#or I poisoned your wine for fun but I forgot you’re only drinking white because of heartburn so let’s just watch tv and order Greek

[phemiec]

your penguin is everything to me... do you have any specific headcanons abt him / ed

I’ve been obsessed with Gotham lately so my versions are basically them post-series, like when they’re around 50ish, another decade after they’ve been out of prison. and of course I’ve changed their appearances but they’re basically an AU of that.

I kind of love how fucked up their stupid relationship is in canon, so I can’t grantee my versions don’t try to kill each other still occasionally. But they also got married at one point, probably divorced and remarried like seven times actually.

I like the idea that blackgate made Oswald a little more serious and guarded as opposed to when he was younger and just a screaming raw nerve of a man, whereas Arkham just made Ed more unhinged, emotional, integrated with his flamboyant riddler side, so they end up meeting in the middle and sort of falling into a new normal.

Just….soooo much baggage tho, and when their relationship starts they would still much rather stab each other or make out than actually talk about their past like grownups. And then it just gets silly when they're old and tired and painfully domestic cuz they still are like “I’d sell you to Satan for one corn chip” meanwhile they’ve adopted several dogs and just got back from their tenth anniversary cruise. They’re a mess.

[sserpente]

A/N: This is short and silly and I enjoyed every second of writing it.

Words: 685 Warnings: none

You sighed as you let your head fall back to admire the stars. Thousands of piercing little lights dotting the night sky. It was rather beautiful, and for the first time ever since you had gotten into this mess (and a tadpole had gotten into you), you felt… content.

Perhaps it was because despite all this—you let your gaze wander over the campsite—fate decided to give something back. Someone. Your eyes found Astarion, brooding over one of the books you had recently picked up. Gods, you longed to take a bite right out of him the way he stood there in those tight and dark trousers and his white cotton shirt. It was quite incredible this handsome man… vampire spawn… liked you back. Not only that but you had mutated into his… lifeline, so to speak. Absentmindedly, you brought your hand to your neck, fingertips ghosting over the two puncture wounds his fangs had left behind last night. It had become a pleasurable and enjoyable ritual for you both now.

You’d have dinner with the others and at night, once everyone else was asleep, Astarion would get his fill and have supper for himself.

Another sigh. Dinner had been quite amazing and filling today. Gale had volunteered to cook after you found a crate full of abandoned supplies. Potato chips, carrot soup, garlic bread, and even lasagne… a chef would have slapped his palm against his forehead at the combination of all of these things for one evening but alas… you hadn’t eaten this much in over a week.

You were practically drunk on a full belly and that was before having a glass of wine already. Speaking of which… grabbing your empty glass, you got up from your bedroll, sauntering over to Astarion’s tent.

His head lifted as soon as he sensed you—and you actually liked to think that he could smell you, your blood, before he could hear or see you. A slight smile played on his lips when your eyes locked and he shut the book in his hands, putting it aside.

“Have a glass with me?” you offered, tilting your head as you waved the chalice in the air.

“Oh? Are we celebrating something, darling?”

“No… I’m just in a really good mood today.”

Astarion smirked in response and reached for the bottle of elven wine on the small table next to his tent.

“Well, given the current state of things, I’ll drink to that,” he purred, filling both your glasses. You clinked them, each taking a big sip before the vampire spawn took yours from you and set them both aside along with the bottle.

“Now would you say… you’re also in the mood for a bit of fun tonight?”

You grinned when he pulled you close, his face only inches from yours. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You closed your eyes, allowing him to lean forward and capture your lips in a hungry kiss.

“Ow! Gods, damn it!”

All of a sudden, as if stung by an adder, Astarion released you, half-blowing raspberries and cursing as he coughed as if you had poisoned him.

“What… are you alright? What happened? Oh… oh gods!” Realisation hit you only a second after.

“Oh no… Gale made garlic bread tonight! I completely forgot you can’t… oh, Astarion, I am so sorry. Let me have a look, is it bad?”

“I’m fine! It’s not going to kill me, it just… burns. Gods!” A few more curses followed as he brought his fingertips to his lips, assessing the damage done.

“I’ll go rinse my mouth, alright? I’ll be right back.”

The sound of acknowledgment he made was hardly an answer. It was enough for you to turn back around though, your cheeks hurting from how hard you were holding back a grin.

“It could be worse… I mean… I could have put my lips elsewhere.”

“Very funny, darling.” Still, there was a hint of amusement swinging in his voice and you certainly couldn’t help the little chuckle forcing its way out of your throat. He had to admit… it was hilarious.

A/N: I'm on my second playthrough as Durge right now and I realised one thing about myself: As much as I love villains and misunderstood bad guys, I'm really bad at being evil. 😂 I feel soo bad every time I make a mean decision, hahaha!

[jcmorgenstern]

oh hell yes! do 9 for jonathan/simon (vampire kink! vampire kink! vampire kink!)?

9. Bloodplay. hooo boy well. that sure happened. in spades. @elektra-natchioss​ it finally happened.

Vague setup for plot: set in COLS, Simon goes in place of Clary because the Mark of Cain can blow anyone who messes with him to shit, Jace is out on an ~errand~ when Simon realizes he forgot to pack blood. Sebastian has an idea.

“No,” said Simon. “No, no, no—that’s Spanish for no, by the way—no, and no. Absolutely not. Categorically in no universe will that ever happen, and I say that taking into account the multiverse and string theory or whatever. Seriously, no freaking way.”

Clary’s weird demon brother sighed, kicking up his (unfairly) long legs onto the fancy glass coffee table. He wore his shoes indoors, which Simon’s upbringing in his mother’s and grandmother’s home could hardly begin to fathom. Still, the aforementioned shoes were also fancy and the pointed-toe kind that made his legs look even longer, especially in those slimming dress pants. Had Simon mentioned that was unfair? “Be my guest, starve yourself to death. I hear the last throes of death by blood starvation are the best—rattles, shakes, uncontrollable thirst for blood. Maybe you could even hold out until my angel brother returns and attack him like a wild animal. Would make a very good home video.”

He held up his phone, a slim black iPhone X, then put it down on the coffee table and relaxed back into the black leather couch with a distinctly superior air, bringing his glass of wine to his lips (Simon was starting to think he had a serious day-drinking problem). Simon stayed mutinously silent for a few moments, occasionally breaking his deliberate lack of eye contact to shoot a glare Sebastian’s way, then finally broke down when the silence—and Sebastian’s all-too-knowing gaze on his back—was too much.

“Fine, say I believe you and there’s really no blood donation places I can get blood at—which I really don’t, by the way. How can I know your blood won’t like…hurt me, or something? Maybe you just injected holy water, or something.” Simon wasn’t sure what the Mark of Cain’s policy on ingested poisons is—would he projectile shoot venom Sebastian’s way if he was poisoned? If so, he was definitely going to have to avoid that one. It sounded very traumatic. Unfortunately, the Mark didn’t really come with a user’s manual.

Sebastian looked bored, fingering the stem of his wine glass. Simon had to wonder if he’d been to the School For Really Pale Villains, or if it was a genuine affectation. “As I told you before, this is a very old, very Catholic district of Paris. The Jesuits slaughtered the vampires living here, destroying all but the lowest underbelly of vampire society. You won’t find any donated blood anywhere in the city, I’m afraid.” He took another slow, measured sip of wine. “As for my blood, you’ve already drank it. Surely a few sips more can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, and it tasted like shit. No offense,” Simon added quickly. Telling someone their blood tasted bad had to be rude, right? Especially when the bloodletting altercation in question…hadn’t exactly been pleasant. Still, it had tasted like battery acid, harsh and acrid, burning at Simon’s tongue. Definitely worse than the medication Simon had to take when he was eight, which up until that point he’d thought was the worst tasting thing in the world.

Sebastian lips turned down into a bemused smile, and before he even opened his mouth Simon knew he was being patronized. “You really don’t know? Blood only tastes like what it carries—hormones, vitamins, nutrients, toxins. Taking a bite out of someone in battle when the stress and aggression is high is going to be much different than biting in bed when…” His eyebrows raised, suggestively. “Well, you know.”

Simon did not, in fact, know this, mostly because he’d never fed on a live human (except that one time. and that other time. and okay it kind of happened a lot but always not his fault). Still, it made sense, even if the source was dubious. Moreover, he was curious how Sebastian knew so much about vampire feeding. Maybe he had a vampire friend. “Really?”

“Mmm hmm.” Sebastian was clearly enjoying telling him things he didn’t know, stretching out on the sofa like a very self-satisfied (and skinny) white cat sunbathing. “Come on, just a little sip. Maybe it’ll last you until Jace is back, and we can take the apartment anywhere your delicate little conscience wants to eat.”

He had a point. Surely a little sip couldn’t hurt when Simon had already chugged a fair bit of it, (never mind that was basically frat boy logic). Also, he was really freaking hungry. His stomach didn’t rumble anymore—which was good, because as a living human stomach Simon’s stomach tended to embarrass him by making loud noises at the most inopportune moments—but if it did, it would be rumbling now. Also, the mental image of throwing himself at Jace the second he opened the door was too humiliating to bear. Surely he’d make fun of Simon forever and a half.

“But what about Jace?” Simon asked. “Won’t he, like, start gushing blood too, what with the—” Simon bit down on the words creepy demon ritual bond and added, hurriedly, “Twinning thing.”

Sebastian gave a bored shrug. “He should feel a pinch when you bite, but not much more. We don’t share all our papercuts, you know. Just major injuries, or life-threatening ones. Besides, my blood replenishes faster than his does. He won’t notice a thing.”

“Fine. One sip.” Simon felt like he was giving in way too fast, but he’d always been bad at pretending to be above these things. Awkwardly, he took a stuttering step towards the couch, then faltered. Sebastian gave him a smug look and moved over so that the couch cushion he’d been on previously was free, patting it with a pale hand. Simon sat, trying not to let his apprehension show (and failing). He looked at Sebastian’s hand, trying his best to keep his fangs from snapping out at the sight of the tiny little veins pulsing in his wrist. “Um, should I—or—?”

Sebastian looked amused, pulling open his collar. Simon could feel the heat and smell of him rolling off him in waves, the fresh pulse of life just under the surface. Since when did he freaking talk that way, anyway? ‘Fresh pulse of life?’ Get a grip, Lewis. You’re not in Twilight erotica. Simon forced his thoughts away from Twilight erotica and back to Sebastian, who was now uncomfortably yet tantalizingly close. Simon could make out every single one of his extremely long, translucent lashes. His nose was weirdly sculpted, like he’d had plastic surgery. The thought of Clary’s weird demon brother having plastic surgery was too much and he snorted, just a little.

Sebastian looked annoyed. “Is there something funny?”

“Um, nothing,” Simon assured him, very quickly. “So, um, wrist or arm or…?”

“Don’t be silly.” The superior tone was back as quickly as Sebastian’s face had flashed its annoyance. “Blood fresh from the heart has more nutrients. Everyone knows that.” He moored his wine glass on the table and pulled back his collar, exposing the long, pale column of his neck. His voice was weirdly soft and his gaze unusually intense when he said, “This will sate you most.”

“Oh,” said Simon. Sate was definitely a normal word that normal people used in normal situations. “Right, yeah, um, totally not weird at all. Gotcha.” He rubbed his hands together, warming them up, then very very carefully put out a hand and laid it uncomfortably on Sebastian’s shoulder. It was warm, and deceptively thin, almost delicate. If he hadn’t seen Sebastian pick up Jace like he’d weighed nothing, he wouldn’t have thought him much stronger than himself—pre vampire glow-up.

Sebastian rolled his eyes and leaned in so that his pulse was just against Simon’s lips, so close Simon could feel his heartbeat against his mouth. It was a weird, electric feeling, and Simon found himself marveling at its slow, steady beat, like a metronome. (His own heart, for the record, was fluttering at breakneck speeds against his ribcage). His fangs slid out, a lot less painfully than usual, and Simon bit down, tentatively.

A sigh passed Sebastian’s lips and salty sweetness exploded into Simon’s mouth, like a kick to the face. He bit down, harder, savoring the blood rushing into his mouth. There was an edge to it that hadn’t been in Jace’s, like the strong sharpness of vodka, mixed with a strange undercurrent Simon couldn’t place, but it tasted good, nothing like the harsh metallic taste of before. He drank and drank, but it seemed no matter how much he got it still tasted so good, nothing like the microwaved bagged stuff he got at the Hunter’s Moon.

Dimly, he could feel Sebastian shift against him—without any urgency. Simon groaned internally, the way he did when he didn’t want to get out of bed. If Sebastian wanted him to stop, he’d stop, but he really didn’t want to.

A languid sound vibrated in his chest and belatedly Simon realized Sebastian had made it. Something between a sigh and a groan, a sound of–pleasure? Was he enjoying this? A curtain of fog lifted, Simon’s mind spinning out. He felt Sebastian’s hand bump his knee and—

“Holy shit are you—are you touching yourself?!” Simon could hear his own voice scale an octave as he jerked back, and hated it. So much for magical vampire ‘no voice cracks.’ “What the hell, dude?”

Sebastian smiled, in the least comforting display of human emotion known to man. His blood was trailing down his neck in dark, tantalizing rivulets, seeping into the crisp white of his dress shirt. No blood, not even arterial blood, was this dark. His gaze was waaay too intense and his voice shockingly husky when he said, “Please, daylighter. Don’t tell me no one has given you a full-course meal before.”

“Um,” said Simon. Apart from full-on admitting to Clary’s (weird) older brother that he was a virgin at 19 (awesome!) and hadn’t really done anything except one very unfortunate makeout session behind a shed when he was 15, he didn’t see any way out of his ignorance. Hadn’t Sebastian said something about physiology affecting how blood tastes? “No offense, dude, but usually when you’re like, eating a steak or whatever, you really hope it isn’t jacking it at the same time, you know?”

There was a ‘beating meat’ joke in there somewhere, but Simon didn’t trust his current presence of mind enough to find it.

Sebastian seemed unaffected by his protestations. “You’re not eating, you’re feeding—on a living, voluntary participant. A performance of two parts, if you will.” He leaned in, and Simon had to pull back at the smell of blood to keep from clamping onto his neck like a very handsome, dashing leech. He traced a finger down Simon’s chin, pulling back his fingertip with a droplet of his own blood. He sucked at the tip of his finger, and Simon’s stomach did a strange little flip he did not want to think about. “So if you don’t mind, you keep to performing your part, and I’ll perform mine.”

A large part of Simon’s brain was screaming to lick up the blood dribbling perilously close to Sebastian’s chest—when had his shirt come that far undone?—so he avoided that no-doubt perilous outcome and ducked in and bit down again, grabbing at Sebastian’s back for better purchase. Fresh blood welled in his mouth, the flavor more complex—notes of sweetness mixed with hints of bitterness. Simon did his best to ignore that Sebastian had hiked one leg up to the couch and was teasing his inner thigh with long fingers–probably good for piano playing, some remote part of him thought. His pulse had picked up, though still steady, beating out a slightly more staccato tempo, though his breath felt unsteady as it brushed hot against Simon’s cheek.

He really hoped Jace didn’t come back right then and find Simon with a mouthful of Sebastian’s blood, and Sebastian with his legs…like that. Simon was quite sure he’d die of embarrassment on the spot, Mark of Cain get fucked. He could just imagine Jace’s smirk right now. “My blood wasn’t enough for you, Lewis?” he’d say, probably flexing. “Really, I’m insulted. Also how come I didn’t get this treatment, too? Is there something you need to tell me about our relationship?”

Simon wasn’t at all sure what Clary saw in him, but he had also been pretty sure he wasn’t going to gorge himself on Sebastian’s blood, either, and that had been just about two minutes ago. Maybe Jace would grow on him. Some day. Even though he was technically dead, Simon wasn’t holding his breath.

Dimly, Simon could feel Sebastian shifting around him, and himself pressing into him. He could feel Sebastian’s heartbeat in his own chest, the sensation unnervingly familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, the rush of blood under his skin. Sebastian’s breath was coming fast and sharp, his pulse swift and sending sharp sparks of sweetness into his blood. Simon could feel that he was breathing hard with him, even if there was nowhere for the oxygen in his lungs to go, his whole body throbbing with the heady power of Sebastian’s blood. Far from sating him, the blood had awakened a deep hunger in him, like standing on the precipice hanging over a very long, dark drop.

Simon felt dizzy with it, chasing the sparks of sweetness, Sebastian’s soft sighs falling away into the addictive heat and richness of his blood. That undercurrent of bitterness was back, but instead of being gross it was incredible, a completeness and complexity that made his chest full and warm like a shot of vodka. (Raiding his mom’s liquor cabinet with Clary when they were kids had been a horrible idea). Greedily, Simon bit down harder and Sebastian groaned, his back arching—

Dazzling sweetness fizzled against his tongue, jolting him with an incredible rush. Sunlight sang in his veins, like the first time he’d felt the heat of sun’s touch on his skin after he thought he’d never see it again. Fireworks popped behind his eyelids as he gasped, wholly overwhelmed, against Sebastian’s neck. Sebastian’s taut spine went soft beneath him, his whole body pliable as clay, and Simon was unable to rid himself of the nagging thought that this was what jacking off furtively in the shower felt like, only like twenty times better.

Tentatively, Simon opened his eyes. Sebastian smiled up at him, looking very self-satisfied. He was slumped against the back of the couch, which Simon had pushed him up against. His eyes, normally inky-black and whippet-sharp, were looking soft, a bit hazy—probably with blood loss. Not for the first time, Simon was arrested by the the unnatural whiteness of his hair, like bleached bones. (Simon only knew what bleached bones looked like because he and Clary had once found one on the beach. They had both been very dissappointed to know it was not, in fact, a human bone, but a chicken’s). 

Then his gaze turned to Sebastian’s neck and chest and Simon yelped, nearly jerking backwards off the couch; only his vampire reflexes caught him from what would have been a very ungainly and embarrassing demise. Sebastian’s chest was slicked and smeared with blood, all the way to his stomach, his shirt soaked through with spreading darkness. Simon’s own shirt—an Ironman shirt he’d gotten off TeeSpring—was wet and sticky with blood. “Eww,” Simon whispered, pulling the wet shirt away from his skin. It flopped back onto his chest when he let it go, wet and now cold. “Ewwwww.”

“Don’t worry, you’re hardly the world’s first messy eater.” Sebastian’s voice was a bit slurred, his movements slightly sluggish when he reached for his wine glass and drained it off in a single gulp. He smiled, the way one might smile at a particularly lush piece of cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. “Feeling better?”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” Simon muttered, a bit shamefaced. Had he gotten blood on the couch? Could you even get blood out of leather? He was quite sure that was a question shadowhunters asked themselves all the time. “Sorry if I, uh, got carried away, or whatever.”

Sebastian gave an abrupt little laugh, turning his gaze up towards the ceiling. “Believe me, I like carried away.”

Simon was silent a moment, trying to formulate the question in his mind. Hey dude, not in the weird way, but did you orgasm and did I…taste it? Again, not in the weird way. “How….how did you do that?”

Sebastian’s lips pulled down into a droll smile, his head lolling Simon’s way on the couch cushion. “My, it really was your first time, wasn’t it?” Before Simon could blush and trip over himself to stammer out a million words, he added, “Perhaps I’ve been a bit dishonest. I’ve frequented many bleeder dens and, ah, perfected the technique.”

Simon knew what bleeder dens were, even if he’d never been to one. Great way to get tetanus, Jace had told him. Also very gross, very Count Dracula. Wouldn’t recommend. He could imagine Sebastian fitting right in, though. So, like a vampire sex club? Clay had asked, and Isabelle had laughed. Exactly like that. “The technique?”

“Orgasm makes the blood incredibly sweet,” Sebastian explained, as if Simon were an idiot. He gave a pointed look downward. “Though I must say you seem to have enjoyed it more than most.”

Simon had the urge to yank off the Seelie ring, lest Clary somehow hear any part of this conversation. It occurred to him he should have done that ages ago, like maybe before the messy blood orgy for two started. How did those things even work, anyway? Yet another thing that didn’t come with an operator’s manual.(Simon was a very firm believer in reading the manual. Clary, by contrast, preferred to play board games without reading the rules).“Oh, um, that’s weird—”

“Don’t worry, I enjoyed it too.” Sebastian leaned in, pressing a paralyzingly light kiss to Simon’s cheek. His hand went automatically to the spot, even as his soul recoiled in horror. Clary had not actually stipulated don’t make out with my evil demon brother, but Simon was pretty sure that was on the unspoken list of friend rules. like maybe at the very top, highlighted in neon, and flashing with a few sirens going off.

He also really kind of wanted to make out with Clary’s evil demon brother. The thought made him despair.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Sebastian told him with a lingering look, standing up with impressive grace for someone who was currently wearing a whole lot of his own blood as a fashion statement. “I suggest you change your shirt, lest my brother return and think you’ve taken to cannibalism. Maybe rest an hour or so, and then I’ll be ready again.” To Simon’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes, he said, with a glimmer of a dark wink, “The femoral artery is a real treat, for both of us. You’ll love it, I promise.”

[lady-lazaret]

A Token of Affection

For a prompt sent by @housesghastlymenhaunted It was fun changing it up a bit and writing in Maeve’s voice haha. (Don't ask me, I started this way, waaay back and forgot what the prompt was 😂) Canon divergence, Julian in the red market, book ix

The underground is like a maze, and considering the amount of people, it’s easy to get lost in.

I hold on tight to Julian’s hand as I focus on keeping my balance. Between the uneven stone floor and the endless crowd before us, it’s hard not to trip over the endless parade of feet, but I manage. If only because the last time I fell led to Julian getting stabbed. Not that he seemed to mind, but I’m not keen on it.

“You know, this is the third time we’ve passed by the stall selling the asphodels and moly,” I point out, drawing closer to his side.

“Nonsense, I know this place like the back of my hand. And trust me, I know it well. Do you know how much time I spend staring at the brand?”

“Have you not stopped to consider that maybe they’ve changed their layout a bit? When was the last time you were here?”

He drops his gaze, sheepish. “That’s true. The last time I was here, people still sought refuge from the plague. But I know there was a lady who sold memorabilia nearby, the real stuff. Stall has a red roof, gold bunting. Hard to miss.”

Hard to…? I look over to the booth with the asphodels and sigh. Red roof. Gold bunting. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the wear and tear of the rest of the Red Market. A young man tends to the flowers, shovel in one hand, watering can in the other. He seems to be alone; no lady to speak of.

Julian follows my gaze and realizes his mistake.

“You know, they might have changed their layout more than I thought. How do you feel about ducking into one of those passages?” he motions towards a shady alley, “God knows where it’ll get us, but it’s better than here.”

It’s not a bad idea, if not a bit questionable. That thinking’s got us in danger before, but we’re out of options. I nod and follow him into a shadowy space between stalls.

And on the other side, it smells like jasmines.

When I survey the space, I’m awed by how different it looks from the rest of the market. Though it still looks rather shady, it’s enough to make me loosen my hold on my satchel, though not on Julian’s hand. I take note of the stalls lined with various exotic ingredients, things that Asra frequently has to journey far to even get the barest bit of. Already, I feel the hole in my coinpurse. I could wander here for days, though it definitely does pose a bit of danger.

“Now this I’ve never seen,” comments Julian as he takes a tentative step forward, sweeping the place warily. I think it’s more beauty than danger, but it does pay to be more cautious.

“Definitely different from brine and leeches, huh?” I ask, taking a step towards a stall swathed in white silk, all manner of finery lining it.

“Definitely. But is it a good difference or a bad difference? All I see is witchcraft.”

I roll my eyes. “You were fine with witchcraft a second ago.”

“Maybe because you’ve enchanted me.”

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you say things for the sake of cheesiness or if you just happen to have something ready for every situation. It’s not even— whatever.”

“You’re like an adventure, you know? Impossible to get ready for, but something one goes with nonetheless.”

“Are you implying that you’re only just tolerating me?”

“I’m implying that I can’t resist you, Maeve.” He winks. Or blinks. I can’t really tell.

He trails behind me as I survey a stall filled with oddities. Vials of jewel-toned liquids and rare flower pulp call to me, the magic they give off making the air shimmer. Beside them sit candleholders glowing from the inside, their flames almost certainly undying. Their metalwork speaks of years and years of refinement, and the aura they give off is…

“Magic warmth, blessed with the comfort of your birthplace,” says the old lady tending to the stall. She has stitches over one eye and an owl on her shoulder.

I resist the draw of the candleholders. “My birthplace?” I look over to Julian who squeezes my shoulder. “Not very comforting.”

“Your memories aren’t quite fond? How about something to ward off your nightmares?” The woman brandishes a dream catcher in front of me, woven with spider silk and iridescent feathers. Its wooden frame gives off an aura older than the ground we stand on.

Subtly, Julian nudges me, jerking his chin towards vials of deep purple and inky black. Basilisk venom and tonic made from belladonna and hemlock crushed with stone made from a gorgon’s stare. Both help with eternal sleep. Some of the rarest, most potent poison. A shiver runs down my spine and we move along.

We pass stalls of golden fruit and silver wine, everything served on goblets and platters piled high with jewels. A lady tends one stall, a coral snake around her arm. In another, a boy wrestles playfully with a cheetah not quite grown.

They’re witches, I realize. Witches and magicians old and young, their familiars accompanying them to work. If we weren’t caught up in the investigation, I’d open a stall down here.

I change my mind when an overgrown Venus flytrap snaps at my satchel. I hold on tighter to Julian and run along.

It’s only after a bit of clueless wandering that we stop to take a breather. At this point, both of us know that there isn’t much to gain from this excursion, and so our pace is little more than a curious meander before it stops altogether.

He takes a look at the ceiling above us, every inch of it covered in enchanted lanterns. They’re so bright that it looks like daylight down here, even though neither of us are quite sure how long we’ve spent down here. But it’s certainly been long enough for me to get hungry.

Julian surprises me by taking my hand and lacing our fingers together.

“When all this is through, remind me to take you on a proper date.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’ll pass if you take me down here again.”

“What’s not to like?” he laughs. “Hags with potent poisons, all manner of dangerous beasts… I’d wager that isn’t all that’s lurking about. How about it? We’ll eat some fruit, drink some wine, and stay trapped down here like some poor fairytale idiots.”

I roll my eyes. “How romantic.”

He shrugs. “Better than any old hole in the wall. I bet this place never runs out of adventure. What do you think it’ll be next time? A magical duel? Colosseum battle with some fanged horror? How about it, Maeve?”

“Goddamn. You had me at magical duel, Doctor.”

“It’s settled then. When all this is over, I want to see you flex your magic muscles.”

“That sounds ridiculous.”

“And attractive.” He winks. Or so I think he does.

When we resume our walk, there’s a bit more spring in his step, and in mine, admittedly. We keep our fingers entwined as we move through the crowds and the hawking vendors, each step another one in the wrong direction. The bit of worry in the back of my mind grows with each passing minute, though, because every moment we fail to find a lead is one closer to Julian’s hanging. The lightness in my chest gives way to dread.

I nearly tell him that he have to leave, but he abruptly stops in front of me and takes me to one of the stalls. When I turn to question him, I see that he looks radiant.

Before us is a glittering array of costumes. Sequined gowns and embroidered tailcoats line haphazard racks, and the middle of the stall is brimming with glittering accessories— hats woven with bits of silver and peacock feathers, earrings that twinkle with chunks of bismuth, and masks of various sizes that boast gold embroidery and swirls of luminescent paint. It’s one of those he holds up for me to see: an elegant piece made of cracked ivory with a gold full moon on the centre and a crescent flanking either side. Delicate silver whorls decorate it, turning blue and green when he moves it this way and that.

“This suits you, don’t you think?”

I blush, all worries abated, if only for a second. “I can’t believe you saw that and just… thought of me. It’s really pretty.”

“Quite like you, my dear. Allow me the honour of letting this grace your lovely face?”

Red to the tips of my ears, I brush my hair aside and let him secure it at the back of my neck. It’s quite heavy, but I feel the magic along its grooves.

“A lovely mask for a lovely lady,” says the shopkeeper, a little ferret peeking over their shoulder. They offer me a hand mirror, and I gleefully note that it suits me well. I kiss Julian on the cheek, standing on the tips of my toes.

The cracks in the ivory are filled with bits of crushed labradorite, channeling magic throughout the whole thing. It makes me feel calmer, a bit less apprehensive. And the effect is nothing short of breathtaking.

“Let me get it for you,” offers Julian, a smile on his face.

I touch the mask, the ivory cool against my fingers. “It looks like it costs a bit. It’s fine,” I say, making a mental note to come back for it when I start crying gemstones.

“More than that dumb brush? It’ll be my pleasure,” he says, already handing the shopkeep a bag of coins. Hopefully, it isn’t pirate gold this time.

“Thank you,” I say, sheepishly, once the mask is put in a box and wrapped with twine. “Next time we’re down here, let me get you something.”

He looks at the other items on display. “Matching masks for the Masquerade?”

“I honestly never thought I’d be into those matching couple things, but it’s a deal.”

“Get out of here, clear my name, and attend the Masquerade in matching outfits with the prettiest girl in Vesuvia? Sounds like a fine plan.”

As we walk arm in arm, I hear footsteps behind us and the unmistakable throaty croak.

“Those are the two imbeciles who stiffed me with pirate gold!” yells the Memory Dealer.

Julian and I exchange a look, and then we run as fast as we can, laughing all the way.