blurry — only this time from exhaustion, not because he’s seeing something too much different from reality. That Dream knows how to deal with. He doesn’t help Cross get on his feet, picking him up instead, holding him with hands and tentacles the same.

It’s nice to feel Cross’ weight, and his soul beating more and more steadily. Soothing, really. And that is why Cross only squeaks a little, otherwise showing no signs of discomfort or desire to argue about his position. Not like an argument would lead him anywhere, even if he had enough energy to start one.

They don’t talk until both of them are back in the bed, so close to each other it’s still very easy to hear their souls beating, their breaths warming what little space is beetween them. Dream squeezes Cross’ hand and offers a smile. It’s a tender one, if only a bit teasing.

“Hush now, Cross. It was just a bad dream.”

No words can ever describe his immense relief when Cross smiles back. And all too clearly Dream sees the moment some kind of mischief sparks in his love’s eyes.

“Oh? Well, then I definitely woke up,” Cross says, almost nonchalantly, though there’s no way that would fool Dream, who knows exactly how much he weighs every word. “Because what I see now is not 'just a bad' dream but the worst Dream ever.” At that the warmth in Dream’s chest is blooming like a flower, bursting like thousands of fireworks. Then Cross adds, so gently, as if the two of them might break — and take the whole world with them. “You are my worst.”

And places a kiss on his forehead. Like a final blow.

That weird, silly fool. That wonderful idiot. Dream loves him so, so much.

It takes the fallen guardian a moment to find his words again, and to be sure his voice won’t be trembling as soon as he starts talking. For a moment Dream simply stares at Cross, who just looks back, so calm, so sure, so present.

“Good one,” Dream finally says. “Though if you're feeling fine enough to make flirty puns, we should go back to sleep.” It’s a perfect moment to return the kiss, only on the cheek. Cross seems content anyway.

“Yeah, let’s do that.” He chuckles. “Won't summon any more bones. Or blasters. Promise.”

。。。

Credits:

Undertale © Toby Fox

Dream © jokublog

Cross © jakei95 / xtaleunderverse

Shattered!Dream © shattereddreamsau

Dark Cream © zu-is-here

X-tra Dark Cream © me (anfie / anfie-in-the-box)

Link to the Russian version will be here!

。。。

Notes

I'm too sleepy to write down the references, but there are quite a few! I'll update them later.

But god and stars, do I love Cross' wordplay in the end. That's the first thing I got to know about this story. Then it became "Two villains who have the whole Multiverse terrified being idiots in love". Then I blinked, and suddenly it's huge and super serious. That was fun. It still is.

[xxwritemeastoryxx]

Let It In

Gif for the celebration, my thought process is maybe instead of Niklaus being in Elijah arms it’s the reader. Maybe she switched her humanity off so Lijahs forcing her to turn it back on. I hope that all makes sense

Author: xxwritemeastoryxx

Pairings: Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

Word Count: 1.3K

Warnings: Mentions of character death. 

Author’s Note: Here’s some angst for you. I’m still working on my 1500 gif drabbles. But even then it seems I can’t really keep anything under 1k XD This was submitted by the lovely @xxqueenofgamesxx​

Feedback gives me life and motivation for future things. ♥

“Stop trying to save me!” You yelled out as you turned to face Elijah. “I’m not some broken toy you can just glue together with your words.”

For the last year, Elijah had been trying so desperately to get you to turn your humanity back on. Any time he’d come even a fraction close to getting you to flip the switch back, you’d take off not wanting to deal with it. A trail of bodies left in your wake as you left.

This time he had you cornered, no doubt with the help of his sister. The barrier spell surrounding both of you in this small space was one of her specialties. And at that moment, you hated Freya even more than you had since you flipped your switch.

“I have never thought of you as some toy, Y/N.” Elijah said keeping his voice calm as he took a step towards you. “You are my wife and I made a vow to not only love you but help you and keep you safe. That includes getting you your humanity back.”

A dark chuckle passed your lips as you shook your head. “I have been safe. No danger has come to me in years. If I remember correctly, I asked you to join me on this side of things, but you turned me down.”

You hadn’t missed the fact that he had been closing you in even more. You hated that he was and that you couldn’t get away from him. Elijah knew why you had asked him to switch off his humanity. He was the only one that could get you to flip it back. Especially since he was the only one who shared the pain you shut out.

“You had your reasons for shutting it off, Y/N.” He said shaking his head. “It was a hard time for both of us. But you were the one that was hurt by it the most and I didn’t do anything to help you or to stop you from making that decision and I regret it.”

You huffed. “I’d say since then, I’ve been doing just fine. Better even.” You said as a smirk pulled at your lips.

“We both know that isn’t true.” He said as he took one final step towards you, having you stuck in the corner of the room with the wall against your back. The space between you minimal as you looked up at him. “Once you let your humanity back in, Arick’s death would consume you-”

“Shut up, Elijah.” You said cutting him off as you narrowed your eyes at him. “Neither of us has spoken his name since that night and I’d prefer it that way. Might as well let that memory go with all the hurt, right?”

At your words, it was Elijah’s turn to narrow his eyes at you. “Arick was our son, Y/N. You cannot just erase him. Yes, his death was tragic and I have done everything in my power to ensure those that killed him were killed by my own hands. But you will not be the one to make it seem like he does not exist.”

Elijah had tried to keep his voice calm as he spoke to you. But he couldn’t stop the anger that came out of his words towards the end. You hadn’t missed it either. And that part of you that was hanging on to that off switch couldn’t help itself.

You kept yourself calm as you leaned up and brought your lips right next to his year. A devilish smirk pulled at your lips. “It’s your fault he’s dead in the first place. If only you cared less for your brother, our son would still be alive.”

The moment Elijah pushed you back, you couldn’t help but chuckle. You saw the hurt in his eyes and it didn’t bother you one bit. His eyes searched yours the moment the chuckle subsided. All he could see within them was emptiness. The flicker of hurt he saw moments before at the mention of your son was gone. But that didn’t stop him from trying again.

“What would he say if he saw you as you are now?” He asked.

Between the three of you, you always assured each other that facing the pain was a lot better than flipping the humanity switch. Especially for immortals such as yourselves. Unfortunately, Arick wasn’t an original vampire.

While born before both of you had transitioned, it wasn’t until Arick was older that you turned him. His first several years of life had been hard for both you and Elijah when it came to your bloodlust with turning. But you somehow managed to control yourselves a lot better than his siblings had.

Arick hoped that he nor his parents would become bloodthirsty as his aunts and uncles. It was a promise that the three of you had made after you turned him. And if Arick had seen you now, he’d be disappointed.

You rolled your eyes as you pushed him back, attempting to get some room between the two of you before walking around him. His arms came around you and his hold tightened as you tried to fight him off. The strength between the two of you making it difficult for either of you to win against the other.

“You loved him, Y/N.” Elijah said as you struggled against his hold trying to block out what he had been saying. “Yes, it was my fault you two were in that position in the first place. You shouldn’t have watched our son die.”

A memory that you had longed to forget had made its way into your mind. The way you had watched as your son struggled to get himself free from his captors. But the vervain that had been running through his system had made him weak, just as the very thing had done to you. But watching as the enemy had staked him right in front of you, had broken you in ways that you hadn’t believed you could ever be.

“Let go of me, Elijah.” You said through clenched teeth as you fought against him.

His hold had tightened, and part of him believed because it had been because you were breaking. “I will not let go.” He said as keeping his own emotions in check. Bringing up his son’s death wasn’t the easiest thing. And while he would be willing to express those feelings, this was all about you. “I will never let go.” He promised.

You shook your head trying to get the thoughts in your head out. But no matter how much you fought, Elijah’s hold on you tightened. And at some point, he moved his hand on top of your arm, just enough to allow a connection between minds.

Memories flood your mind. The memories of Elijah seeing you with their son. The way you cared for and protected him. Everything up until he turned he brought it to you. And the last thing he showed you was how broken you looked when he found you holding your son’s body. There was hurt and hatred in your eyes as you looked up at him. Through the memories, the pain being relived though it.

A cry of pain left your lips the moment Elijah stopped. You had stopped fighting against him and you slumped against him. He never once removed his arms from around you, wanting to comfort you as you let in every emotion that you refused to acknowledge.

“I’ve got you.” He promised as he held you, wanting you to know he wasn’t going to leave your side any time soon. This was the first step in getting you back and he was going to make sure that you wouldn’t find yourself wanting to go back to the numbness you had sought out.

Always & Forever Tag: @taylordrunkonwhiskey​ @thewolf-and-thesheep​ @wayward-dan​ @neeadinghugs​ @fafulous​ @kenmen02​ @elizamonet​ @dora-the-grownup​ @mschellehitt​ @xanderling​ @fandom-princess-forevermore​ @buckysarm4​ @hi-my-name-is-riley​ @helenasingers​ @alka16555​ @hellotvshowtrash​

Stag Tag:   @elejah-wonderland​ @xxsovereignsarayaxx​ @asiaaisa77​ @astudyoftimeywimeystuff​ @marvel-at-stucky​

The Originals Tag: @zillahvathek​ @obsessedwithvampires​ @alien-sida @mikaelson-emma​

[tenderlyrenjun]

[4:05 P.M.]

“Na Jaemin!” you exclaim, running into your friend’s arms. 

Renjun follows slowly, walking behind you like an escort, even though he made sure to hire a few. They all assume positions around the estate - your guest bedroom, the kitchens, a few entrances, the gardens. ‘A few’ to him includes an elite, small group of trained warriors whose sense of duty got enhanced after bitten; to you, ‘a few’ should have meant taking Mark and his trusted favorites, but Renjun convinced you to let them safe guard your own manor.

You hug Jaemin over his shoulder, letting him melt into your neck. His guards take microscopic steps that your ears became accustomed to before they were even born. “Tell your newborns to back off,” you hiss in his ear, “or I’ll do it myself.” You pull away, smiling sweetly.” And you know I don’t play nicely.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes. “They’re all at least 200 years old.”

You give him a serious look, red flashing across your irises. “Still.” You do not ... react very favorably with guards standing at attention so closely to your every move, especially with Renjun in the room. “I’ve had whiskey older than them.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes again, a pacifist’s smile on his face, but complies with your request nonetheless - probably something to do with Renjun’s presence. He silently brushes his nose, telling the guards to stand down. Jaemin embraces Renjun in the same manner, hugging him tightly. “Tell your mate to quit threatening my guards every time you two stay here.”

“Can’t,” Renjun mutters in his ear. They pull away then grasp each other’s forearms, sharing a look: can’t, or won’t? Renjun breaks the silent conversation first, shaking Jaemin to break the spell. “Separate minds and all.”

“Yet in all 700 years I’ve known you two, never have I seen you separated.”

You slide into Renjun’s side, kissing his cheek as an annoying public display of affection that does not bother Jaemin in the way it would your partner had his mate been present. Even so, Renjun accepts you, draping his arm possessively over your shoulders. “And we have no intention, moving forward.”

“The infamous ‘we’ couple of the Huang Coven,” Jeno announces loudly, bouncing down the stairs, into the throne hall, dramatically. Renjun rolls his eyes; he hates that moniker. Maybe while the two of you visit the Na, he can convince Jaemin to change the title. Jeno, his antithesis, oppositely more traditional, tightens the watch under his suit. And you just know Renjun wants to poke fun at you. Wearing business casual, over streetwear, was a smart choice. Although, Jaemin’s guards wear sunglasses and leather jackets, indoors.

You speed over to Jeno faster than the others, embracing him in the same fashion as you did Jaemin. And he accepts it, all his friend congregating closely by the exit. “It’s been too long, old friend.”

“What are you doing here?” Renjun asks half-jokingly. “Doyoung actually let you outside?” The Kim Family patriarch is rather ,, protective of his members, and has been for the last millennia, even more so actually since officially turning Jeno sometime during the Second Dark Age.

Jeno hugs you in return, his friendship grip crossing diagonally over your back, unlike Jaemin’s around the neck position or Renjun’s more romantic hold. He pulls away seconds after to extend handshakes with the other two. “Doyoung is actually more relaxed than you think,” he admits, hoping that enemy ears are far (one cannot be too careful, especially as other covens accumulate members, like grains of rice - for power, he assumes). “And you would know that,” Jeno redirects to Renjun, “if you got to know him.”

“Hmm,” Renjun hums, not really considering it. You return into his arms, hugging his waist like a newlywed incapable of separating. “The air between us is always so ... tense.”

“Awkward,” you correct. Renjun glances down at you, pinching your side as you continue, “He means awkward. Speaking of -” You smack Renjun’s hand away and spin to Jaemin. “- how is Jaehyun? Ever since breaking off his -” Renjun clears his throat, asking you not to say the word coven, and you nod your head, easily persuaded. “- family, things have been tense between you two, no?”

“No,” Jaemin denies. He refuses to admit that he is awkward with anyone, although his introvert tendencies appear when in large groups, especially if he does not see those people daily. “Jaehyun just added two new members - Jungwoo and Sungchan.”

“Oh, cool,” Jeno interrupts. “That’s why I’m here too.” He passes off a calligraphed note to Jaemin, whose shoulder you nosily look over until Renjun tugs your back into his chest. “His name is Donghyuck, or Haechan when uses his special ability - luring blood with his voice.”

“He and Renjun should get along well,” you comment. “Their powers are compatible.”

“Not as much as yours and mine, love.” Renjun kisses the crown of your head, hanging his arms around your shoulders, to which Jaemin rolls his eyes. You are starting to think Renjun is just making Jaemin jealous, on purpose. Psychologists say that people start complaining about being single while near couples, and since Renjun hates all the formal meetings, getting Jaemin a long-term mate might back him off.

“You don’t have a special ability though,” Jeno points out.

“No,” Renjun disagrees, shaking his head. “Beauty.” You take your turn, for the Huang Clan, to roll your eyes. He always says that your natural looks became enhanced after you turned (however, he usually keeps the flirting private), and although you disagree, you cannot stop him from saying so. His own natural ability becomes stronger when he is happy, which is anytime around you.

As the sun settles into the sky’s middle, everyone sits around a short, long table. Renjun assumes the head across Jaemin, you at his right hand and Jeno at Jaemin’s. Your mate was granted hosting duties, despite being a nomad to this estate. Probably because he is the best at straining tea. And to begin the ceremony, he asks the first question:

“So, Jaemin, how is Jisung fairing? Adjusted to vampire yet?”

“No,” Jaemin shakes his head. He accepts a glazed cup though, with both hands, from Renjun, who hands out empty earthenware as a way to keep track of who is drinking. Jaemin has an extra servant at beck and call in case anyone wants something more or he wants coffee. This set is meant to remain empty until he starts pouring the first round (into new glasses). “I think he’ll get over it once we turn him in a few years.”

“Aish,” Jeno mutters, waving his hand across the table. “Recruitment is starting younger and younger these days.”

“Yet none of us look a day over 23,” Renjun comments. He starts a fire under the second teapot, an empty one that he will fill with blood in a few minutes. “Did you get water from the spring outside, or did you have a servant retrieve a bottle from Nunobiki again?”

“The latter,” Jaemin nods, popping a white sugar cube in his mouth. He relaxes more on the pillow cushion, stretching a legs underneath the table. “It is a special occasion after all. I haven’t seen you three in the same room in what? 80 years?”

You push his shoulder, throwing him off balance. “We’re not divorced. You can visit us any time.”

“I haven’t left the compound in -” Jaemin looks at his watch. “- God, ninety years.”

“All the more reason to. Plus you’ll never guess what Renjun got us into!”

Speaking of the devil, Renjun clears his throat, asking for attention as he places a strainer over a teapot, pouring cold blood into the wide opening. He takes the now hot water and drizzles it in as well while the conversation comes to a stop, the ceremony’s second phase. Everyone watches closely, your eyes more permanently sparkling red, almost like having being starved for weeks. Renjun pours the now warm mixture on some leaves, then removes it just as quickly, repeating the process twice more, to fully rinse the leaves. When he takes the pot of boiled blood, spilling into the decanting bowl, you hear a guzheng in the steam, transporting you to the park in 1500 where Renjun would escort you to feed the ducks. No wonder Jaemin relinquishes hosting duties to Renjun; he always emits a beautiful memory. Renjun starts an hour glass, timing five minutes for the water to cool while everyone resumes conversation.

Jeno bites into an hojicha brownie, chewing the hazelnuts extra thoroughly (it takes like bits of flesh, which make it all the more delicious. “You were saying? What did Renjun rope you into this time?”

Renjun rolls his eyes, already groaning, and you smirk, knowing that your friends will take your side.

“College,” you seethe.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds!” 

“It is,” you point at Renjun, though he knows you are at least half-joking. You look at Jaemin, who sports an amused look; he, nor Jeno, has never seriously entertained college, preferring their current roles. “We’re registered for a full year of classes. I want to come visit three weeks ago, but midterms and projects take up extra hours of our time.”

“We don’t sleep though,” Jeno points out, siding with Renjun. “It can’t be as hard as it is for mortals who need 8 hours a night.” He taps Renjun’s shoulder. “Ha, remember being 20?”

“Heavens,” Renjun sighs nostalgically, reclining on his pillows in thought, staring at the ceiling like it can show a movie of his first lifetime. “Learning how to write from pictures? Carving lines into bronze with literal ancient tools? Computers are so much better.” He gently kicks your foot. “It’s why I signed you up for that Microsoft class.”

“Microsoft?” Jaemin scoffs. “Does your school not provide Apple courses?”

“No.” You roll your eyes. “Not that it matters anyways. I have to perform calculus by hand. I didn’t even do that during the Han dynasty! I still have the original suanpan in my study.”

“Yes, but,” Renjun drawls, “you have to admit how much easier it is to type integrals into that new graphing calculator I bought you.”

You turn to Jeno, deadpanned. “Everyday, I have to do homework, but yeah, no, you two should totally try it.”

The last grain of coarse sand falling onto the pile echoes loudly for your vampiric ears, so all of you stare at it, suddenly dehydrated again. And ever so slowly, almost theatrically (ever the moongwa), Renjun takes the original pot, adding some extra warm water until the blood’s color becomes translucent enough to see the pretty leaves. He pours everything into the decanting bowl, disrupting the ration between blood and water. The ceremony’s final phase comes to an end as he serves the drinks, handing one to Jaemin first as a sign of respect. You are next, his co-leader, then Jeno, the only member without a title (ironic, considering that he was a prince in his first lifetime, higher than any of you), and himself in closing. Everyone waits for Jaemin to take the first sip, ignoring the fact that Renjun assumed a host’s role. When his reaction is satisfactory, you take the second sip. It is very sweet, the floral aroma lingering the longer you keep the small cup near your nose. Renjun’s stoic demeanor does not give away anything you recognize, possibly because he is too humble or because he additionally drinks in all the praise. When Jeno takes the last first sip, reciprocating the tastefulness, you all resume conversation and the ceremony, more laxed.

Jaemin gestures for a guard to let one of the servants enter and asks for an iced americano, ending his tea drinking.

Renjun waits for you to also ask for coffee before also ordering it, and Jeno follows suit when the last pot empties.

“It is our cycle to sleep,” Renjun announces, cleaning his hands with a wet wipe. A servant comes in to clear the table, and all of you wait for the table to be emptied before retiring to your individual rooms.

Renjun starts tossing the extraneous throw pillows on the bed foot bench, already dressed in a comfortable matching pyjama set while you still have yet to change. He runs around the bed, after he finishes preparing it, nestling his chin into the crook of your neck.

“Come to bed.”

You hear him whine, interlocking his fingers above your liver, one of his most favorite places to drink your blood, once he punctures the right spot. His fangs start growing, gently knocking your skin for an invitation. You give it to him freely, extending your head left - better access, wordlessly.

“These meetings are infinitely more tolerable with you here,” he whispers, already reliving the ambrosial tea that seems to just be steaming through your tiny pores. He takes one lick, preparing you for the deep puncture. “You should come to them more often.”

You anticipate his bite but he only nibbles your jugular, grazing his teeth ever so lightly when his lips part too wide. “If I went with you, then I wouldn’t miss you.” You spin around, still enveloped by his arms. Renjun pushes you into the wardrobe, and your hands brace his shoulders, like a prey trying to escape, except your fingers dig into his shirt, attempting to pull him impossibly close. “We wouldn’t have these moments if I always went with you.”

“But we’re having this moment now, while you’re with me.”

“You’re so clingy,” you whisper as he tugs your hair by the base of your scalp. You sigh, knees faltering. 

Renjun places a singular kiss on your neck, displaying immense restraint against drinking you dry. You feel his fangs reach maximum length despite not sinking into your skin yet, so you draw him in by his throat. And he smirks. “Who’s the clingy one now?”

“Bite me.”

“Well, if you insist.”

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

Till The Sun Is in the Sky Fanfic

Title: Till The Sun is in the Sky Fanfic

Summary: Roman is a genie who has granted wishes for over a millennia. The only reason he’d be eager to serve his next master is for a chance to briefly escape the lamp’s darkness. Not for a chance at freedom--for that’s just wishful thinking and he knows what that all entails.

Or at least that’s his assumption until he meets Patton, the newest master of his lamp.

Pairing: platonic royality

Word-Count: 3.9k

Warnings: Crying, Fear, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending

This set in the same ‘verse as When the Blazing Sun Is Gone but you don’t need to read that fic to understand this one. @delimeful requested seeing Roman’s/Logan’s role in the AU as part of my follower milestone celebration and so I went with Roman. Also huge thanks to @stillebesat who beta-read two different drafts of this fic and offered valuable input, I appreciate it! <3

-

He didn't know how long it had been since his last Master had thrown the lamp into the sea. It didn't matter really. Minutes, years, centuries...it didn't. Because he knew his next master would be the same as the last six hundred. Selfish, full of empty promises of freedom that never came to pass. 

No, the only reason why he would ever be eager to come out of the lamp to serve his six hundredth and one master would be for those precious moments to get out of the darkness.

Some of his more inquisitive masters would ask him what it felt like to have one’s soul crammed into a lamp.

He always laughed it off and made a joke about how it made for a great napping place.

But the truth was far from it. He knew it was silly, but he feared the darkness. He feared its loneliness, feared no one would ever find his lamp again and he’d be stuck there forever. 

He never told them how many times he uselessly fought against the magic barriers, hoping beyond hope to find a defect in the spell that bound him there. He didn’t tell them how much he feared them being the last master he ever had—not because they freed him but because his lamp never found another master to serve. Worse yet, his lamp shattering.

His soul was bound to the lamp and if it broke--then his soul would split into a thousand pieces along with it. Suffice to say, it was not a happy fate and not something happy to dwell on.

So he sang instead. His voice filling up the lamp, bouncing all around him. He could pretend someone was with him, that way, singing alongside him. He sang the few songs he knew and then some. He made up songs, even, about anything his mind could dwell on. He was halfway through singing about a gallant knight when a pair of hands made contact with the lamp.

 A new master; both relief and trepidation hit him at once. Relief that he’d be free from the darkness once more. Trepidation in knowing that it was only a fleeting temporary respite from it.

That was quite alright. After all, his new master was probably someone in great need of his assistance—they always were. The lamp magic sought out those who were plagued by horrible life circumstances. He would be the knight in shining armor to them, like he’d been to many others before.

For that was his true purpose in life and not freedom. That was just wishful thinking—and he knew all of what that entailed.

With a shroud of red mist, he rose up in front of his new master. All of which was entirely for the sheer dramatics of it. He enjoyed putting on a good show and the adrenaline that came along with it.

“Greetings!” He boomed, waving his arms around in a grand gesture, “I am a great and powerful genie—and I am here to make all your dreams come true!”

The human gawked at him, slack-jawed. His brown eyes bulged from behind his glasses, much like a cartoon character. There was a crack in one of the glasses’ lenses and upon closer look, the glasses appeared to be practically held together by tape. 

The man’s clothing appeared to be in a similar disheveled state—unraveling hems, holes in his shoes, scuff marks. The cardigan tied around his neck looked hardly wearable. Lying at the man’s feet was a blue backpack that the genie wouldn’t doubt contained all of his worldly belongings.

The lamp sought out the unfortunate and if there was one constant in any century, it was poverty.

“You’re…really a genie?” The human asked, pressing his eyebrows together.

“In the flesh.” The Genie winked.

He was well aware of what a fine specimen he was to behold. Flowing locks of russet hair, eyes that glimmered like emeralds, a voluptuous figure. Clothed in only the finest cloth that the eleventh century had to offer. Centuries of existence in the lamp had not diminished his beauty in the slightest.

If there was one thing he could take pleasure in, it was the awe humans gave him before they decided demanding for wishes. It usually lasted for only about five seconds. But during those five seconds, he could pretend that they were actually ecstatic to see him.

“What’s your name?”

He startled at those words.

“Pardon?” He asked, tilting his head backwards.

The last thing the Genie had been expecting, was those words to come out of his mouth. No one ever bothered to ask for his name. It was as though they assumed their wish-granting cosmic vending machine had no name. Or was indeed a living being with thoughts and feelings for that matter. They always started demanding rules and stipulations for their wishes as fast as they could.

“I’m sorry!” The human cried, wringing his hands together, “that was rude of me to ask without introducing myself first.”

He held out a hand, beaming, “I’m Patton! What’s your name?”

“I…” He stared down at the man’s hand, “My name?”

“Oh,” Patton’s eyes widened, “do you not have a name?”

The Genie looked away. He did once have a name, long ago before he inhabited the lamp. He couldn’t remember it. A strained, lilted laugh broke from his lips, not assuaging Patton’s concerns in the slightest.

How could he forget his own name? Names were important—special. Names had power. Names were a person’s identity. How could he let that damn lamp take something so precious away from him? It’d already taken everything else away—what more could it take? 

“I can’t seem to recall it,” He shook his head, before desperately trying to change the subject, “But enough about my fabulous self! I’m here to grant you not one, not two, but three! Three wishes of immeasurable power! Say the magic word, and I’ll spin your dreams into reality.”

He expected Patton to forget the name nonsense entirely at the mention of wishes. Surely, the man had unfulfilled desires—everyone always possessed those. Instead, the man slowly shook his head.

“I can help you find a new name, if you’d like.” He offered, a smile softly framing his face.

The Genie blinked, “You wish to give me a new name?”

He could not make heads nor tails of this strange human. He scarcely knew Patton for a single minute, but his aura oozed nothing but positivity. Still, it was an odd waste of a wish, if you asked him. He’d hate to see someone so good and in need of his cosmic help squander a wish like that.

“No,” Patton said, laughing, “I want to help you find a new name.”

Patton sat down on the beach, the lamp by his side. The human looked up at him and patted the space next to him. Reluctantly, the Genie joined him.

“How does the name Daniel sound to you?” Patton asked.

Daniel. One of his more unpleasant masters went by that name. The genie made a face before shaking his head.

“That’s okay! What about Philip then?”

“Phiiiilip…” He drew out the consonants, testing how they felt against the roof of his mouth, “What do you think, dear Patton? Do I look like a Philip to you?”

“Well, you’re very princely-looking, and I’d say Philip is a very princely name!” The man giggled, “but as long as you love it—I’ll love it as well!”

The Genie hesitated. As much as he liked the name—it didn’t quite scream him. It didn’t encompass his whole being. Philip felt as tight and constraining as his lamp. The genie could lie and tell Patton he liked it just to move on from this whole naming business. His purpose here was supposed to be focused on the wish-bearer and not him, the wish-granter.

However, as he looked upon Patton’s earnest gaze he found himself unable to lie to him.

“I am afraid that I’m not entirely in love with the idea of Philip.” He admittedly with a great sigh.

“That’s alright! We just gotta keep trying then!” Patton declared, undeterred.

He continued listing off names, but none of them seemed to satisfy the Genie. The latter of whom grew despondent that they’d never find the perfect name. There were millions of names in the world, yet none of them appealed to him. He voiced this to Patton, who refused to give up hope that easily and urged him to keep trying.

“Hmm…oh! What about Roman?” Patton asked, “I knew a guy back in high school named Roman. He did theatre.”

Something sparked within the hollow cavity of the Genie’s chest.

“Theatre? As in acting out a story in front of an audience?” The Genie asked, his eyes lit bright with wonder.

He’d never seen a play before. His masters never bothered taking him to events like that. Instead he’d remain in their household, his lamp sitting on a shelf or hidden in a cabinet. Like a jar of quarters to use on a rainy day. He could only manifest within twenty-five yards around his lamp, leaving him unable to sneak off and enjoy something like a theatre show.

But what little he heard of them reminded him greatly of the bards of his time. They used to travel all over, singing sweetly in poetic verse of great heroes and terrifying monsters. He’d always loved watching a bard perform. He almost ran off and became a bard himself before he ended up stuck inside the lamp.

“Yup! He played Lumiere in our production of Beauty and the Beast.”

The names of the character and story were unfamiliar to him. But the Genie could tell by Patton’s phrasing that it had been an important role.

“Roo-man,” He tried, liking how it sounded on his lips, “Roman, Roman, Romaaaaaaaaaaan!”

Patton giggled as the Genie held out the name for as long as he could.

Roman. It was bold, it was brash, it was perfect. Not too snug, not too loose—it fit him just right.

“Well then,” He said, clearing his throat, “I’d be honored to go by the name of such a great bard!”

“I’m happy to hear that!” Patton beamed, “We should go celebrate!”

The human stood up, stuffing the lamp into his backpack in the process. He offered a hand towards the Genie—or rather Roman.

“Celebrate?” Roman questioned, as he accepted Patton’s hand, “Don’t you want your three wishes—"

“That can wait for later,” Patton said as he pulled Roman onto his feet with ease, “what’s important right now is celebrating your new name—with ice cream! I know just the place!”

“Forgive me for asking, but what is ice cream?”

“You don’t know what ice cream is?” Patton gasped, a determined look settling onto his features, “we’ll definitely have to fix that!”

He took hold of Roman’s hand—and marched towards the direction of the ice cream stand. Roman, bemused by the human, laughed as he allowed himself to be tugged along by Patton. He didn’t know why Patton was so concerned about his wellbeing but he found it a nice change from the norm.

Patton chattered along the way, mainly about ice cream and puns relating to the icy dessert and to other things.

“What did the popsicle say to his sonsicle in a crowd?” Patton asked, already snickering at his own joke.

“What?”

“He said, stick with me kid!” Patton burst into a fit of giggles, and Roman followed suit. Admittedly a lot of the contextual humor of Patton’s puns were lost on him but there was something contagious about Patton’s cheery disposition. You couldn’t help but want to laugh along and feel about a bit of that happiness glow in your lungs. 

For those brief seconds of laughter, Roman felt human again. He’d have to treasure this feeling--coveting it once he inevitably ended up in the darkness of the lamp once more.

The sun set in the horizon as they reached their destination; a brilliant splash of crimson red with streaks of golden orange and lilac purple. There were a few customers already in line at the ice cream stand. Cheery music blared. Where, Roman had no clue. He could not see a band nearby. Perhaps it was magic?

“Hey um,” Patton said, ducking his head a bit, “mind if we split a bowl? I’ll let you pick out the flavor. You should go with vanilla—it’s a classic! But, uh you can get whatever you’d like!”

“Patton…” Roman frowned, “I could wish into existence a whole ice cream shop of your own if you truly wanted it. You don’t have to waste money on me.”

“No, I don’t have to,” Patton said with a determined glint in his eyes, “But I want to.”

Roman gawked at him, stunned. What was this human? People normally expected genies to do things for them, not the other way around! When it came time to order, Roman merely pointed to the vanilla as Patton had suggested.

There were tables set up next to the ice cream stand where customers could consume their ice cream. But Patton shook his head, telling Roman he knew a much better place.

“It’s a place my friend Virgil and I like to visit,” Patton said, “It’s nice and quiet, unlike most of the city. The noise can be too much sometimes, y’know?”

This peaceful location happened to be a bench in the middle of a park. Trees gracefully arched over it, dressed in the beginnings of autumn colors. Orange, yellow, red. A warm glowing yellow light emanated from the lamppost beside the bench. 

“You can have the first taste of the ice cream,” Patton told him as they settled onto the bench. Roman obliged him, dipping his spoon a little in the white substance and bringing it to his mouth. He blinked. It was colder than he expected. But not unpleasantly so. It was a smooth, sweet texture.

“What do you think?” Patton asked, practically bouncing in his seat.

“It’s--it’s absolutely divine!” Roman exclaimed, his eyes flickered down to the ice cream, “May I…?”

“Of course!” Patton grinned. Roman took another spoonful, savoring the taste longer this time. They took turns finishing it off as they continued to converse.

Roman wasn’t used to talking. Sure, he talked plenty over the centuries, but his conversations with his masters revolved strictly around wish-granting. Mundane conversations about the weather were anything but mundane to the genie. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” Patton asked, swinging his legs back and forth in a careless manner.

“Dogs—they are lovable, loyal creatures and mankind is undeserving of their affections.” Roman declared.

“Dogs are my favorite too!” Patton giggled, “Oh! And so are cats, horses, lizards, lions and tigers and bears—oh my! Elephants, giraffes, hippos—”

“So all of them are your favorite, I take it?”

“I guess you could say that,” Patton sheepishly grinned, “I wanted to be a veterinarian be—before—”

The human inhaled shakily, the smile slipping off his face. Instead of continuing, he stared down into the mostly empty plastic ice cream bowl. Something obviously happened in Patton’s past that upset him. It wasn’t Roman’s place to pry—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t help in the only way he knew best; magic. In all his centuries as a genie, he’s never met anyone deserving of it than Patton.

The man had been the first in a long while to treat Roman like his thoughts and feelings actually mattered. Like the genie was actually...human. 

“You could still be a veterinarian, if you so badly wished,” Roman spoke softly, “Your every wish is my command.”

Patton flinched, looking more distressed than comforted by Roman’s words.

“Roman please, I can’t do that—”

“Why not?” Roman said, “you are my master—you can make any wish you’ve ever desired.”

“Roman, I’m not your master.” Patton choked.

“Of course you are,” Roman tilted his head, “you are the keeper of my lamp. What else would you be?”

“A friend?” Patton suggested, “Roman, please I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“This is different,” Roman said fervently, grasping hold of Patton’s hands, “this I offer to you freely for you are the most worthy keeper of my lamp. You must have unfulfilled desires, something, anything I can grant.”

Patton stared at Roman, his face void of expression. Several times he opened his mouth before abruptly closing it. As if thinking better of what he was about to say. 

“Please.” Roman pressed further.

His heart rattled against his chest, wanting badly to escape its cage as he did with his lamp. Like the latter, it was a pointless venture. As long as his lamp remained intact so would his soul. Unless of course it shattered, and with it his soul into a thousand pieces. His psyche splintered and fractured, too broken to put back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty except worse for it was a living death, one inescapable. Yet it was a fate that was inevitable and also something he shouldn’t be dwelling on at the moment.

“There is…” Patton hesitated, “one desire I have.” 

“Say it,” Roman said as he bowed his head, not daring to look at the human, “Speak it into existence and it shall be yours.”

It was going to hurt, he knew this. The genie wasn’t the true wish-granter, all the magic they possessed came from the lamp itself. The magic only used his form as a mere conduit. Because that was all a genie was—a damn puppet to his masters’ wills.

Roman brought this curse upon himself—he wanted immeasurable power and he attained it. Except, it was never his will to wield such power. Nay, only his masters possessed it. Only their wishes and not his would be granted. It’d be this way forever and ever, because everyone always cared about their happy endings and not his own.

Even Patton, once he saw the immeasurable power that surged forth from even the simplest of wishes. Roman wouldn’t blame him for it. The human has already given him more than what he’s ever deserved. 

Patton squeezed Roman’s hands. It took every ounce of Roman’s willpower not to sneak a glance up at him. He had to remain strong for whatever wish Patton threw at him. In the short time he’d spent with Patton, he didn’t get off the vibe of a frivolous wisher. He dealt with plenty of those over the years. Ones who used the wishes in willy-nilly ways, without any forethought behind them. 

No, he’d probably be practical. He’d wish for money, or perhaps a mistake in the past to be reversed. Those were always tricky ones. They didn’t always end in the way humans believed they would.

“Roman,” Patton began, “I wish to free you, the genie, from your lamp.”

The genie leapt off the bench as if electrocuted, hands clumsily detangling themselves from Patton’s own. The lamp’s magic roared in his ears, swelling inside him like a great storm. He gaped at the human, his heart bursting out of his chest and into his throat.

“P-patton, mind repeating that?” He gasped.

“I wish to free you the genie from your lamp.” Patton said once more, his voice firm and unbreaking.

This time he couldn’t hold off the wish. A bright red light enveloped him like a supernova explosion. Magic consumed him, rippling through every fiber of his being. A warmth fell across him, one that he hadn’t felt in a long, long while. A great shattering noise occurred. The light died down as he looked to see the lamp had spilled out of Patton’s pack, glittering underneath the lamppost, in pieces. 

Breath heaving, he fell to his knees, touching the pieces. The lamp had broken and he was still here, whole and complete and free.

“Why?” He stared down at the broken lamp, quivering, “I--I don’t understand. You had three wishes. You could’ve had so much—all the wealth and fame you could ever desire!”

“But I didn’t want that,” Patton protested, resting a hand on Roman’s shoulder, “not if it came from a wish you were involuntarily bound to serve no matter what. That isn’t fair. Everyone deserves the freedom of choice. Including you.”

Roman laughed. Except it wasn’t quite a laugh. More of a strangled, gargled croak than anything else. He pressed his hands into his face, shutting his eyes as he tried to block out the dizzying nausea sweeping through him.

After six-hundred masters and a millennia inside the lamp, Roman knew a lot about the freedom of choice. His masters employed it with how they chose to use his wishes. Flaunting it so arrogantly in his face. The wishes were self-serving for most. Sometimes they used it to better others’ situations. But never his own, despite many promising to free him. Because at the end of that third wish, they’d walk away while he’d once more get trapped inside the lamp.

Over and over again, they chose to not free him. Except Patton. He chose to free Roman on his very first wish. For as long as he’d dreamt of this moment, of being free from the lamp, he never expected it to actually happen. It was just a foolish fantasy, too abstract to become reality. Not to mention in this manner. He had imagined a master would free him after he’d proven himself worthy with a great feat of magic. How could Patton think he was deserving of this gift?

He laughed weirdly again. This time it hurt his vocal chords.

“Roman?” Patton asked.

He responded with a noise, halfway resembling a hiccup and a shriek. A gentle set of arms enveloped him, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against a warm chest. A hug? Was Patton hugging him? 

“It’s okay, kiddo,” Patton murmured, ruffling a hand through his hair, “let it all out.”

Kiddo. Roman wanted to snort. He was a millennia older than Patton, he wasn’t exactly a child. Except at those words, he bawled like one as he realized that those were sobs from before. Not laughter. Roman couldn’t remember the last time he cried. Just like he couldn’t remember a time before being a genie.

Who was he, without the lamp? For as much as he hated it, it’d been a part of him. It defined him and the purpose of his existence. Now he was free of it, free to be his own person, with his own wishes and desires. But he didn’t know the first step of what that looked like.

 It was like he was thrown into a raging ocean of confusion and turmoil. Treading aimlessly, desperately hoping for a piece of driftwood to grab a hold on. Something that could anchor him, keep him afloat. 

“P-patton--” He whispers, voice hoarse from crying, “can I--can I choose to be your friend?”

The human had suggested it earlier. Surely, he meant it still? It was quiet for a few seconds. Enough to cause Roman to doubt himself. But then the man who unbelievably granted him his freedom hugged him tighter.

“Of course, Roman,” Patton told him, “I’d be honored.”

With a sniffle, Roman’s hands fell from his face as he threw his arms around Patton to fiercely return the embrace. A few more ugly sobs wracked his throat. How was it that Patton was the one honored to be his friend when it was the opposite? 

Roman hardly knew what being free looked like. But he did know he’d do anything to protect Patton, to preserve this kind, selfless spark that rested in the human’s soul.

As he dwelt encircled by Patton’s loving arms, the last slivers of the sun’s glow faded at last, dousing them in darkness. But for once, he didn’t find himself afraid of it.