#shadows casting over and obscuring their form… it’s brilliant

[ddarker-dreams]

thought i would try my hand at making god darling. i think your writing is neat

[spencerreidswhore187]

Night Shift

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: In the pursuit of an audacious art thief, Spencer Reid and you engage in a thrilling cat-and-mouse game.

Word Count: 1.2k

In the dimly lit room of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit, Special Agent Spencer Reid meticulously studied the pattern of a notorious art thief. Known for their audacious heists, the thief had been stealing famous religious paintings, leaving behind little evidence but a trail of intrigue and frustration. As Spencer delved into the case, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this thief than met the eye.

It was another morning at the BAU, and the team gathered around the large round table, ready to discuss their latest case. Spencer adjusted his glasses, flipping through the files and crime scene photos, attempting to find a connection that eluded even the most seasoned investigators.

"Alright, team," Hotch began, his voice steady and authoritative. "We've got a new case. The thief has struck again, stealing 'The Madonna with Child' from the St. Augustine Museum. Reid, what have you found so far?"

Spencer looked up from his notes, his mind racing with information. "The thief seems to be specifically targeting religious paintings. There's a pattern in the choice of artwork, and I'm working on identifying any potential religious or symbolic significance."

As the team continued to brainstorm and strategise, a mysterious figure lurked in the shadows, watching them from a distance. You, the infamous art thief, observed the investigation unfold with a mix of amusement and fascination. The challenge of outsmarting the brilliant minds of the FBI excited you, and you relished in the chase.

Over the course of the investigation, Spencer's intellect and determination began to catch your attention. You found yourself drawn to the enigmatic agent, intrigued by the way his mind worked. As the thefts continued, the cat-and-mouse game between you and Spencer intensified, each move more calculated than the last. Each heist brought the two of you closer, like chess players engaged in an intricate dance, each move calculated and deliberate. Spencer found himself captivated by the mystery that surrounded you, your motives, and the brilliant mind that orchestrated these audacious thefts.

One day, after another successful heist, you received a mysterious message. An encrypted note left at the scene of the crime, challenging you to a meeting. Intrigued, you decided to take the bait.

The moon cast a soft glow over the secluded park where the meeting was set to take place. Spencer stood in the shadows, his eyes scanning the area. Suddenly, you emerged from the darkness, your face obscured by a hood.

"Special Agent Reid," you greeted, your voice low. "Impressive. You managed to find me."

Spencer's gaze was unwavering as he replied, "I'm not here to arrest you. I want to understand why you're doing this. There has to be a reason behind the choice of these paintings."

You chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet night. "Curiosity killed the cat, Agent Reid."

But Spencer wasn't deterred. He continued to engage you in conversation, unravelling the layers of your motives and the intricate web of your past. As the night wore on, an unexpected connection formed between you and Spencer, a bond that transcended the roles of detective and thief.

The echo of footsteps resonated through the quiet museum as you emerged from the shadows, your face still concealed by the hood of your cloak. Spencer's gaze met yours, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

"You're quite persistent, Reid," you remarked, your voice laced with a mixture of amusement and intrigue.

"I need to understand why," Spencer replied, his tone earnest. "There has to be more to this than just stealing paintings."

A spark of curiosity flickered in your eyes as you engaged in a battle of words, each probing the other's vulnerabilities. The conversation danced between danger and desire, the line between captor and captive becoming increasingly blurred.

The stolen artworks were not just random targets; they held a deeper meaning, a connection to your past that even you hadn't fully unravelled. Spencer, with his keen intellect, became the key to unlocking the mysteries that shrouded your motives.

The heists continued, each one revealing a layer of complexity in the relationship between the art thief and the profiler. Spencer found himself torn between duty and an inexplicable attraction that defied logic. You, in turn, struggled with the emotions that surfaced as you got to know the man behind the badge.

In the quiet moments between heists and investigations, there were stolen glances and fleeting touches. The air was charged with unspoken words, the tension simmering beneath the surface. A slow burn, like a fuse inching its way toward an inevitable explosion.

One night, after the recovery of yet another stolen masterpiece, Spencer found himself standing in front of you, the weight of the investigation heavy on his shoulders. "Why did you choose me?" he asked, his eyes searching for answers in the depths of yours.

You hesitated, the vulnerability in your gaze betraying the walls you had built. "Because you see beyond the surface. You see the person, not just the criminal.”

The admission hung in the air, a silent acknowledgement of the connection that had formed between you. As the investigation intensified, the line between right and wrong blurred further. Spencer found himself grappling with the realisation that the art thief he was chasing was not just a criminal but a complex individual with layers of pain and redemption.

In the midst of a high-stakes operation to recover a stolen painting, the unexpected happened. A moment of danger, a shared adrenaline-fuelled escape, and the realisation that the lines between love and justice had become indistinguishable. The slow burn ignited into a fiery passion that neither of you could deny.

The aftermath of the operation left you standing in the dimly lit room, surrounded by recovered artworks. Spencer approached you, his gaze intense yet tender. "I can't just let you go, but maybe there's another way. Join us, and work with the FBI. Help make amends for what you've done."

And so, the notorious art thief became an unexpected ally, a consultant to the BAU. The slow burn of your connection continued, navigating the complexities of love and redemption. Spencer and you found solace in each other's arms, the weight of the past gradually lifting as you embraced a future that defied expectations.

The dance between the art thief and the profiler had evolved into a love story, a journey that transcended the boundaries of law and order. As the days turned into months, the BAU faced new challenges, but with the strength of an unexpected bond, they confronted each obstacle together.

In the quiet moments, between stolen glances and whispered confessions, Spencer and you discovered that love, like art, was a masterpiece that took time to unfold, layer by layer, brushstroke by brushstroke, in the canvas of their intertwined lives.

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[hanayori89]

Part of your Realm

🐺* Thank you to anyone who reads my work! I wrote this fanfic and it is rather long but as I continue to edit it, I’d like to share it on here. The full fic is uploaded on my Wattpad! * 🐺

Crepuscular

*Welcome to the Realm of Twilight*

"It is duly noted that the interlopers have more in common with the Realm of Light than we would think." Midna paced back and forth. She caressed the glass shard that adorned her neck. Her gaze looked far away. As though she had traversed through the Realm of Light once again. Even if it was just through her memories.

Students mouths hung unhinged from their jaws. All Twili were curious about the Realm of Light, especially since Midna's return. Oh, and of course, Zant's defeat. Midna decided that the Twili deserved to be educated about the "other side." The side of light. Just because we lived in the dark didn't mean we should be left, ignorant amongst it. Midna held monthly courses for fellow Twili who were interested in the structure of the Realm of Light.

Courses varied from mannerisms to architecture, culture, and, of course, history. Most Twili were in favor of Midna's radical movements about the Realm of Light. Midna believed she and Zelda were one and the same, just on opposite sides of the mirror. Her adoration for Princess Zelda paled in comparison to her adoration for the Hero of Twilight. Who helped return Midna as the rightful inheritor of the Twili throne. Any time she spoke of him, her face shifted into a forlorn shadow of its former self. She even renamed the main hall of our palace the "Hall of the Hero." Where we congregated monthly to listen to imparted wisdom regarding the Realm of Light.

Don't mistake Midna's ideals. It wasn't that she was trying to convert our brilliant umbrage to replicate the philosophies of the illuminated. She simply wanted us to live in an era of peace. She wanted us to hold ourselves accountable for our banishment from the light. Most of all, she wanted us to learn that we too, if we so chose, could rewrite history much like she had. We were not our ancestors. Under her reign, history would not repeat itself. Shadows are not evil, for even the beings of light cast shadows in their world. We must coexist.

Not all Twili felt the same. Some believed we should not be held accountable for the actions of the interlopers.  Who also just so happen to be our traitorous ancestors. Eons ago, they tried to aggrandize the power of the legendary Triforce. This unjust action caused us, the Twili, to be cast into the world of the crepuscular. You were in this category of Twili. You did not wish to be cast into this nomenclature when you personally had done nothing wrong. You felt like you were being charged for a crime you never committed. And just like a prisoner longed to break the chains of obscurity in which he was tried, you longed to break free from the Realm of Twilight.

*

You found Midna in her study. She picked up a book off the shelf, then sighed, returning the book to its original slot of dust.

"Midna?" Your tattered cloak trailed behind you as you swept into Midna's vision.

"Ah, Y/N. What brings you here? Do you wish to discuss more about today's class?" Midna took a seat on her foreboding iron throne. You always found it ironic that Midna chose to display the headdress of the imp. When Zant usurped the throne, he transmogrified Midna into an impish creature. Now it sat like a trophy, perched atop her throne. When she sat down, it appeared to float majestically on her head. She seemed to notice the bewilderment stamped on your face.

"You know, it must seem odd. Why keep this relic of a cursed form? But it reminds me of him."

"Who?" You asked in earnest. You knew who "him" was, however. It was impossible not to see the adoration etched on her features anytime she spoke of the hero. She talked about how emotions lorded power over the Realm of Light and its inhabitants. For the Twili, feelings were transitory, like blades of grass blowing in the wind. The wind could stop howling, and the blades could be blown in one direction or another. All of this unpredictability did not deserve a name in their world. And so Twili lived without ever really being educated about feelings. You couldn't help but wonder, what did Midna feel towards the Hero of Twilight? Did she herself even know?

"The hero," she said with a smile eclipsed by the surrounding shadows. "So, Y/N, tell me what plagues your mind."

It felt like someone had substantiated your chest with heavy chains. The weight of what you were about to ask crushed you. You felt imprisoned by a yearning you could no longer contain. "Midna, is it possible to travel to the Realm of Light?"

Little slivers of light filtered through her face in the dark. You could make out nothing but the burgundy gleam in her eyes. She gathered herself from her chair. You could vaguely make out her fidgeting with something behind her neck. Midna transported behind you, giving you a startle. In her hands was the shard of the Mirror of Twilight. She loosely looped it around your neck like an albatross.

"This piece of the Mirror of Twilight is the only remaining piece in existence. It has the potential to transport anyone to the light. However, should something happen to this remaining piece, you could no longer call the twilight your home. This makes the situation tricky; you know, we are not meant to be beings of the light. We don't speak the same language. Many of us don't speak much at all, though I would like to move that oppression. The pallor we possess could not withstand the strength known as the sun. Not to mention," she began to lift part of her cloak," we will always be tattooed by the Realm of the Twilight. We will never be able to escape who we are.

Midna gently followed the maze of markings that traveled up her arm with her fingertip. "I appreciate your avid interest in the Realm of Light, but my intention is to never make you lose sight of who you are. Who we are."

"How do we know who we are if we have never been given the opportunity? Like you have?" Midna bitterly laughed, "Opportunity you say? What opportunity was that? Being transformed into a hideous creature? Watching our innocent fellow Twili die? Having the throne usurped from me? Having to say goodbye to someone I loved..." Midna yanked the shard from your neck, crestfallen.

"We can never belong in their realm, Y/N." You could see Midna stalling to say more. As though she wanted you to convince her that her opinion was wrong. Maybe the interest in the Realm of Light had a more selfish connotation to it? You saw her hesitation as a chance to strike.

"Midna," you said, looking her square in the eyes, ready for debate. "Doesn't "twilight" have the word "light" in it? If the interlopers who are our ancestors are not much different than those of the light, how can you cast us as different? Aren't we all made of some type of light? Some type of light that leads to the same source?" You got down on one knee in reverence and bowed to her, for she was the princess of the twilight after all. "Midna, I recognize that what I called an opportunity may seem crass. But you have come back a stronger version of yourself. Look at the changes you are making within our realm. And..." you felt an unwelcome warmth permeate your cheeks. You weren't sure why. "I would like to know love. Like you have. It is all I dream of. If we never tried to steal the Triforce, could I be one among the light? A... Hylian?"

Midna released a conquered sigh. "Alright, Y/N. Because you are one of my best pupils. Because I think you are destined for greatness within our realm. I will award you a trip to the Realm of Light. Under one condition."

You could hardly contain the silly smile that pulled your cheeks tightly back on your face. You weren't sure what was making you react in such a way. Perhaps it was the permission to be part of the light? You read about happiness before. Was this it? So many things you've researched yet didn't experience to understand. Now you would know. Maybe you would be like Midna. You would meet someone like the Hero of Twilight and make the same face when you said his name.

"This will be a homework assignment. When you return you must tell me where the truth lies... within the shadows of darkness or within the illumination of the light."

You didn't realize the difficulty that this assignment would hold.

A/N: Edited 10/23/22

As I write this I am actively working on editing and tying up loose ends within the story. Thank you for being patient to whomever reads this!

Where do you think the truth lies? Within the light or the darkness? There is a theme I'm trying to implement in this story :)

Check out my other Zelda OOT work that is completed- No Woman Beyond

[randomwriteronline]

The Lords could not be harmed, shifting mounds of nature that they were, shapes unclear and indestructible as they reached out to their traitorous subjects to submit them once more; above them they stood, colossal and sublime, casting long shadows upon them as they towered like pillars holding sky and ground apart, and on them were fixed six brilliant gazes of crystal and metal and flesh.

How those hands reached out for them! With such a longing awe, like children begging to be held, the living wide-eyed killing machines strained to join them, turning their backs to those who had believed to find in them friends and allies and soldiers against those who had torn their home apart so thoughtlessly to give themselves to the Lords wholly, completely, utterly, enamored and entranced by their elemental infinity, so ethereally solid that they could feel it in their palms already; and the Lords, magnanimous as they were (as they fancied themselves to be in their cruelty), reached out to them in turn, welcoming them as their impenetrable army of one, beckoning them closer, closer.

And with that closeness they saw, perhaps too late, the gleam in the glowing eyes; and with that closeness they realized, perhaps too late, that there was nothing childish within them if not for a turbulent hunger, vast and all-consuming, and something else so darkly bright, so blindingly obscure, that they could not put a word to it.

And those hands reached, and sank into them.

And the Lords screamed in anguish.

In a sudden focused frenzy the beasts curled their claws of protodermis and climbed the infinite bodies. They left marks of their passage - deep wounds bleeding copiously, reaching down to bones that long had been stripped away by divinity, tearing apart non-existent flesh with the ease of paper, their skeletal frames ravenous as they dug holes in the godly forms to take their essence for themseves, coating shining metal in fire, stone, earth, water, ice, air, like disgusting bugs carving their way through luxurious fabrics and woods and painting and statues, hungry, hungry, hungry, starving and yearning and needing - and the Lords shouted, the Lords wailed, the Lords cried, the Lords howled in unison with the mechanical men eating them alive, ascending higher, higher, not demanding audience anymore, only digging into their nerves with a staggering familiarity, a bloodied fondness.

Artificial faces at last before the divinely natural eyes, frightened gods cradled with such murderous tenderness in hand-crafted palms, an unnatural light sparked within crystalline matter: perhaps what they forced upon the Lords was a sarcastic pantomime, perhaps it was a genuine gesture carried on in the only violent manner a living weapon could muster, perhaps it was as new and frightening for them as it was so painfully horrifying for their destined misshapen mirrors; but their mechanical bodies strained with their thin muscles as air poured through vents so scalding and freezing and humid and dry and dusty and clear, as they crowed out for all the universe to hear the love bursting in fulminating sparks and horrid shrieks of cogs clashing in ways they were not built to do, and with something that could be considered akin only to a terrible kiss they sank into the sublime endlessness of the Elemental Lords, and tore them to shreds in an indescribably gruesome amorous spectacle.

Nothing was left of them - nothing but men, frightened mortal shells of flesh and bone, clawed free from their ineffability as their former people approached them cautiously, circled around them to bear witness to their descent from their gilded thrones.

Hunched over them stood still the living beings of metal and muscle, immoble, eyes aglow with energy, encased in their element as though it were their skin - fitting them so naturally, like it had never fit upon the Lords. Then something zapped, creaked, exhaled harshly: their irises flickered, sparks of color pulsing before giving in, and they collapsed upon the exhausted remains of their domains, as still as corpses yet with hearts still beating gently, calmly, sweetly, radiating spots of light upon but a spec of their slowly reawakening world like fireflies unaware of their own mortality.

[waking-electric]

A Grave Is A Beginning

Tonight, a grave is a beginning. Centuries ago, Astarion’s tombstone had silently watched as Cazador dragged him into a nightmare. Now it bears witness to a kiss.

An exploration of That Graveyard Scene…and a whole lot of smut.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2.5k Tags: Astarion x Tav: One-shot, fluff and smut (with a little angst) [Read On AO3 Here] Over the centuries, Astarion has found himself with an unending array of bedmates on an equally varied number of beds. From plush Upper City carriages to bug-ridden mattresses in the worst inns Baldur’s Gate has to offer. His back has been dampened by the wooden floor of the shipyard and his knees dirtied by Bloomridge Park soil.

Astarion is sure there is hardly an alley in all the city where he hadn’t fucked some victim or another against a wall.

The graveyard is a new one, though. Then again, everything about his life these past months has been impossibly, terrifyingly, wondrously new.

Tonight there is no reluctant hunt, no resigned flirtation. There are no doomed strangers following his siren call. There is nothing in the world, nothing at all but a familiar hand warming his.

The woman at his side is no naive mark primed for manipulation. She hasn’t been for a very long time. In truth, she never really was, and he just hadn’t realized it. He supposes it was the single stroke of luck in his long, unfailingly unlucky life that Tav is the most forgiving woman in Faerûn. At least where he is concerned.

She is not the only thing that is different about tonight. Astarion himself feels changed.

Unlike during the hundreds of trysts before her, he does not flinch at Tav’s touch. Nor does he carefully arrange his face to hide a grimace. He has no need for a mask.

No desire for one either, unlike that first time at the Tiefling party. He wants Tav to see his entire self. He wants her to know him, know everything, know that she is the sun over his bright new world, rising from the rot and ruin.

He tells her he loves her, and this time he means it. He tells her that he wants her, he wants this. He wants everything she can give and to give her everything he can offer. His proclamation is as much a spell cast into the universe, echoing with arcane intent, as it is a confession. Tonight, a rogue is an archmage and he will have his due.

Tav smiles softly beneath the shadow of Astarion’s tombstone. Tonight, a grave is a beginning. Centuries ago, it had watched in stony silence as Cazador dragged him into a nightmare. Now it bears witness to a kiss.

Her lips taste like freedom. He could swear his dead heart is beating a frantic tattoo against his chest. He pushes her to the cemetery ground.

Astarion wants to laugh at himself. For months he has hunted for a miracle in a necromancer’s tome, in a tadpole’s whisper, in a devil’s word. Only to find it here, in a woman’s smile, in his own two hands that squeeze and grasp and caress in a hundred tiny choices. His to make and — his eyes rake over her form — his to take.

He climbs over her like the predator he is not and shall never be again. Tav rises to meet him, this lioness of his who dares, again and again, to meet his eyes with neither pity nor fear.

How many pairs of eyes have stared back at him with lust? How many more with numbness and despair? How many times has a lover looked at him with foggy eyes, pretending to see another?

Astarion looks into Tav’s eyes and sees lust, yes, but also the love behind it, glowing like sunlight through mist, too brilliant to be obscured. He cannot not see his own red eyes reflected back. Still, he is sure that if he had a reflection, he’d spy the same adoration burning in them.

He and Tav had already changed into their camp clothes before he led her out here. He is glad of this now. He feels too wired for his normally dexterous hands to manage the numerous buckles of his armor. He rips his shirt over his head and tosses it aside. It lands on his tombstone. He kicks his trousers and undergarments away as though they have done him personal harm.

Astarion forces himself to take his time as he sets to work on the fastenings of Tav’s dress. Each button is yet another iron padlock. Oh, for a skeleton key. But there, that’s the last one. Décolletage now suitably exposed, Astarion traces his fingertips across her clavicle and dusts his lips across her breasts. His fingers tremble. She is so soft beneath him. Gods above and below, he could worship forever at the altar of her skin. And yet his muscles shake with the effort to linger there, when every instinct screams at him for more. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

This restraint lasts all of thirty seconds when Tav murmurs, “Astarion...please.”

He yanks at her dress so hard the fabric tears. No matter, he can sew it up for her later. And he can make it up to her now. A growl erupts from his chest.

He curls his fingers through her hair and pulls, trailing kisses hot and swift across her jawline and sternum. His tongue flickers over her nipples, earning him a loud gasp. The soft sound is a red-hot brand running through him, throat to spine to cock. He blazes with excruciating pleasure. Astarion makes his way down and laps at her cunt, eager for more. He is not disappointed.

“Yes! Yes!” she cries. Yes. The word is fresh and renewed and all his.

Tav returns in kind, swiping her tongue gently over the shell of his long pointed ear. She traces faint patterns down his chest, over the hard muscles of his stomach. Her path is slow and meandering as it edges downwards, as though she is buying time for him to stop her descent. It occurs to Astarion — somewhere in the more-coherent parts of his brain — that that is exactly what she is doing. Even now, even after his bold words and even bolder deeds, she is giving him the space to stop. Gods, this woman.

He softly covers her hand in his and guides it downward. She looks up at him, eyes partially obscured by hair that has escaped its fastenings. “Go on,” he murmurs. “Please.”

Tav gives him a small smile and works her fingers around his throbbing cock. It knocks the wind out of his chest (which is saying something as he doesn’t strictly need to breathe).

Amazingly, his skin does not shudder against her touch. There is no instinct to freeze, only to enjoy. He groans in appreciation as her other hand skims across his shoulder blades, his ass, his stomach.

Amazing how tender a touch can be, he thinks, as Tav’s fingernails rake across his back, where once a knife carved a damning pact. He closes his eyes and narrows his focus until his entire world is the warmth of her hand on his cock.

Each stroke is the breath of a bellows, building him higher and higher and higher. Then, all too soon, the warmth of Tav’s hand around his length is gone and his body aches with the loss.

Suddenly, Astarion is guided backwards by Tav’s gentle hand pressing against his chest. He feels cold stone at his back and overgrown grass prickling at his thighs. For a moment, Astarion is alone with his grave.

Then Tav returns with the warmth of her mouth around him. Astarion gasps. Pleasure courses through him in blissful, rolling waves. He suddenly remembers a line, one of many meaningless nothings, from that first fateful night at the party.

The gods made you just to ruin me.

A choked gasp of pleasure escapes his chest. Not so meaningless now, is it? He begins to laugh.

The waves stop again as Tav’s head pops up in curiosity. Astarion could kick himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, my love.” He shakes his head and shoots her the biggest, most sincere grin to ever grace his face. “Just fate.”

Gods, he is ruined.

He pulls Tav towards him and kisses her deeply. His tongue slides into her mouth. He can feel her shudder in desire beneath him as his leg hooks around and expertly pushes her thighs apart. He must have performed this same sequence a thousand times before. Never has he felt so powerful while doing so. Never has it stirred in him such hunger.

His lips find her ear. “I want to live,” he whispers. “Help me live.”

When he enters her, there is no tension in his chest, no fleeing of his mind a thousand leagues away. Only Tav’s warm pressure against him. The little noises she makes sends thundershocks through his brain and he does not have to pretend when he moans in response.

Astarion is drowning in an ocean of wetness and still he yearns for more. His teeth find her throat. Tav’s blood tastes like the mercy he’d never thought he’d find. The more he swallows her, the more he is lost. Their blood mingles together in his veins and he thrums with arcane connection, the borders between “Astarion” and “Tav '' becoming fuzzy and mutable. How ironic, to find himself most clearly in the heartbeat of another.

Like a blind man, he fumbles in the dark for her wrist. A brush of his lips, a prick of his fangs, and ah, bliss. The vampire alternates between kissing and sucking. Tav shivers beneath him, both the bounty and the goddess who provides it. Her legs wrap around his torso. His eyes nearly roll back in his head. He has always viewed his condition as a curse, but tonight it blesses him with the power to reach impossible bliss.

In the distance, Astarion hears Tav cry his name. He gazes at her face and he finds that he is so desperately in love with her he is sure he will shatter into a thousand pieces and scatter over her like so many flakes of snow.

She shouts “Fuck! Fuck, yes, Astarion, yes,”into the night sky. Remarkable how such crude language is a poem on her lips, on this night, with nothing but a man and a tomb for an audience.

As they move together, he whispers her name in her delicate ear. This is new, too. Before he had avoided names if he could help it, in a bid to make it just a little bit easier, a little less real. It never worked.

Now he names her with abandon. He would sear it into the night, weave her so deeply into the fabric of his reality that she would never end, that this moment would stretch on to eternity.

He would fashion a universe made entirely of their rhythm and their sweat.

Making love. He has heard the phrase a thousand times, and has said it himself a thousand more, in a tone so facetious it hid his disgust. But tonight, he makes love. And it’s good.

Tav’s hands creep to his face to caress his cheek. She truly is a wonder, he thinks. Even in the wildest throes of passion, she makes a point of tenderness.

The rolling of his hips begins to speed up and he strains to maintain their steady rhythm. They start to stutter. Sweat beads up, glistening like diamonds on his pale skin. Tav is a wildfire beneath him as she clenches and releases around his cock. She cries his name once more, head thrown back to expose that bewitching neck, and he is done for.

Astarion spills into her in a great rush. He cries out her name like a battlehorn, proclaiming his place in the universe.

When it is over, he feels an odd but not unpleasant kind of relief. As though his skin had fit two sizes too small before, and his lover tore it off and exquisitely tailored it before sewing him back in. He rolls his head, tested the muscles of his arms and back in languid stretches. He feels… right.

Still, there is no perfection tonight. There are a few too many fumbles and startles and half-remembered flashbacks for that. Astarion has died from a thousand cuts and will heal bit by bit across countless minutes and kisses and setbacks and stumbles. But tonight is one hell of a start.

Tav shoots him a playful grin. “So, what’d you think of the first night of your life?” She sounds a bit breathless, still recovering from their exertions.

Astarion kisses her on the nose. “It was fairly alright, perhaps a six-and-a-half, seven out of ten,” he teases.

“That’s all? That can’t possibly be all!”

“Oh, darling, you haven’t seen anything yet.” He kisses her deeply and hopes she can sense all of the love and desire and exhilaration behind his banter.

He is alive. He is so fucking alive and this remarkable woman is here at his side to live it with him. And Astarion has plans for the two of them.

He and Tav later find a host of other unlikely places to make love. The hidden room in the attic of the Society of Brilliance headquarters. Just about every inch of their Underdark fortress that isn’t occupied by vampire spawn. Gale’s kitchen table in Waterdeep, which Tav profusely apologizes for afterward.

They do not find themselves in Baldur’s Gate often. They are busy building a haven in the dark, hunting for the sunlight, living their lives together. Every so often they are even intrepid rescuers again, to Astarion’s continued (and possibly feigned) chagrin.

Yet without fail, he returns every year to the graveyard on his newly-minted birthday, Tav in tow. Sometimes the couple linger in the city for a tenday and catch up with old friends, the “Heroes of Baldur’s Gate” come again. Other times, they slip into town for just a single night, the secretive and uncrowned Lord and Lady of the world’s most unlikely vampire nest. Other times still, they are just two more strangers in a city of rogues. But they always come, and always come together.

The cemetery in the Lower City does not have the best security, to put it mildly. They are never caught, although more than one urban legend has sprung up about spectral lovers who may be heard on a moonlit evening if you listen very closely. Astarion cannot help but smile when he hears them — he knows there are far worse ways one can feature in a ghost story. He resolves to coax louder cries from Tav. He can never resist a chance to fuel drama. Tav, for her part, doesn’t complain.

He grows to love their yearly pilgrimage, that annual rite of renewal. He finds it strangely fitting to celebrate life and love in a graveyard. And oh, how they celebrate. Astarion is convinced that at least one of their children is conceived in the shadow of his tombstone. Tav accuses him of “weird and wishful thinking.” No matter. The point is that they are and they are safe and before dawn he will join them, far away from his empty grave. And in a nearby palace, even emptier still, the nightmare that was Cazador is nothing but dust.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart - Chapter 12

Silco takes you Topside for your very first date. Then sees more of you than ever before…

Everybody Lives AU | Pre-Act 1 | Silco x Reader | Female!Reader | Slow Burn | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Mild Angst || SFW | WC: 3.47k

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 3.5 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 7.5 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11

taglist (open): @sherwood-forests @deny-the-issue @let-the-monster-out @ariaud @joscelyn02 @crunchlite @sheacrowley

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Tonight’s the big night. And you already screwed it up.

You pace back and forth frantically in front of your wardrobe, chewing on your fingernails.

You shouldn’t have kissed Silco before your first date. You’re going to scare him off with how eager— no, with how desperate you were. Everybody knows you don’t kiss until the third date. Or at least, that was what a little girl at Janna’s Hearth had told you. At the ripe old age of nine years, she had spoken with a confident, matter-of-fact tone that conveyed all the wisdom of her life experience. You had listened to her carefully with wide eyes; at that age, it’s important to show children that adults will respect what they have to say and take them seriously.

Maybe you should have paid closer attention to her.

It’s a ridiculous Topside expectation for you to wear a different dress to every single social gathering, as if it were a war crime to wear the same outfit to different parties. Why did Pilties care so much about something so inconsequential? It shouldn’t be such a big deal as long as the dress is clean. Most Zaunites wouldn’t have the money or patience to buy an excessive amount of formalwear, much less keep it in good condition. 

You’re grateful right now, though, looking at six of your dresses laid out on your bed. That’s more than enough to choose from. But it also means more time to waste as you put one on, scrutinize yourself in the mirror, take it off, put it back on again, then start all over with a different one. Which do you look best in? What would Silco like?

You look at your clock. Shit, you’re running out of time. He’ll be here soon, and he’s never late. If you pick something now you’ll have just enough time left to do your hair and makeup. 

Just as you’re finishing up, someone knocks on your door. 

A few deep breaths help calm your rattling nerves. Also, maybe making him wait a little will help you seem more composed, if only to compensate for your earlier overzealousness. 

You open the door slowly. Only to be greeted by a breathtaking sight.

The first thing you notice is that Silco has tied his hair back. His brilliant eyes are on full display, as well as a hesitant smile playing around his lips. The setting sun casts shadows on his face that emphasize the sharpness of his high cheekbones now that they’re no longer obscured.

His lithe form is emphasized all over by his outfit, carved and sharp long lines emphasizing his handsome features. A long, smoke black overcoat reaches just above his knees; its inner lining a deep, rich maroon as revealed by the large collar circling his neck. His svelte waist is encased in a close-fitting double-breasted vest, medium gray with a burgundy tint. The vest's wide collar is a darker black that emphasizes the broadness of his shoulders. His formal vermillion shirt and an eggshell white tie complement the vest. His pants and boots are the same deep obsidian as his coat. The coat and vest have matching golden edges, intricately stitched and shining in the last light of the sunset.

All in all, this is the classiest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. 

It’s so different from his more casual tank tops or long-sleeved shirts, but he’s so handsome that you could definitely get used to this look. His clothing could fool the untrained eye into thinking he's wearing Topside attire, but there are mismatched stitches here and there on the seams of his pants, a sure sign that the clothing was repaired in the Undercity and not Topside. Still, Silco is more handsome than any Piltie gentlemen you've ever seen, despite the exorbitant cost of their expensive tuxedos.  

Silco shuffles his feet. He opens his mouth to greet you, but a hitch catches in his voice as he stutters. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat to say, “Hello.”

“Hi,” you smile shyly at him. “You look very dashing.” 

“Thank you. I can only hope to imitate the beauty that you depict in so many of your artworks.”

“Yeah, about that. Do you wanna know a secret?” you grin mischievously at Silco.

“Do tell,” his smile settles into an intrigued smirk.

“It’s all in the collars,” you tease, lightly pulling on his coat. “Everybody knows that bigger is better.” 

“I did aspire to outshine the average gentleman in that department,” he smirks. He strands straighter, seemingly even taller than usual with how your eyes are dragged up and down his body. You only just now notice the picnic basket he has hooked over one elbow. “But no one could compare with how beautiful you look tonight.” 

You blush. Agonizing over your preparations was worth it just to hear that. The dress you’ve opted for tonight is a light lilac wisp of a thing, off the shoulder with short sleeves. The boned corset of the dress cinches almost skintight around your waist. From there, the dress rests close to your body, the night breeze playing with the hemline ending just above your ankles. Your heeled boots are a slightly darker shade of purple, with a tasteful silver thread filigree in the shape of a large bird, wings open midflight. 

“Thanks,” you try to say with a nonchalant tone. But as with every compliment and smile he sends your way, it sends a little thrill through your heart that curls inside you like a cat in a sunbeam. 

Silco offers you his free arm. You hook your hand around it, enjoying the feel of the soft coat under your hand. When you rub his sleeve, he pulls his elbow close against his body, as if he could feel your touch through the fabric. He sets a leisurely pace that you match, heading towards Piltover. 

Your throat is dry. Oh gods— You’ve held plenty of conversations with Silco before— what do you talk about now? How do you talk? The panic makes your tongue heavy in your mouth—

“I hope it’s alright that we’re headed to Topside,” Silco’s voice cuts through the night. He’s trying to sound casual, but his throat bobs as he swallows apprehensively. 

“Of course, Silco,” you squeak out. “I’ll go anywhere with you.” (Shit, are you coming on too hard? You shouldn’t have said that.) 

“I’ve made us dinner as well,” if he was nervous before, it finally cracks through as his voice trembles. He swallows again before continuing, “It might not compare to your cooking or Kharon’s—”

“Silco,” you interrupt him, letting go of his elbow to instead reach for his hand. You pull at his wrist, and he hesitantly entwines his fingers with yours. “It’s okay. I'm looking forward to it.” 

He seems to be missing his usual confidence and self-assuredness, his eyes darting around as if he might find it discarded on the street. If there’s a chance that he’s as on edge as you are tonight, it actually reassures you a little, funnily enough. Even first-date nerves can't keep you from enjoying the comfortable, warm glow that always envelopes you whenever you’re in your friend's presence. 

Your conversation falls into an easy rhythm as the pair of you head towards whatever destination Silco leads you to. The evening crowd trickles into the streets, on their way to their nighttime affairs. When he grips your hand tight, it’s not out of a protective instinct but a soothing one. Whether it’s for you or himself, you’re not sure, but you’re happy to be so close to him either way. 

Silco points at the end of a large street, its gray cobblestone giving way to looser, dark gravel. 

“We’re almost there,” he says. Most other people seem to be leaving the area, deterred by a bright yellow barricade and a sign declaring in bold, black letters: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. After surreptitiously glancing around to check that no one is looking, he lifts the barrier high enough for you to duck underneath it. You giggle as you do so, exhilarated.

“Have you ever been here before?” Silco whispers. He glances up at the windows of nearby buildings, looking out for observers. The walkway slants downward into a slope, wild stones smoothing out under your feet. 

“I don’t think so? Where are we?” Even if it weren’t getting dark, this area of Piltover is unfamiliar. The sound of waves creeps up on you, and your boots begin to sink slightly into sand. 

Silco comes to a halt, turning with a flourish. 

“May I present one of Topside’s best kept secrets: Midtown Cove,” he states grandly. With a sweep of his arm, he presents a small, cozy beach. The white sand is smooth, disturbed only by errant footprints. Moonlight casts a soft glow, illuminating a dappled stripe on the water. The faraway horizon is dotted with dark islands and distant boats.

Piltover is a beautiful place, but this beach has a wild allure all on its own, almost divorced entirely from the highly engineered and carved out gold and marble aesthetic of the city. No, the landscape here is untouched and untamed. 

In that sense, it’s very much like Silco himself. 

“This place is beautiful,” you say happily. It’s a lovely sight, straight out of a postcard or one of your own landscape paintings. You turn to him with a delighted grin on your face. “I love it.”

Silco looks relieved to hear you say that. “It’s probably one of the only places in Topside I like to frequent. Not many Topsiders seem to make their way here, so I had hoped this place would be new to you as well.”

“We got lucky that the beach is under repairs,” you then frown in thought. “How do you fix a beach anyways?”

“I placed the barricade there myself,” Silco laughs. He sets the picnic basket down, pulling out a large blanket. You walk forward to help him spread it, but he shoos you away with a wave of his hand. “Just to ensure our complete privacy.”

“I always knew you were a bad boy,” you tease him. “Insurrection, burglary, breaking and entering, and now trespassing? I’m surprised there aren’t wanted posters of you everywhere.” 

“What can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” he laughs. When he gestures for you to take a seat, you do so carefully, stretching your legs out and keeping your knees close together. 

“Seriously though… thank you,” you smile. It’s been a long time since someone made so much effort to take you out on such a nice date. The anticipation that was building up all day has now turned into a contented gratitude. You couldn’t have asked for a better companion tonight. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies with a grimace. He carefully pulls out plates and a thermos from his basket. “I’m sorry I only made sandwiches— I should have ordered takeout from Jericho’s—”

“Stop that,” you scold him gently. You grab a plate and hold it out. “Thank you so much for dinner, Silco. I can’t wait!” 

Silco can’t help but smile when he sees how eager you are. He places a wrapped sandwich on your plate before grabbing one for himself, watching you anxiously as you unwrap it.

When you bite down on it, a symphony of flavors bursts in your mouth. Rich, peppered meats, sweet and juicy tomato slices, and a smooth cheese all complement each other in perfect harmony, with a beautifully crusty bread to top it all off. You hum in appreciation.

“This is so good!” you say around a mouthful of sandwich. You swallow hastily. Crap, that wasn’t very ladylike. Even if Zaunites aren’t as concerned with table manners as Topsiders are, you’re still on a date. (Tonight’s goal is to impress him, not scare him off.) “You made these yourself?? This is restaurant quality!”

With a grin, he bites into his own dinner. “Thank you. I had consulted with Kharon on how to pair the ingredients.”

“Really?” you chuckle. “I’m glad she’s warming up to you.”

“I’m not quite sure about that,” he frowns. “It’s difficult to discern what she’s thinking.”

“But she helped you, right? She wouldn’t have bothered at all if she didn’t like you,” you point out. 

“Well, when I mentioned that I intended to court you, she may have… expressed her concerns.”

(Uh-oh.) “What did she do??”

“Nothing.”

“Silco…” your annoyed expression at him is somewhat ruined by the fact that your cheeks are full of sandwich.

“She may have… raised her voice at me. Not with words.”

You swallow and sigh. “Sorry about that. Kharon can get pretty overprotective.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no need to apologize on her behalf. I understand where she’s coming from. The desire to protect someone dear to you is perfectly natural... It’s the same way I feel about you.” 

You blush and look away. You busy yourself with finishing off the sandwich and brushing crumbs off of your hands. 

Silco holds out a napkin for you to use. When you take it from him, you glance at him sideways. There is nothing but care and affection in his gaze. 

Soon after, Silco is done eating as well. He hands you the thermos and you drink from it. When you pass it back to him, you’re seized by the impulse to scoot closer to him. As you do so, he automatically raises an arm to drape it around you, his hand coming to rest gently on your shoulder. You let yourself lean into him, his coat rubbing up against your cheek.

Silco is solid and warm next to you. His fingers skim over your skin, playing with the fabric of your sleeve. The smell of his new cologne lingers in the air, a fresh and woodsy aroma that’s not too heavy but still stands out against the saltwater scent of the sea.

The two of you bask in a quiet moment, watching the waves lap at the shore. The moonlight caresses the water, bright coins bobbing and shifting over the surface. 

“You were right,” you murmur quietly. “The water really is peaceful.” 

Silco hums in amusement. “That’s not quite what I had in mind… would you like to see?”

You nod, curious about his meaning. When he stands up, you feel the loss of his presence keenly. It’s soon overcome by a growing alarm when he takes off his coat and unhooks his vest.

“What are you doing?!” you squeak out, clapping your hands over your eyes. You can’t help but peek between the gaps in your fingers to watch him unbutton his shirt and pull off his tie. Although you’ve fantasized about his body before, you’re wholly unprepared for him actually stripping in front of you. You clamp your eyes shut when he starts pulling down his pants.

“Come swim with me,” Silco says. You can sense him stepping closer to you, gently taking your wrists to pull you to your feet. Your eyes stay closed, though. 

“Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll watch the basket,” you squinch your eyes shut tighter. 

He slides his hands up your arms to hold the back of your elbows. The blush on your face travels downwards, your chest heating up like a furnace. Before you can turn away, Silco presses his lips against your forehead, softly and sweetly, whispering your name. When you crack open your eyes, he’s staring deep into you, focused and intense. You couldn’t turn away even if you wanted to. 

You swallow and whisper, “Okay.”

Your breath hitches when Silco walks away to stand behind you. He slowly ghosts his fingers over the tops of your shoulders. You shiver, hoping he can’t feel the goosebumps forming everywhere he touches you.

His hands drag across your back until he finds what he’s looking for. The zipper on your dress is pulled down, slowly and deliberately. The dress falls open enough for him to place his palms on your back. Warmth blooms wherever his hands make contact: his thumbs gently stroking either side of your spine, then moving to glide over your ribs. 

Your blood burns with agitation. The rough calluses on his fingers graze against your skin as he traces every inch of you, igniting fireworks in your veins. 

Finally, his hands reach down to your hips and he pushes the dress off you. It falls to the ground and pools around your feet. You hold onto him for balance when you pull off your boots, leaving you only in a strapless bra and panties. 

He walks in front of you to take your hands as you step onto the beach. You shyly drop your gaze to the ground, watching the cool and grainy sand sink as you step with your bare feet.  

You’ve never been seen or touched like this before; it's nerve-wracking but exciting. You can feel his eyes unabashedly enjoying the sight of you in just your underwear. But you’re not afraid— except for maybe one thing.

(Is now a good time to tell him? But it might kill the mood—)

Silco starts walking backwards into the water, still pulling you along. As your toes touch the waves, the cold startles you, a deep cut to your bones. You flinch and stop walking.

“Sorry, it’s cold,” you apologize. You draw your foot back, digging your heels into the sand. 

Silco’s grip on your hands tightens infinitesimally. A mischievous grin plays around his lips, a bright gleam shining in his eyes—

You realize his intentions too late.

The world turns into a blur. Wind whistles through your hair as you’re swept off your feet. You're weightless, flying through the air then crashing into the water. You shriek instinctively. He must have scooped you up and thrown you so rapidly that you barely saw or felt him move. 

Your eyes close instinctively as you sink. The water is a crashing, freezing shock to your system, vision filling with white foam. Silco’s feet kick out as he spreads his arms to keep himself floating. 

The cold embraces you, a soft ethereal blanket wrapping around you. Bubbles and roiling waves obscuring your vision. A part of you recognizes the truth of what Silco says: there is peace in water, but not when you’re disoriented and fighting the impulse to breathe.

Silco takes hold of your flailing arms. With a gentle grip on your elbows, he pulls you above the surface, laughing while you gasp for air.  

“You’re okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

His hands drop to your waist. He pulls you close as you rest your hands on his shoulders, both your legs kicking freely.

You headbutt him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to show your annoyance as you purse your lips at him. 

“Dummy,” you scowl. “I could’ve drowned.”

“I would never let that happen,” he vows. “Besides, when getting accustomed to cold waters, I’ve found the best approach is to dive in without hesitation.”

He rests his forehead against yours. Touching noses with you. 

His eyes are half-lidded. Even when you’re blinking water out of your eyes, his gaze bores deep into yours. Your lips part and you exhale softly on him. 

(He’s not really talking about the water, is he?)

You push your hair out of your eyes. Glancing down at his lips. Raising one hand to touch his face. As your thumb brushes his lower lip, his mouth falls open slightly. 

The world stills around you. 

There’s only the water, and Silco.

Waiting for you to dive in. 

(Then what are you waiting for?)

You lean closer. Enough to smell the salt of the ocean coming off his skin. Tracing the trail of a single drop of water meandering down his cheekbones and falling off his chin. 

Finally, you kiss him. 

Silco reciprocates eagerly. Mouth wet from both the water and his fervor. Lips tasting as much of you as possible. His arms tighten around your waist at the same time you wrap yours around his neck.  

His kisses push deeper into your mouth, and you open wider to make room for his tongue. You gasp as a hot thrill flares inside you. Not just inside your mouth, but between your legs as well. 

He pulls you flush against him. The hardness of his cock rubs up against you, barely separated by the thin layer of your and his underwear. You whine into his mouth.

Silco breaks off to press his forehead into yours. The night is dark, but a fire burns in his eyes.

“Can I take you home?” he whispers, voice low and husky.

Such a small question, made up of only five words. There’s only one answer to give: 

“Yes.” 

Chapter 13

[recusant-s-sigil]

Rating: PG

Word count: 869

Tags: Vanitas is Darkness, prologue is a different writing style, Re:Formed AU, Vanitas contemplates his life, Post-Melody of Memory, wayfinder family, Angsting about emotions TM, So Vanitas how's that existential crisis treating you

Summary:

An amnesiac Vanitas finds himself living with Terra, Aqua, and Ven, who help him remember who he used to be. Will he be able to figure out how to cope as (D)darkness in a world aligned with light?

Notes:

This prologue is a different style from the rest of the fic. I recommend listening to Night of the Dark Dream from KH3 until Ven appears, then switch over to his theme for optimum reading experience.

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Never have I felt so at home than amongst these shadows. This comfort is like that of an old friend not seen for many years: we are strangers now, but somewhere in the back of my mind is familiarity. So why don’t I remember?

I can’t help but follow the flow as the darkness moves, enveloping me as I do it. I’m indistinct from the rest, formless and fluid. Whispers around me tear at my nonbeing, begging me to join them. Why don’t I want to?

No, I tell them. Let me go. I don’t know why I’m so insistent on giving up the comfort of this collective, but the darkness recedes, leaving me standing, standing on solid ground.

Examining my newly-gained form, I can tell I’m bipedal. Testing out my limbs is natural, as if I’ve been something similar before. I move my hands to my face to find metal and glass. My helmet must be tinted, seeing as I still can’t make out my surroundings. Or it’s just really dark here. Hard to tell.

There’s a pull in my body. I follow it until I can hear the crash of waves. A brilliant light shines on the horizon, obscured by my helm. So my first guess about the tinted glass was right.

Finding a rock, I sit down and watch the light reflect off the peaks and crests of the water.

I wait there for what seems like ages. How long has it been since I regained this form? I breathe in sync with the waves every now and then, just to feel my chest rise and fall. Sometimes my breath fogs up the glass and casts everything in a hazy glow.

“Hey, is that…” I hear a voice call and the crunch of footsteps on the soft sand. Someone’s running up to me.

“It is! I knew I’d find you here.”

I turn to look at the boy standing on my left. He’s staring at me with big, kind eyes, a warm and oddly relieved smile on his face.

“I had this feeling you’d returned, so I left a note for Terra and Aqua to tell them I’d left to find you. And here you are!”

He seems so happy to find me. Why? There’s a dim memory from long ago trying to surface when I look at him, but it can’t quite make it. What relation did I have with him to make me feel this way? I decide to take off my helmet to get a clearer look.

Big mistake. The light on the horizon hurts my eyes, as does… his light? Why is his light so powerful as to cause me to flinch? Still, I let myself adjust and when I can finally open my eyes properly, I jump to my feet on impulse. Something flashes into my outstretched hands and I point it at him. I speak aloud for the first time.

“Who are you? Why are you looking for me?” My tone is angry, but the aggression poorly masks my surprise and fear.

“Hey, whoa, it’s okay,” the boy says, holding his hands up defensively. Or perhaps as a show of peace? “Please, put your Keyblade away.”

“So this is called a Keyblade?” I say, lowering but not dismissing it.

Upon further inspection, what I’m holding is an aptly-named weapon, for it does resemble a key, if only in shape. The long part is wrapped in chains, and there are blue catlike eyes decorating it at the tip and hilt. The design is intricate with a gear motif. From the bottom dangles a keychain with various interlocking gears.

The weight of it feels comfortable in my hands, but I don’t remember if I know how to use it or what its purpose is or why I even have it in the first place.

“You don’t know what a Keyblade is? Hm…” The boy seems lost in thought. “Do you know my name?” I shake my head slowly. How do I tell him that he feels familiar yet I don’t remember him at all?

“Do you… know your own name?”

Again I shake my head. I remember nothing from before, if there was a before.

He asks an unexpected question. “Do you want me to tell you?” My eyes widen at that. He’d give me this vital piece of myself back even though he doesn’t know if I’m telling the truth? I think he thinks I’m the kind of person to be honest. I might be. And why would I lie about something as important as this?

“Your name is Vanitas.”

Vanitas. That feels right.

“Okay, so I’m Vanitas. Who are you?”

“I’m Ventus. Call me Ven.” He holds out a hand and waits for me to shake it. I hesitate for a long while before my Keyblade fades from my hand and I take his. I shiver with the contact. Such strength of heart.

Such light.

Before I can ask him anything else, Ven summons his own Keyblade and opens a portal. How do I know what he’s doing? Can I do it too?

“Come with me,” Ven says. I put my helmet on before following him through the glowing gate.

[outerrimhours]

As The World Burns

A Darth Maul x F/AFAB!Reader Fanfiction

Chapter One: A Princess's Peril

{Previous Chapter} / {Next Chapter} / {Fic Masterlist}

FIC SUMMARY: Queen to be, after the slaughter of your mother and father by the Separatists, you were cast aside in an attempt at dictatorship by your uncle who claims he is the rightful ruler. Kept in the dark, you secretly seek knowledge to overthrow the crown, yet find yourself entangled in a lustful affair with the enemy, a certain Sith Lord who aids you in the ploy to take back your kingdom. 

Multi-chapter, fem/AFAB!Reader x Darth Maul. No use of y/n. Let’s pretend Maul was cut from the knee down. No canon timeline tbh.  Includes smut.

RATING: Explicit. This work is strictly for those 18+ due to sexual content. MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT.

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 1k

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS: Loss of parent/family, anxiety, unwanted touch (nothing serious),nightmares,  

A/N: Sorry this took forever to get out. I’ve had no motivation, except @eloquentmoon, who I adore their work and their fic made me want to write this.

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom”

As if conjured from the storybook of a child, a soft evening mist ghosted over the garden, soaking into petals of lavender. In the cloud softened light, the ivy brings a sweet wave of evergreen with veins of the lightest green. The ghost of vines traced their pathway like fading scars against the Utarian statue. What once was new and vibrant, crumbled at the will of the planet. Pieces of tufa and limestone fragmented. Grass breaching through exposed cracks. At the edge of the clouds rested a brilliant white patch, like a turning page catching the suns. The rest was dove gray and peach nestled into a hint of beryl, just enough to announce the sunset. And tucked furtively inside of a stone wall was an aged and water logged copy of “The History of Utara”. 

 What once was tradition within the Altair family, soon perished with the death of the King and Queen. Before the coronation of a young princess, Druan Altair, brother of the king, emerged from the shadows to take the crown instead. The princess was not to know the history of her people and the politics within. Most saw this change as a form of protection after what happened to her mother and father at the hands of the separatists, but was merely a ploy to dictatorship. 

 You settled onto the bounty of clover and sun strengthened grass, the torso of a tree lending a resting spot. Despite the yellowed pages curling up within themselves, black ink still flowed in perfect Auerbech. 

 Your kingdom was once peaceful and prospering, barely a parsec away from Naboo, who happily traded with no conflict, until the war began. A war that starved the Naboolians and killed the reigning monarchs on Utara. A beloved King and Queen, struck down by the hands of a red suffused blade. A young princess's peril. Although you had been trained from birth to take rule, Druan Altair assumed control under the pretense that a princess whose parents were targeted by the Sith would merely be in danger. 

You absorbed the information thoughtfully. 

“M’lady”, a voice approached, the mildewed book hiding underneath the skirt of your dress. Approaching through the brush was a young Knight named Torent Mozh, who met your gaze, not with a shyness like most guards, but with a blunt refusal to avert his gaze first.

 “The king requests your presence in your quarters.”

 Your jaw clenched at the word king. There were no requests. Only demands. 

  “May I inquire why exactly I am being shunned from my own gardens at such an hour”, you requested, observing the way the setting sun beamed off the shiny armor. You knew Torent long enough to know when he did provide all of the information you requested. Although some of his face was obscured by a dark scraggly beard  that clung to his skin, you could still read minuet facial expressions. 

“We have visitors. He prefers you not be out during this time”, the Knight stated, “You know, for your safety, Princess.” 

Bile rose in your throat as a large, sleek, ship slowly landed a few miles north. Nothing like you had ever seen. 

“Who”, you demanded.

Torent scoffed at the assertiveness. 

“Separatists?” 

“Nothing you should concern yourself with. Now let’s go”. 

The way he placed his hand against your back was soft, yet aggressive, in a swift motion to move you towards the palace. It infuriated you. Yet suddenly panic settled in as you realized your book was still tucked between your dress. Every explicit comment you felt like shouting was silenced by the dread of knowing your secret could be exposed so easily. You were silent, tunnel vision setting in as you walked up the stairs and into the foyer, Torent’s hand no longer pushing you, but eyes still watching as you climbed the stairs to your quarters. 

You had to find a way to return the book to the garden.

 “M’lady, may I retire for the night”, your servant, Thalia, asked quietly as she combed through the waves of your hair. You were usually more talkative, basking in Thalia’s company and friendship, yet tonight you were curled within yourself. Gazing into the mirror, thoughts far away. All you could think of was getting that book back into its creavis. 

“Of course, get some rest.”

Thalia sat the gold plated brush against the vanity, its detailed artwork worn and withering with age. You couldn’t help but regret not taking every generational hair that swept through that brush and knitting it into a blanket. Possibly the last piece of your mother residing in it. The grief drained through you, rather than skating over your skin. It traveled through every cell to reach the ground. Your feet lifting to touch the chill marbled floor, ghosting over to the chest that resided like a dusty coffin underneath your bed. It was painted in swirls of pastel with flecks of gold, as if Michelangelo sculpted it himself. The lock clicking beneath your fingertips, opening to reveal what was left of your mother. A silk nightgown, moon shaped hair clips, letters from your father proclaiming his love when he wasn’t planetside, her favorite books, and lastly, a journal. The journal was several hundred yellowing pages, each gentle to the fingertip, but cracking with age and tear stains. Upon them was the wisdom of her soul; those feelings of love channeled through  great knowledge and a lifetime of meditative contemplation. In that humble ink was the liveliness of her brain, how her synapse danced as if they were young all her days. The journal was forever as pure as a child. A mother who loved her daughter more than imaginable. 

You curled underneath the satin cream colored sheets of your bed, flipping through the pages of the journal by candlelight. Your favorite entry a reminder of the morning you picked berries with her by the garden wall. Laughter and smiles. The way she smelled of roses when she embraced you. You were not very ladylike then and she blamed your father. 

“She has a warrior’s heart”, he would always say. 

Your heart ached with a mixture of mournfulness and vexation, but your train of thoughts interpreted by echoing voices downstairs. Your curiosity plagued you. You were desperate to know who your uncle had brought forth. Unlike your people, who he had easily manipulated during a time of war and mourning; you were less naïve. You had seen the Separatists ships before, the guards loading spice into what once held your finest wine.  

You were eager to spy on your Uncle’s new acquaintances.  

Tucking your Mother’s journal away and finding a robe to cover yourself from the chill, you swiftly gathered a small candlelight and cracked the door. A guard was perched in the center hallway, not for your protection as one might think, but to keep you from leaving. Luckily, shift change was beginning to happen, and you managed to sneak past to the staircase. 

“I assure you Lord Maul”, you heard your Uncle in an overwrought whisper. You edged close to the marbled wall, creeping silently down the staircase until you were able to peer over the corner. Your Uncle walked alongside a slightly shorter man draped eerily in a black cloak. 

“Our soldiers are the best in the system”, he continued.  

Your interest peaked as the man clasped his hands behind his back, humming lowly as if  considering his words. 

“Utara will be a valuable asset to Crimson Dawn.”

You gasped at your Uncle’s words, causing the visitor to turn slightly in your direction. It was such a subtle noise, even your Uncle didn’t notice. Yet, your heart pounded violently. 

“We will see”, Maul spoke, turning his attention to the staircase. Predatorial eyes locking with yours. You had never seen eyes so saffron, so piercing. It frightened you. He was surely looking right at you and you were so frozen in place, you dared not move. His blood stained skin was tattooed with black tribal inks, something you had never seen before on your planet. 

The devil had you trapped in his gaze until he looked away, addressing your Uncle one last time before disappearing through the doors. 

“Do not disappoint,'' he spoke. 

You finally exhaled, blood and air rushing through your body as you huffed against the wall. You were so tense and panicked, quietly racing back to your quarters before you were caught once more. 

[gobboguy]

Chapter 20: Veiled Shadows in Cairn Doom

Alden's voice, low and determined, cut through the biting wind as they stood on the threshold of Cairn Doom. "Our objective is clear," he said, his eyes narrowing with focus. "We either find the Naga's package or put an end to the Orc Lord Gelbeg's machinations. There's no room for hesitation."

Elara's brows furrowed in concern. "Are you certain it's Gelbeg?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the howl of the wind.

Alden nodded, his jaw set. "Positive. The Naga wouldn't align themselves with anyone less."

Turning to Aquata, Alden spoke with conviction. "Aquata, we need your mastery over water. Conjure a snowstorm, cover our movements, and mask our approach. We infiltrate Cairn Doom together."

With a swift nod, Aquata raised her hands, whispering ancient words in Merish. The water in the air responded, freezing into crystalline structures that obscured their presence. The snowstorm materialized, swirling around them like a protective cloak, veiling them from prying eyes.

Elara, the alchemist, distributed vials containing a potion that, when applied, transformed their skin to a brilliant, blinding white. Their forms now blended seamlessly with the snow-covered landscape, rendering them nearly invisible against the frozen canvas of Cairn Doom's surroundings.

Silently, they moved forward, their footsteps muffled by the snow beneath their boots. Orcish guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements swift and purposeful. With each step, the group dodged, ducked, and weaved through the shadows, their presence masked by the storm and their newfound camouflage.

Cairn Doom loomed before them, its massive gates standing as a foreboding barrier. As they approached, their hearts pounded in their chests, anticipation and fear mingling in the cold air. With synchronized movements, they slipped past the guards, their bright white forms melding seamlessly with the blinding snow.

They were inside the stronghold now, surrounded by shadows, their breaths visible in the icy atmosphere. The path ahead was uncertain, the dangers they faced formidable. Yet, fueled by determination and unity, they pressed on, ready to face whatever darkness lay within the depths of Cairn Doom, for the fate of the realm rested on their shoulders.

They continued along the dark entryway, slipping between armored Orc bodies and moving along. The entryway of Cairn Doom was a testament to the transformation of the Orcs, once downtrodden slaves under Count Fiu's cruel rule. As Alden, Elara, Twig, Leaf, and Aquata cautiously moved forward, their eyes widened in awe and trepidation at the sight before them.

The stone walls of darkest obsidian were adorned with intricate carvings depicting Orcish victories and ancient battles. Crude torches flickered, casting eerie shadows that danced upon the newfound symbols of Orcish pride. Massive tapestries, woven with scenes of Orcs standing tall against their enemies, hung proudly, a vivid representation of their growing strength.

Armored Orc guards patrolled the passageways with purpose, their strides filled with confidence. Their weapons gleamed in the torchlight, a stark contrast to the rusty, ill-maintained tools of the past. The very air crackled with the energy of a burgeoning army, an unmistakable sense that these Orcs had evolved from the oppressed masses into a force to be reckoned with.

The party exchanged uneasy glances, realizing the formidable challenge they faced. Cairn Doom, was an Orcish stronghold of power and ambition. As they moved deeper into the fortress, the echoes of their footsteps mingled with the distant sounds of Orcish drills, a chilling reminder of the formidable force that awaited them within the heart of the mountain.

As they moved along Twig, distracted by the oppressiveness of the stronghold, accidentally bumped into a nearby Orc guard. The Orc dropped his weapon in surprise, causing a clatter. Aquata, distracted by the clatter lost her focus and her snow spell was lifted.

As the snowstorm's veil lifted, revealing the intruders, panic rippled through the Orcs like wildfire. One of the Orcs, caught off guard, stumbled backward as Twig accidentally bumped into him, his invisibility shattered. The Orcs bellowed in surprise, their guttural voices reverberating through the cavernous halls.

Aquata gasped, realizing their cover was blown. "We've been discovered!" she exclaimed, frustration etched on her features.

Alden's voice cut through the chaos. "Run!" he commanded, his eyes blazing with determination as he faced the onslaught of enraged Orcs.

With fear gripping their hearts, Twig, Elara, and Leaf turned and fled down the nearest hallway, their footfalls echoing off the stone walls. Twig's cries for his father echoed in the corridors, his desperation palpable. Elara and Leaf strained to pull him away, their eyes wide with terror and sorrow.

Meanwhile, Alden, valiant and unyielding, fought back the surging Orcs. Swinging the sword Eleanor with unparalleled skill, he conjured thorny vines that snaked along the ground, impeding the Orcs' advance. The twisted flora slowed their pursuit, providing a momentary respite for his fleeing family.

But the tide of Orcs proved overwhelming. A powerful blow knocked the sword Eleanor from Alden's grasp, and he was captured, surrounded by the jeering, triumphant horde. In the dim light, Twig and Leaf dashed back, snatching up the sword Eleanor with trembling hands, a glimmer of hope in their desperate eyes. But when the turned around to join their mother and Aquata, they found to their dismay that the hallway was being blocked by a crowd of huge, stinking Orcs. Choosing a new path they fled, slipping into a dark hallway, Twig grasp the sword tightly. With adrenaline coursing through their veins, they sprinted through the shadowed halls, their eyes scanning for any signs of safety.

Their hearts pounded in their chests as they fled, separated from their brave father and captured mother. The sense of isolation and fear weighed heavily upon them, driving them onward through the foreboding depths of Cairn Doom, their only solace the hope that they might reunite with their family once more.

[sparkly-key]

A missed rendezvous Pt. 4

When Crowley-as-Aziraphale won't tell the Archangels how he survived Hellfire, Gabriel turns to a more compelling method to convince him.

Written for Whumptober 2023 Day 6 - "Do or die, you'll never make me, because the world will never take my heart." | Recording | Made to watch | "It should have been me"

A.K.A. the part that started this whole damn saga and has been lurking as a skeleton while I worked out the fleshy bits.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Content warnings: Torture, excessive violence, blood

Crowley lifted his chin from his chest and stared out the expansive windows at the global panorama in front of him, interrupted only by the pillar of Hellfire that stretched from floor to ceiling. (He wondered if Hell was intentionally abandoning the flame there, filled with perverse satisfaction that Heaven was stuck with it.)

The Eifel Tower. The London Eye. The Great Pyramids of Giza. All stretching above the clouds.

What was it the bunny-haired demon had said before he’d set the Hellfire inside its hearth?

You don’t get a view like this down below.

Even if it was obscured by an eye swollen to the point of near blindness.

How many of those had he watched rise from the Earth, Aziraphale by his side? How many times had he marveled at the humans’ imagination being put to proper use instead of devising weapons of death and destruction? Sure, that one tower in Babel hadn’t worked out, but the intention was brilliant.

“It was a direct disobedience,” Aziraphale said, hovering in the air as Crowley climbed to the top of the tower that would rise no higher. “They were meant to travel and multiply, as She commanded them to after the Flood.”

Pride. Wasn’t that the crux of it all?

“Can you blame them, angel, for wanting to stay with their brethren?” he asked, sitting down. In the desert beyond, torches from the newly sprung encampments flickered like stars bound to the Earth. “For wanting safety, after the Flood?”

The blond settled beside him, a frown creasing his brow. “There won’t be another,” he assured the demon with the certainty of someone blinded by faith. “God promised them. Sent a rainbow and everything. She wouldn’t do it again.”

Crowley scoffed. He couldn’t argue that point.

When the world ended, God probably wouldn’t send a flood.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Gabriel sang sardonically as he circled Crowley. He clapped Crowley’s shoulder, fingers digging into the barely-healed wound Uriel had dealt (Crowley had grit his teeth through the healing, acting as if the Grace hadn't burned), and smiled at the demon’s hiss. “I hope you got some rest – we’ve got a very busy day ahead of us.”

Crowley didn’t answer, his lips curled back in a snarl as he looked up at the Supreme Archangel.

At least he didn’t have to worry about pretending to be Aziraphale anymore.

“I’d hoped that a break would give you time to see the light, but it looks like I’m wrong,” the brunet tsked, his violet eyes meeting Crowley’s. “I just want to be clear. This is your last chance before we do something you’ll regret.”

“Told you,” Crowley spat, lifting his chin defiantly. “A magician never reveals his secret.”

Gabriel’s foot connected with the demon’s thigh, knocking his leg out just enough from under him. Crowley’s arms burned with the strain of bearing his weight. Crowley grit his teeth against the pain.

“Suit yourself,” Gabriel shrugged. He looked beyond his prisoner and snapped his fingers.

A cold sense of dread filled the demon as Sandalphon forced a bound figure with a sack obscuring their head to their knees in front of Crowley. The fiery pillar behind them cast flickering shadows over their forms, taunting the demon with its distance.

“Caught him as he was getting to Aziraphale’s bookshop,” Sandalphon declared, pulling the beige hood off.

The breath caught in Crowley’s throat as he met his own eyes, the yellow gaze only slightly hidden behind his glasses that had slid down Aziraphale-as-Crowley’s nose, like a pair of reading frames Aziraphale was too distracted to push high up his face. Aziraphale’s lips were pressed together tightly, a bruise burgeoning at the corner of his mouth, and there was a gash in his forehead, black blood trickling down his face.

“If you touch him again, I swear to Sa-“ Actual Crowley hissed.

“You’ll what?” Gabriel intervened with a smirk. “You’ll hurt us? Your earlier performance didn’t inspire much fear.”

He and his crony laughed, reminding the demon of the villain and his henchmen in countless James Bond films.

Are you alright? He mouthed to Aziraphale. The tension didn’t evaporate from his body when his angel gave an almost indistinguishable nod.

Crowley wanted to scream, wanted to yell at his friend for not running when he had the chance. He’d had the Bentley, he could have been far away by the time the winged wankers had even thought of looking for who they thought was Crowley. But instead, he’d gotten himself caught at the bloody booksh– Why was he going to the bookshop?

Aziraphale glanced down at his bound hands before he pointedly met Crowley’s eyes. His pointer finger twitched minutely, tapping a nearly imperceptible pattern. What the

“Besides, Aziraphale, this is a gesture of good faith,” the Supreme Archangel declared magnanimously, gesturing to Actually Aziraphale. “Tell us how the two of you survived your trials and we won’t hurt your pet demon.”

“More,” Sandalphon added with a dark chuckle.

“What trial?” Crowley snapped bitterly. Across from him, Aziraphale’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to complain.

“We don’t need trials when it’s clear you interfered in the Great Plan,” Gabriel said dismissively. “So again, spill your guts … or we spill his.”

The demon opened his mouth.

“No deal,” Aziraphale declared quickly, squaring his shoulders.

Crowley snarled as Sandalphon punched Aziraphale, knocking the demon onto the floor.

 “Shut your mouth,” the Archangel demanded, his open hand raised threateningly.

“When you’re bargaining with my life, I think I should get an opinion,” the angel replied coolly, his tongue flicking out to taste the blood on his lip. He glared at Sandalphon as he awkwardly rose to his knees.

Crowley glared at him. “You don’t.”

“Well, it’s only fair – the demon says no deal. We should honor his decision,” Gabriel decided, turning his back to Crowley. “After all, we’re the Good Guys. He might not understand the stakes.”

He didn’t.

His angel was too blinded by faith and the idiotic notion that Hell was the bad place.

“But I’ll be nice,” Gabriel continued as he circled Sandalphon and their prisoner. “Aziraphale. Ear or finger?”

The demon pressed his lips together, his mouth a thin line as he clenched his teeth.

“Fiiiiiine,” the brunet sighed. “Sandalphon.”

Crowley flinched at Aziraphale’s cry of pain. His eyes screwed shut while he turned his head away as the Archangel’s dagger sliced upward.

Gabriel’s hand fisted in his curls, forcing his head to face forward. “Look at him,” he snarled, “or Sandalphon will disembowel him.”

The demon inhaled and obeyed slowly.

Aziraphale smiled thinly, the side of Crowley’s jaw coated in obsidian ichor. There was no sign of his angel in Crowley’s golden eyes – just a deadly hardness that sent a shiver down the demon’s spine.

“’m fine, dear boy,” Aziraphale assured him, his soft tone an unsettling contrast to both his gaze and his wound.

Gabriel snarled as he let go of Crowley-as-Aziraphale’s hair and stalked toward the Hellfire.

“I wish you’d just tell me what I want to know, Aziraphale,” the brunet said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “I’m simply curious.”

The Supreme Archangel crouched beside the cursed flame, far enough away to not be in danger but too close for Crowley’s comfort. The demon’s heart raced as the memory of what should have been searing pain on his back but was more like a warm kiss on his skin.

“It won’t work,” Crowley insisted, fighting to sound calm. Gabriel knew it wouldn’t work on him and as far as he knew, the Crowley he saw was a demon, who it definitely wouldn’t work on. Not unless he suspected – “He’s a demon.”

Aziraphale frowned, recognizing the subtle panic in Crowley’s voice.

“Crowley can relate,” Gabriel mused, standing as he left the brand in the flames. “Wasn’t that his big thing – asking questions?”

A smirk stretched across Sandalphon’s face as he followed his boss’s train of thought.

Crowley’s eyes widened as he met Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I’ll –“ he started.

“Sssshut up,” his angel hissed.

You’ll die, the demon mentally screamed, trying to get Aziraphale to realize what was at stake. He could save his angel if he acted like he was a fluke – give him at least enough time to get out of Heaven and flee in the Bentley, get off Earth and away from Heaven and Hell.

Trust me, Aziraphale mouthed.

Oh.

Crowley drew a ragged breath and nodded.

Sandalphon drove his sword into the angel’s ribcage.

Next

[oathofoaksart]

YOUNG JUSTICE OC: KITSUNE 

bio under the cut!

BASICS Name: Leiko Ara A.K.A: Kitsune; Lei, Kit, L.A [only by Charlie] Age: 16 [S1 Era], 21 [S2 Era] Gender: Cisgender Female Orientation: Grayromantic Bisexual

Skin: Fair Hair: Plum-Black Eyes: Black, fully golden and slit-pupiled as Kitsune Height: 5'6”, 6’1” in platforms Build: Lithe, built like a dancer Distinctions: Distinctly pretty. Sharpened canines and nails. A sharp dresser, obviously wealthy, rarely seen without some type of heel.

RELATIONS Parents: Ryuu Ara and Cho Miyamotou [estranged] Siblings: N/A Friends: Wally “Kid Flash” West, Zatanna Zatara, M’gann “Miss Martian” M’orzz, Raquel “Rocket” Irving, Kaldur’ahm “Aqualad”, Dick “Robin” Grayson, Conner “Superboy” Kent, Artemis Crock, Haley Overbea [OC] Partner/s: Wally “Kid Flash/Flash III” West (ev. post-S3) Misc.: Charles “Scribe” Jenson [OC], Penelope “Poppet” Caskett [@PoltergeistPrincessa] Affiliations: The Spiral, The Team

PERSONALITY Personality Type: ENTP-A [Assertive Debater] Temperament: Choleric-Sanguine Alignment: Chaotic Good Clever | Self-Assured | Driven | Arrogant | Spiteful

Aristocratic in both upbringing and nature, Leiko likes to carry herself with regality. Her confidence and well-honed charm makes her a popular figure among her school peers, even though she keeps everyone at a cool arm's length. Her social aloofness leaves her with little to no close friends, which she figures is just as well, since she finds friends to be a waste of time.

Around others in the heroic scene, Leiko allows herself to show off. She’s known for her theatrical and flamboyant attitude, topped with a haughtiness she cares little to subdue. She’s assertive, witty, and adores a challenge. She lets this completely unfurl as the vain and dramatic Kitsune, who views the world as her stage and anyone watching her audience.

Leiko struggles with unlearning a deep-seated cynicism against others and is often skeptical of actions claimed to be done out of good will, which clashes with the ethics of heroism. Her grasp on empathy leaves much to be desired as well; she can be condescending, sharp, and impatient when the situation calls for exactly the opposite.

Still, steadily Leiko finds herself learning humility, trust, and care from her teammates, along the way forming friendships no Swiss bank account could buy.

ABILITIES AND WEAKNESSES

Powers and Abilities:

Physiology:

Lei doesn’t possess a human soul, but of that of her namesake, a kitsune. Her “soul” is instead a Hoshi no Tama, usually referred to as her soul bead. It is a fist-sized pearl that resides within her body. This is the source of her magic as well as her heightened physical attributes.

Enhanced Senses: Lei demonstrates fox-like senses. She sees just as well at night as she does during the day, hears better than a normal human, and has a better sense of smell. This doubles in the supernatural side, she can see, hear, and smell beyond the mortal plane. 

Enhanced Physiology: Lei exhibits above-average speed, strength, endurance and rarely if ever comes down with diseases, viruses and the like.

Onmyodo: A traditional Japanese occultism

Illusion Magic: Lei’s strongest suit is her hold over illusion spells. Using a variety of paper charms, mirrors, physical cues, written and verbal spells, she's able to create confusion over her opponent. These illusions range from visual to audial, making it difficult to rely on one's own senses. Her illusions are often grandiose, jarringly colorful, with nods to the overall aesthetic influence of traditional Japanese art forms. In turn makes her relatively immune to similar tactics.  

Barriers: Can alternately use barriers as a sort of defense or a barring mechanism. Barriers set up by paper charms are stronger and more durable than barriers set by simple verbal spells, however combining both techniques grants the best results.

Pyrokinesis: Lei’s kitsunebi is a mystic fire she can conjure in the form of pillars and spheres. Notably different to “mortal” flame, as it burns exclusively supernatural/otherworldly beings, but brings the sensation of weakness and illness to the human body.

Weapons and Inventory:

Enchanted Parasol:

Kit’s go-to weapon. By reaching over her shoulder, the same way one would unsheath a sword, her oil paper parasol materializes into her hand in a burst of flame. It serves both as a defensive and offensive tool.

Closed: While in her hands it doesn’t appear to weigh any more than a regular parasol, in combat it carries an inexplicable weight, able to break concrete. She uses it as a melee weapon, much like a bat or a club. Kit also uses it as a makeshift wand/staff, for bigger and more complex spells. And a favorite stun tactic of hers is to mimic pumping the action to a shotgun, aiming her parasol and “firing” it. It creates a momentary illusion of being “shot” to whomever her target may have been. 

Open: Popping it open creates a quick-time personal shield, able to deflect various attacks and withstand a fair amount of explosive power. Ducking behind it obscures her from her opponent and she uses this window of time to work up a spell. Spinning the canopy of her parasol causes momentary dizziness. When jumping off of highland, the parasol allows Kit to glide for long distances (the amount of time and smoothness of the glide suffers when another person is in tow).

Ofuda: These paper charms can be used as delayed “bombs” affected by sticking them into walls, either simply timed or activated by touch. They also serve for warding spells. Gohei: A summoned short wand with a decorative paper trail, the length of the trail stretches during use. Lei uses it as a sort of weaponized gymnast ribbon, or a whip. Most effective against intaginable objects or enemies. Balance Charm: With Scribe's help and after many mishaps, Kit wears a beaded charm around her ankle which enables her limited enhanced movement. She appears to glide along, unweighted, making her movements seem feather light. It helps slow or cushion short distance falls and balance on unprobable surfaces. May also explain how she manages to fight in heels. Spellbook: Kit carries a small notebook with variant spells written herself for safe-keeping and for a quick reference check. Mirrors: Kit holds a small, two-faced mirror. The mirror serves to see through glamour illusions or create more intricate illusions of her own; more often than not, she uses it to admire a makeup job well done. Purification Salt: Ghosts in particular are vulnerable to salt, circles of it makes areas inaccessible to them. Calligraphy Set: A horse-hair brush, inkwell and a small stash of paper for written spells

Limitations and Weaknesses:

Water and Aquatic Environments: As host of a fire kitsune, Kitsune’s main and biggest weakness is water. Being around areas with large amounts of water dampens the potency of her magic, being doused in it cuts off completely until she dries off. While her parasol helps repel rain and small splashes, it can only do so much. The water effect includes any type, Lei incapacitaed by things such as baths and showers as well until she properly dries herself off.

Cynophobia: Lei’s “unprompted” fear of dogs, or really any sort of canine that aren’t foxes, can be traced back to Japanese folklore. Dogs were considered enemies of foxes, being used to hunt them down. People accused of being possessed by, or being kitsune, were sometimes forced to be licked head to toe by dogs in order to expel the demon to it’s true form. Dogs make Lei largely uncomfortable at best, aggressive dogs will either send her into a state of frozen terror or at worst, unabashed panic.

HISTORY [TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL HARASSMENT]

The only child of Ryuu Ara, a successful luxury hotel chain owner and president, Leiko grew up with the world served to her on a silver platter. She enrolled in the best schools, excelling in academics, popularity, and was starting to make headway as a teen model. Leiko formed into a pretty, precocious, if pretentious, girl.

At age 14, after wrapping up a student council meeting afterschool, the student body president forced her into a corner when she’d turned him down for a date. The boy grew increasingly aggressive, but was stopped from going beyond grasping at her blazer when a brilliant white flame unfurled from Leiko’s hands. She fled the second she found an opening, calling for help until she caught the attention of school security. The boy was found unconscious, but physically unharmed. (She would later find out, he complained of sudden illness and a downslide of rotten luck, with little to no memory on how he’d been knocked cold.)

Ryuu spared no expense on making sure justice was properly handed out, although that was simple when compared to the news Leiko gave him about her new ability to conjure flame. But he’d taken the revelation far easier than Leiko thought he would. Ryuu admitted it was something he’d been somewhat expecting, even dreading.

Leiko’s mother was something of a taboo subject. Outside of knowing her name was Cho (Ryuu never mentioned her maiden name) and that there had been an ugly divorce shortly after Leiko was born, she didn’t know much else. Even then, her father didn’t go into specifics beyond blaming Cho for Leiko’s newly discovered “peculiarity.” Ryuu ultimately decided it was best for Leiko to pretend she hadn’t discovered it. She had a bright future ahead of her as his heir and it wouldn’t be marred by her mother’s blood. Leiko obeyed despite her protests. They’d both come to realize, however, fire was just the beginning.

Over the following weeks, more abilities came to emerge, from heightened senses to supernatural awareness. She struggled under the pressure of maintaining the semblance of being normal. The weight of stress and desperation finally proved too much for Leiko, leading to a discussion gone sour, ending only when she noticed Ryuu backing away from the looming shadow of a four-tailed fox she cast on the wall. She would miss the following days of school when her eyes refused to revert back from their completely golden, slit-pupiled appearance.

Resigned, Ryuu took to looking into someone who could help Leiko with her magic troubles as this was beyond his reach.

That someone came to be a man by the name Scribe, a semi-public mystic who operated within New York. Scribe’s interest piqued at the mention of Leiko’s transformation and to the Ara’s slight relief, Scribe proved himself to be a sorcerer of true magic instead of a con-man looking for a quick buck. He’d confirmed their suspicions of Leiko being tied to the kitsune, fox spirits of Japanese lore, although he admitted he had little to no experience with said creatures.

Scribe refused to leave Leiko to sort things out on her own, however, and offered her a proposition. Scribe’s lifelong work dealt with a massive, mystical library he dubbed the Spiral, which housed knowledge from across space and time. Despite his years slaving away at discovering and archiving its secrets, progress was going at a crawl. He’d take Leiko under his wing, giving her access to whatever she could get her hands on and import what they couldn’t find from his various connections. In return, she’d take up being his personal assistant. Ryuu had been reluctant to let Leiko have a hands on approach and had made his dislike for Scribe apparent, but relented.

The world of magic was a far cry from the straight-laced, business-oriented life Leiko had grown in; it both terrified and fascinated her. Scribe, real name: Charles Mordichai Jenson (Charlie for short), proved to be an eccentric, but well-meaning guide where he could. As the two dove into research, Leiko let loose a sense of freedom and expression she stifled to fit her father’s expectations. Charlie was quick to help enable this. They were polar opposites in many ways, but Charlie saw a passion and potential in Leiko that mirrored his own at her age, and he fully intended to see it shine. It wasn’t long before Leiko wasn’t just checking inventory and jotting notes for both The Spiral and Jenson’s Comics (Charlie’s civilian pop culture store), but followed him out on relic retrievals and even the occasional “mystic field trip”. Charlie had been adamant on one thing when she stepped out of the safety of The Spiral however, much as he’d taken Scribe as his mantle, Leiko would have to make one of her own for the sake of her identity. It wasn’t a hard choice for her as it was practically staring her in the face, Kitsune took life. Over the next two years, Kitsune proved herself to be a capable magician despite being self-taught. Juggling her home, school and magic life was busy, but thrilling. Perhaps a little too thrilling. During an outing, Scribe and Kitsune were ambushed by a sorcerer named Felix Faust, who ultimately took Scribe prisoner. Well-aware of just how over her head she was, Kitsune went on a one-girl rescue mission to save her mentor anyway and was beyond relieved to find a young group of supers on the same trail.

The group, known simply as “The Team”, had been alerted of Scribe’s abduction through their resident mystic, Zatanna. Scribe had managed to send a distress signal before all communication cut off. Shoving down the twinge of jealousy that came with that revelation and of being out of the loop, Kitsune allied herself with the Team until Scribe was rescued. She was offered a permanent position on the Team, which she said she’d think over even though she had no interest in becoming a hero. She was more persuaded by the opposition placed by Scribe and the oddly genuine endearment shown by the Team’s speedster, Kid Flash.

Less than a few days later, an argument between Leiko and Charlie sparked by his confession of thinking she wasn’t right for the Team just yet sent her right to them out of spite.

Now taking a crash course in heroics, Kitsune tackles supercrime, training, self-reflection, team building and the frustrating, but integral importance of friendship.

NOTES

Kit has alternate versions of her Kitsune outfit and will switch between them mid-battle, either because she wasn’t feeling the one she was wearing, it got dirty, or a specific attack called for a wardrobe change

Because Lei’s brand of Onmyodo is largely “home-brew” given she’s self-taught, she incorporates other types of magic and styles to compensate 

Lei has the passive ability of being ridiculously lucky, she never loses games of chance such as coin flips and dice rolls

The nickname ‘Lei’ was originally coined by Wally West and it’s a nickname she only allows within the perimeter of the Cave

Lei is proud of her musical skill, it’s not uncommon to hear her singing to herself and will shred an electric guitar when given the chance

She has a pet Bearded Dragon named Prince. Prince was a at-Death’s-door rescue surrendered to Charlie, who gave him to her after she helped nurse Prince back to health and she wound up attached to him

Lei’s father is unaware she’s taken up heroism, as far as Ryuu knows, she’s studying under Charlie to get her curiosity of magic out of her system

[gumnut-logic]

Callisto (Arrival - Bit 1)

Prologue Incident - Bit 1 | Bit 2 Fallout - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 Voyage - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 Arrival - Bit 1

And here we are back on our way out to Callisto with a bunch of grumpy Tracys, their Dad, their Uncle and a former enemy. It’s all sunshine and lollipops...not. :D But there is some great scenery :D

As always, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ @janetm74​ and @onereyofstarlight​ You guys are absolutely amazing and so patient with my crazy. Bri, you are a great teacher for a dunderhead like me :D

Anyways, here we are back on board the Excel. I hope you enjoy. :D

-o-o-o-

Part Three

Virgil ended up dosing Gordon as the aquanaut turned positively green after the second jump.

He dragged his brother to the infirmary and made him lie down for the rest of the ion pause. Gordon protested the anti-nausea injection, but Virgil wasn’t willing to risk airborne innards. He was barely holding it together himself.

John, surprisingly wasn’t much better. Not that the casual observer would be able to tell. His space brother was the master of self-control. But Virgil could see the tightness around his mouth, the slightly pale cast to his skin…he kept an eye on him.

By the third jump, Virgil was dosing himself with anti-nausea meds.

It was the oddest feeling. His body wanted to register it as a g-force, but it wasn’t quite the same. It hit his stomach and his head and it was like spinning in both directions at once.

Ergh, even thinking about it was nauseating.

John didn’t need any medication. Or so he claimed. As far as Virgil was concerned, it came damned close. He kept an eagle eye on his space brother anyway.

As for the rest of the crew...Scott and Alan didn’t appear to even notice the issue, their Dad grunted a little and Uncle Lee made several salty comments.

Michael just arched an eyebrow when Virgil queried him.

Before the fourth jump he forcibly dragged them all through the tiny sickbay, just in case.

The whining was extensive.

But this was new technology. A threat to call back to Grandma was all it took to shift both his father and Uncle Lee. Who could have known their uncle was mildly terrified of their grandmother.

His father was rather amused. The story behind that one was not fully divulged, but it lightened the atmosphere a little.

Michael worshipped Mrs Tracy, as he called her, and was out of his seat so fast, he created eddies in the artificial atmosphere.

Virgil was not going to question that one at all.

Ultimately, Virgil didn’t find anything wrong with any of his brothers or the others, but he did record all observations. Perhaps the reason could be found and negated sometime down the track.

In the meantime, Gordon and himself were suitably drugged up and Alan’s smart-ass comment on the matter stamped on by Scott.

Finally, thank god, they emerged from the fifth jump and Alan was able to shift to more familiar spaceflight permanently.

Beside Virgil, Gordon let out a relieved sigh.

The ship shuddered as the ion engines were once again engaged. Alan’s skill was ever so prominent and Virgil felt nothing but pride for his little brother. He must remember to mention it to the squirt later on.

John, still looking a little green, ran his fingers over his board and brought up their forward view on the main ‘projector.

“Well, I have to say that is quite a sight.” Dad’s voice was suitably awed.

Virgil’s jaw dropped.

Jupiter.

It was massive.

And far more impressive in person than through a telescope.

The huge gas giant was still distant, but the sun behind them lit it up in all its glory. Its brilliant swirls of colour were in such contrast to the black around it, it was like a hole in the fabric of space-time, a window to another dimension.

Its iconic red spot glared at them like an eye.

Virgil knew the planet well from both photographs and Five’s telescopes. Its colours were fascinating and inspirational. He’d done a few pours in acrylic to emulate the gaseous agitation with mixed results. One hung in John’s room, even. But nothing compared to this.

“That is one honkin’ great big ball o’ gas.”

Virgil flattened his gaze and glared at the back of Uncle Lee’s head. Beside him, Gordon snorted.

Typical.

On the hologram, labels suddenly appeared identifying each of the features in the space-scape. Ganymede coasted slowly on the left, Io was a tiny dot casting a shadow on Jupiter’s surface and an arrow pointed out where Europa was obscured by the giant planet.

Jupiter’s ring was located, along with several of its seventy-odd asteroid moon hoard.

A glance at John had Virgil smiling. The expression on his space brother’s face was a sight to behold. It was as if he had discovered the holy grail…which, considering the importance of the Jovian system, was a good analogy.

This was John paradise.

“Receiving recognition signal from Callisto.” His space brother’s expression shifted to one of quiet amusement as his fingers poked his console.

“How the hell did you get here so quick?!” The hologram that suddenly appeared in the middle of the cockpit was energetic to say the least. Graeme Walters was a bald, heavy-set man in his fifties. Fiery eyes set deeply below steel grey eyebrows were striking by themselves, but it was the extravagant moko that was the dominant feature of his expression. The black etched design on the entirety of the right side of his face spoke of his mother’s Maori ancestry.

Those dark eyes didn’t wait for an answer as they glanced around, only to fixate on Virgil’s father. “Jeff?”

“Hey, Gray. Long time, no see.”

The man stared for a long moment, lips pressing together. A drawn in breath. “Good to see you, Space Jockey.” The relieved smile that infused his face was a big one.

But it didn’t last long.

Scott spoke up. “Mr Walters, we are responding to your distress call. What is your situation?”

Dark eyes flickered to the commander, a frown forming between them. “Ju and Kate were exploring the caves beneath the Base. They extend for hundreds of kilometres in all directions. They took three staff and one of our spelunking crawlers towards the north. Kate is fascinated by the Asgard impact zone and in particular Burr crater. They had planned to be gone a week. We lost contact yesterday, only two days in.” A map appeared in the hologram. “We think they made it to Burr, but we are unsure as our sensors are swamped with interference.”

“Interference?” John sat up straighter. “Send me a radiological profile of the area.”

Walters blinked and gestured at something out of range. “It’s yours. Though I’m hoping that big fancy rocket you’re riding has more bang for its buck than our orbital.”

John’s voice was calm. “I can assure you, Mr Walters, we have plenty of bang.” His brother was intent on his console, frowning at whatever the Base commander had sent him.

“Good.” He turned back to Jeff. “Looking forward to a beer in your honour, Jeff. Park your rocket in orbit and I’ll see you down here asap.” A curl of his lips. “Watch the Jefferson. I’ve just had her waxed.” The hologram blinked out.

“The Jefferson?”

Nobody answered him and the cockpit was suddenly quiet.

Virgil wondered if it was pure accident his father didn’t know or if Scott and John had left the name out of the briefing on purpose. Hell, why hadn’t Uncle Lee told him? Perhaps they had meant to approach Dad later in private. Perhaps Virgil should have done that himself, but the rush to leave…

Damn.

The massive space hauler that had brought the Callisto mission to the moon had left Earth in 2056 a year after their father had gone missing.

Virgil sighed internally. ‘Gone missing’ was a euphemism for ‘died’ that they all used. They didn’t name spaceships after people they thought might be coming back.

“On approach.” Alan’s words snapped him out of his thoughts.

His little brother tweaked the view on the main projector.

Dad was tight-lipped as he stared up at the scene.

Jupiter still hung in the distance like a massive Christmas ornament, but its second largest moon was swelling in the foreground.

Callisto was a moon of rock and ice. Unlike her sister, Europa, the surface was not one continuous blanket of white. More a cratered wasteland, the moon’s ancient crust sparkled like it was dusted with glitter. As the Excel powered into orbit, that glittery surface turned its eye towards them.

And it was an eye. Not like the red spot that continued to stare at them from Jupiter, but a single massive crater outshining the millions of smaller ones, glaring up at them from the surface.

Words appeared on the display yet again. Valhalla.

“Wow. Something hit hard.” Gordon’s voice beside him was little more than a whisper.

The Excel swooped past and around the moon, turning away from Jupiter as she caught the curve of a new orbit. Virgil’s attention was focussed on Callisto, so he didn’t see the approach of the other ship at first.

“There she is.” Alan’s voice was awe itself. “The Jefferson Tracy.”

“You let them name a ship after me?”

Again that silence enveloped the cockpit.

Scott sighed. “It was a sign of respect, Dad.” His eyes were sad as he looked up at the display.

Jeff stared at the commander for a long moment. Scott simply stared back, the expression on his face enough to clench Virgil’s heart.

Uncle Lee was either oblivious or strategic in his words. “Jeff, she is a beauty. Just look at those engines. She hauled the entire base all the way out here and didn’t blink.” He grinned at the ship as she slowly floated past. There were enough similarities in design between the Jefferson and Thunderbird Two in the way the hauler carried chained ‘modules’ and sported a massive rocket on her backend for Virgil to admire. But she was many times the size of his ‘bird, had never seen planetfall and never would, having been built in space.

Zero X technology had been the next step in space exploration.

The Zero X had failed.

The Jefferson was the result. Alternate technology named after the man the original technology had taken.

Most of her modules were missing and no doubt deployed on the moon, but the hauler was still massive, her giant hull decked out in blue and silver.

A splash of red on her bow completed the illusion. While she was built more like a giant Thunderbird Two, she drew her paint job from a much smaller craft.

“Well, that looks familiar.” Gordon murmured beside Virgil.

He had to agree. Even the white lettering down the side of the huge craft that spelt out their father’s name was an echo of the Thunderbird lettering down One’s flank.

“Why?” Their father didn’t specify who he was addressing, but it wasn’t necessary.

Scott sat straighter in his seat. “As I said, they wanted to show their respect. I couldn’t see the harm. Tracy Industries was a major sponsor, after all.” And they had been hurting.

Bad.

Virgil remembered far too well. Scott had received the request after a long and hard day. He had been vulnerable and had sought out Virgil’s counsel.

It had been like declaring Dad dead and it had hurt so much. But the opportunity to see their father so recognised, so esteemed by the planet he had sacrificed himself for…in the end there had been no question of giving permission.

It was what their father would have wanted.

They hadn’t expected him to actually see the Jefferson Tracy.

Again Uncle Lee spoke up, this time his voice was unusually quiet. “Berry and Ju just wanted you to keep them safe, Jeff. You were our lucky charm, after all.”

Virgil’s father frowned at the engineer.

Jeff opened his mouth, but Alan cut him off. “Orbital stability achieved and locked in.”

The Jefferson passed them at a respectable distance on its own orbital trajectory and sailed off towards the moon’s curved horizon. Below them, another very large impact crater slowly rotated into view.

The word ‘Asgard’ appeared on the display.

Scott’s voice was sharp as he unstrapped himself. “That’s our target. John, what are the specifics?”

The astronaut turned his seat around to face them all. “The Base is contained within Doh crater, part of the Asgard complex.” An arrow appeared on the display pointing at a tiny shadow at the centre of the massive crater. “The docking facilities are large enough to support Thunderbird Three. Alan, I recommend a rear landing. Let’s not drill a hole in their hangar.”

“Well, yeah, derrr.”

Gordon piped up. “No, it’s D’oh, little bro.” The aquanaut grinned.

John did not roll his eyes. Not quite.

Virgil had no such control and just groaned.

“What? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Gordon.” Scott’s voice was firm, but Virgil could see the slight crinkle around Scott’s eyes and appreciated Gordon’s effort to break up the atmosphere a little.

John ignored both of them. “Gravity is only 0.126g, even less than Earth’s Moon, so no stupid stunts.” Virgil wasn’t going to argue with the glare John sent in Scott’s direction, but when Uncle Lee picked up on it, the snort was a big one.

“It will be like being home on Alfie again.” The whack Lee planted on their father’s back was a solid one. “Hey, Space Jockey.”

The glare Dad shot at Uncle Lee was scathing. “Don’t you start.”

“Oh, it’s all coming back to me now.”

Virgil’s father grunted in disgust.

Uncle Lee only grinned more.

“We have a mission here, people.” Scott glared at all of them.

That shut up everyone and Virgil felt like throttling his brother. They were on pace. The break in tension was worth the moment.

Virgil straightened. “We have a number of pods available. I recommend a combination of all-terrain. We have the Dragonfly geared for low gravity environment, but it will depend on the size of these caves. John?”

“I’ve only just begun analysis, but as the Commander Walters said, Base sensors are badly compromised. I’ve tapped into the Jefferson with similar results. Using Thunderbird Five I hope to locate and negate the issue. Eos is working on it as we speak. My focus once the last communications buoy is connected, will be finding lifesigns and assistance with mapping the reported caves.”

“Thank you, John. Alan, you’re in Thunderbird Three. Virgil and Gordon, you’re with me. Dad-“

“I’m going down with you, Scott.”

“Me, too.” Uncle Lee was virtually bouncing in his seat.

Scott’s lips pressed together. “As I was saying, gear up and I’ll see you in Thunderbird Three.” The commander’s eyes flitted to Virgil ever so briefly, but the medic got the meaning immediately.

Medical supplies would be fully stocked.

Scott pushed off from his chair.

“Thunderbirds are go.”

-o-o-o-

Next

[teatitty]

Magecraft CE’s + Descriptions (Part 1)

Okay so this is gonna get long which is why it’s under a cut but I promised to do a post showing every CE that deals with Magecraft so here we are! This took forever please thank me for this. I ended up having to do this in parts cuz wow there’s a lot more CE lore than I anticipated (note: these posts only include CE’s that mention Magical Energy or types of Magecraft, hence why Lugh’s Halo isn’t here)

Azoth Blade

Basic Mystic Code for a mage. A dagger used in ceremonies.

False Attendant’s Writings

A book that entrusts the power of one Master to another. Its creation requires one Command Spell.

The Green Black Keys

Modeled from a cross, this exorcist's tool is used to contact the spirit world.

Rin’s Pendant

A pendant passed down in the Tohsaka family. The highest possible class of jewel, endowed with magical energy from generations of Tohsaka mages.

Grimoire

A book containing the secrets of magecraft. Also a record of the life of its author.

Leyline/Ley Line

Magical energy channeled through the earth. A leyline is the heartbeat of a single, gigantic lifeform.

Magic Crystal

A jewel used as a catalyst by gem mages.

Dragonkind

The strongest phantasmal species. It has vast power, and creates magical energy just by breathing.

Primeval Magic

A simple spell which benefits you by harming another. Hence primeval.

Projection

NA Translation: A type of magecraft that utilizes magical energy to create a mirror image of one's self.

Direct Translation: A branch of magecraft that utilizes magical energy to reproduce duplicates of an original from the caster's mental image.

Gandr

NA Translation: One of the rune spells passed down in Northern Europe. A type of curse that can reduce the target's physical capability. If the magical energy is highly condensed, it could have the same firepower as a bullet.

Direct Translation: A variety of runic magecraft, passed down in northern regions. A curse with a debilitating effect on its target's bodily functions. When composed with particularly densely-packed magical energy, it can strike with the force of a bullet.

Gem Magecraft/Antumbra (doesn’t actually explain the magecraft btw)

The moon in the night casts a reflection on the lake's surface. The two sisters enhance each other's power.

Imaginary Number Magecraft

A special type of magecraft. A forbidden spell that lays the subconscius bare and turns its negative side to a blade.

Formal Craft

NA Translation: Mastery of the basics is proof of one's superiority. A beautiful, elegant Average One, who rules over Earth, Water, Fire, Wind, and Ether.

Direct Translation: Fundamentals are the very proof of excellence. She who makes an offering of all five elements, the graceful and magnificent Average One.

Kaleidoscope

NA Translation: A great marshal of magic. Guardian of many possibilities and many futures. Their existence is like a kaleidoscope.

Direct Translation: The grand marshal of sorcery. That person acts as the defender of countless futures, countless possibilities. That existence is the same as a kaleidoscope.

Runestone

NA Translation: Colourful natural stones carved with runes. As if you are gathering the falling stars, you are picking up the fragments of good fortune.

Direct Translation: A rune with multiple colours carved in natural stone. For those who collect what was visibly scattered by the light, a fragment of fortune will be picked up.

Code Cast

NA Translation: A new type of Magecraft used during the Moon Holy Grail War. Created by the most brilliant mages of the time, it ensured that at least some aspects of the mystical and the arcane would once again have their place in the spiritron world.

Direct Translation: A new magic used during the Holy Grail War of the Moon Cell. By the hands of modern magicians, the mysterious shine of the world of spiritrons was reclaimed.

Clock Tower

NA Translation: The de-facto headquarters of the Mage's Association, a major power in the world of magecraft. Many famed mages acquired their knowledge behind its walls, however, behind the glory of its long-standing history, darkness lurks in the shadows.

Direct Translation: The headquarters of the Mage's Association and a large force in the magic world. A schoolhouse from where many magi of renown appear one after the other, but there is an obscure darkness behind the scenes of its long history.

Necromancy

A type of magecraft that processes, makes use of, and commands the dead. In the world of mages, there are many spells that should be avoided, but this man uses without hesitation. "Even if this life ends without any achievements, its death will not be wasted,” The man says as if mocking himself.

Magic Meter

It will detect magical energy over a certain threshold and point to its source. In order to trigger the sensor, an abnormal amount of magical energy must be present, and at its source... something absolutely abnormal.

Elixir of Love 

The elixir created by a mage who excels at controlling one's mind. Even the Servant can't resist its effect. However, use it with caution.Your hidden desire will become an uncontrollable weapon and it will burn you and everything you love to ashes.

Storch Ritter

Einzbern's wirework. An angel's poem will echo through the freezing night. Familiars created with wires and hairs will autonomously capture and attack the enemy. "Storch Ritter" in the bird shape and many other forms exist.

[highsviolets]

like real people do, chapter one: obi-wan x handmaiden!reader

summary: in which you and obi-wan stumble into each other’s acquaintance through accidents of honor and pleasure

word count: 3k-ish

cw: brief, brief allusion to body dysmorphia in first paragraph after part one (a). 

A/N: WOW it’s finally here!!! my handmaiden x obi fic!! my first multi chapter!!  anon you are so patient. thank you for bearing with me as i developed this concept and finally got words onto paper. This lil chapter takes place at the beginning of AOTC and sets the scene for all sorts of shenanigans. pls be gentle folkx i am v nervous i hope you love these idiots honorable humans as much as i do. 

*if this is your gif pls lmk!* 

like real people do, a fic by corellians-only 

prologue

Glamor. Satin. Hapan wine and curtseys and a diplomatic accent polishing over your country roots and the knife strapped to your thigh and a propensity to linger in shadows. This is your life, as handmaiden to Senator Padmé Amidala. This is your duty.

Grime. Sweat. Clone armies and custom armour and a commission muddling the balance of peace and deep-rooted affection and unwavering devotion to the Jedi Order. This is Obi-wan’s life, as High General of the Republic. This is his duty.

You meet before the chaos erupts, though, before it spills over the senate security and the temple’s walls and starts incinerating the foundations of life itself.

You meet before the chaos erupts, but your acquaintance is tangled with its aching tendrils. You do not see each other, at first. So many things are in the way. But slowly, gently, acquaintance forms into friend forms into companion forms into lover over cups of tea and night watches and snatched moments of vulnerability in a world that is determined to wrest your soul from your body. Armor and silk and robes are stripped away; duties that once swathed you tightly become more gentle. When you are together it is just you and him, but when you are in the world you are handmaiden and he is general.

But we are getting ahead of ourselves: let us go back to the beginning, when the wholeness was yet separate. Let us go back to the beginning, and meet ourselves anew. Let us go back to the beginning, where everything divines its purpose.

part one (a)

Shimmersilk voile glistens as you turn in the mirror. The tender glow of artificial sun lamps is enraptured by the diaphanous weave, and its metallic threads gleam under such ministrations. It’s a dress that drips with regality. A sense of noblesse oblige seems to ooze from every swish of the cape flowing from your cap sleeves, and you sigh. The act is heavy, and the cape grumbles as your shoulders heave with the motion. Brilliant flickers of gold and silver mock you as you continue to shift from side to side, scrutinizing your body from each angle. Another sigh leaves escapes through your nose, but this one is softer, gentler, more like the gossamer that now encloses you — more like the woman you been trained to be. You will never be as petite or slight as the Senator, but that, you observe, wrangling to adjust one final hairpin into your headpiece, was never quite the point. Your job is to stand in for her ladyship: not to assume her person.

The offending hairpin proves obstinate. You surrender to the cause and submit yourself to an evening of faint wisps of curled hair framing your face. Wisps of hair are too spontaneous. You must be crisp, but it is not about what you want — not in these petty, mundane expressions of living.  

While you have been doing battle a figure has entered the room. It’s one of the Senator’s new Jedi protectors, if the robes are any indication. Without fanfare he approaches you and plucks the pin from your fingers, like he is intimately acquainted with such things and communes with them on a daily basis. Gentle fingers — though, the bruised knuckles tell you they are not immune to struggling against life’s grip — smooth the hair at the crown of your head before he slips the pin into its rightful place, nudging into the golden circlet now held secure. The sleeve of his robe caresses your cheek, obscuring your vision, and you feel with your , rather than see, all of this occur.

“All of this” happens without sound, without breathing almost, as though the two of you have entered a vacuum that warps both space and time and sound.

The man takes a step back and paints himself with an apologetic smile, clasping his hands together in the privacy of his robe and offering you a half-bow.

“I apologize for the liberty, your ladyship.” The Jedi’s voice is precise. “I do hope I wasn’t too forward.” He announces every syllable, acknowledges every idiosyncratic whimsy, each grammatical proclamation.

You meet his gaze in the mirror, and despite the shadows casting about, you can detect the openness, the earnestness of his gaze. He holds no tension in his face, or anywhere else in his body, for that matter. It has been a long while since you have seen someone so at peace. Perhaps, hidden under the cloak, his fingers are grasping at themselves, trying to be rid of the vestiges of forbidden touches.

A half-smile graces your painted lips and you incline your head. The movement cuts but a short arc in the air’s currents, just as you have been taught. “It is no matter.” You toy with the idea of letting him continue to believe you are Padmé, the thought careening through your mind like a model airspeeder run amok. You let the thought crash. It is above you to engage in such petty games, you decide. Padmé would not do it, and it is your job to act as she does. Besides, the Jedi would know, wouldn’t he? Can’t they read minds with the Force? That’s what fisherman in your village used to say when you would let your feet dangle off the docks and graze the surface of the water and watch the boats come in with the day’s catch.

So you turn, then, the cape twisting behind you, and address him face-to-face. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Master Jedi.” You gesture to your twinkling gown. “I am not the Senator.” You catch the tail end of his frown as you avert your gaze, fixating on some unseen object just out of sight. “I am but one of her ladyship’s handmaidens.” You hear the clipped tone of your voice, the way every word is measured like cups of flour, like the yards of fabric for this dress, and you think you hate it, but you cannot tell.

“Oh, I am sorry.” The apology is sincere and bookmarked with amusement, and he rocks back on his heels. It seems he is laughing at his own mistake. “I must however, inquire after the whereabouts of her ladyship. The council has requested that my padawan and I escort her to this evening’s function.” The Jedi’s hands drop to his sides and the robes that shield them follow.

“I’m afraid the Senator has already departed,” you say, making for the exit. The Jedi matches your stride. “She left with another Jedi some twenty standard minutes ago. I presume it was your padawan, Master Jedi?”

“Blast!” he murmurs, but you hear his swearing and duck your head to hide your grin. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, throwing a glance your way. “I’m afraid my padawan has a mind of his own.”

“I think the Senator and your padawan will get along famously, then,” you remark wryly. You have reached the landing pad and are about to bid him a good evening when he climbs into the shuttle and extends a hand to guide you.

“May I be of assistance?”

Skin meets skin for the second time that evening. At this rate you will be more acquainted with his body than your own, and as you sense his muscles grow taut when you shift your weight to board, an unfamiliar sensation embeds itself among the metallic threads. It feels like when you have to receive the Chancellor when Padmé is away on business, or when you act as decoy traveling to and from Theed, but more subtle, more inviting.

“Thank you, Master Jedi.” Skin breathes on skin for one, two heartbeats and then the contact withers and he drops your hand.

A silence nestles over the two of you as the pilot races you over to the function. It persists as he helps you exit the shuttle and delicately rearranges your cape, ensuring the shimmersilk is matches the beams of fractured stars.

Obi-wan does not know why he does this; he does not understand why he feels the nudging of the Force to offer his arm like he is a chivalrous courtier, but he obeys. It is his duty to obey the will of the Force, so he does.

part one (b)

The function teems with lifeforms, and each one spars for attention. They are wrapped in chiffon and decked in damask robes and fine crystals compete for light so they can shine that much brighter. It’s some gala ostensibly designed to raise credits for a struggling cause, and it is like all the rest. A pathetic excuse for most Senators to say they are dedicated to more than greed.

To you, it reeks of Coruscanti power; to him, it stinks of politics.

The Jedi Master spots the Senator and her Jedi protector before you do, and he steers you in their directly, swiftly sidestepping curious glances and intoxicated beings. You manage to snag a glass of something from a passing tray.

He bows again, deeply. His hair seems to blend in with the crowd — it is copper and gold and refined.

“My lady,” he intones, and his voice sparkles like the gem-encrusted champagne flute in Padmé’s hand.

“It’s lovely to see you again, Master Kenobi.” She looks up at the gangly teenager by her side. Rich chocolate and licorice colored robes complement the Senator’s wine-colored gown. It’s a striking image, despite the youth’s awkwardness, here in the blurry illumination of the cavernous room.  

Padmé breaks into a full smile as she spots you lingering at Kenobi’s side. “I see you’ve met my handmaiden.”

“I suppose I have,” he says, examining you anew, “although I’m afraid introductions got swept away in the excitement.”

You think he sounds as unaffected by “the excitement" as one could possibly be, and the duplicity gnaws on your gentility.

You sip while Padmé sweeps together strands of lore about your service, about your loyalty, about your selflessness. The beverage is sweet and sparkling, rather like your gown, and like your dress, it feels sticky and cloying and altogether fake for something that tries so hard to be real. But you smile and nod and once more his skin melts into yours as he shakes your hand.

“The honor,” he says in that voice colored with melody, “is all mine.” You look into his cerulean eyes and wish, dimly, in that part of your brain untouched by starlight, that he had said pleasure.

Padmé’s eyes flicker between you and him, but the moment has passed. She pulls you away, citing the need for diplomatic business and brushes aside her escorts with a firmness she seems to have possessed since birth.

The pair of you wander through the crowd. You are always one step behind, always letting her be the first person they see. She is wearing her favorite designer tonight, and you wonder, taking another sip as she holds court with Bail Organa, why she has commissioned such a work of art for tonight’s event.

Like yourself, the Senator has opted for airy materials matched with splendor. And yet, her garb lacks your ethereality: the deep burgundy smacks of something firmly rooted in rich soil even as you strain heavenward. Tulle and satin are artfully draped over her lithe form, and beaded crystals cover her from head to toe. An open back reveals creamy skin. More than one being in the hall has dragged their eyes over the Senator’s body, straining to glimpse more, more, more, in the dim light.

The Senator pays them no mind. When she concludes her business with Organa, she refreshes her glass, and yours, and tucks you in her side. You begin to walk. It is an aimless thing, but not purposeful — now is when you see who is here, and who is not, who is watching, who pretends to look away, and who slips out unnoticed.

“How did you meet Master Kenobi?” you ask.

“Oh, it was years ago.” Padmé drinks. “I was still Queen at the time.”

“And?” Back in those days, she had retained at least a dozen of Naboo’s finest young women. Now, it’s just you and few others.

“And that was when we met,” she announces. “He’s very famous, you know. So is his padawan, Anakin Skywalker. They’ve protected at least half the galaxy.”

Confusion contorts your features, carving rivers in your forehead. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Padmé laughs, but the expression is faint, almost undetectable. Senators do not typically jest with their bodyguards. “That’s because you think anyone who reports on the Jedi is a gossip-mongering snob and you refuse to read anything about them.” She squeezes your arm and drops her voice to a whisper. “Don’t know know they’re the ones who write all the good stuff?”

“All…the good stuff,” you echo, voice flat and uncomprehending.

Padmé simply rolls her eyes and resume her stride. “They’re in charge of my security now, with Captain Typho. I expect that you’ll be working closing with Master Kenobi. Please help him fulfill his mandate from the Council in anyway you can.”

The mere suggestion of working with that man twists your insides. It’s the same feeling from earlier, swirling and basing into unease. Work with a Jedi? A famous one? The ache anxiety you are used to. It is familiar and it is your unwelcome companion but you have made peace with each other. This — this is something new. This is a grinding jaw and a drawbridge heart and hot and cold dueling for dominance in your stomach and something so strangely akin to anger. You drink more champagne to mask the disconcerting sensation.

part one (c)

The Senator is being pulled away, now, to a group of prominent Senators to discuss the new child labor protection regulations. She does her job and you do yours, melting into the shadows, embracing them, keeping eyes on all those who gather near to your mistress.

Master Kenobi’s sudden appearance at your side does not surprise you, though perhaps it should.

“Are you quite sure you’re able to keep watch on her ladyship from this distance?” His words are no longer melodic. They come to your ears dry and flinty, the way rocks feel without the rain to abate their constancy.

“Quite.” You fail to elaborate because there is simply nothing more to say.

“Your disguise is quite effective. You must pass along my compliments to Captain Typho and the rest of the security team.” He tries again, but you refuse to be endeared. He is stubborn, just like you — he resists being broken down by your cool acidity.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi.” You finally meet his gaze. “I was worried it would be too intricate, but the Senator assured me I had selected the perfect piece. It’s just enough like her for people to not look twice.”

“You engineered this?” Master Kenobi’s body is static, but his face swells with vivacity. A minuscule gesture to the left, an arching eyebrow, a corner of his mouth quirks upwards, ascending to meet his eyes.

“It’s my job,” you return, but the pH of your tone has neutralized somewhat. You are uncomfortable, so you try to tease him. “Maybe one day I can show you how to use all the weapons I have under this gown, and you will believe I can do my job.”

You regret the tawdry joke immediately when he shifts and looks away. “I’m sorry I’ve offended you, my lady.” Master Kenobi analyzes you, then the Senator, and sighs heavily. “I see you have everything well in hand. I shall bid you good evening, then, my lady.” He bows and exits in a boiling mass of robes, his padawan not far behind. Anakin Skywalker lingers on the threshold, gazing into the crowd, eyes frantic, but his Master beckons and he follows obediently.

part one (d)

It is not until early morning, during that brief moment between night and dawn, that you are able to think clearly about the strange feeling gurgling in your chest.

You think of Master Kenobi and his sentimental hair and the caramel of his accent. You wonder about his hands grazing yours, how your fingers curled so naturally around his, the ghost of fingertips in your hair. You consider his attempts at gallantry, at his fealty to his duty, to Padmé embrace of his presence and her lavish praise.

And you ask yourself what would it have been like, if he were just a boy, and you were just a girl, and maybe if he had danced with you he could have respected you more, and maybe if you had been less defensive he would have been more contrite, and you laugh at yourself.

Silly girl, you think as sleep nibbles at your vision. Those are not our kind of dreams.

tbc.

[shewhowillnotbenamed1]

Bound

With the tail-end of the storm approaching, the ship had cut her way through the last of tremulous waters. The crewmen finally began to dwindle, with some of their number gone below deck to their quarters to relax and rest. Tell tales. Take drink.

Except for Wayne

He was the Captain and inheritor of the impressive vessel, The Aquamarine. Reentering the Captain's Quarters with a wrist behind him, he bowed, bent low to the desk. By the withering candle light, he reexamined the map that he had used to plot their course. He poured over his graphs and charts, and all the while recalculating the length of the journey, whether they could recover any lost time.

Not once had he stared at the edge of the room toward the mast. It was a cruel reminder that he had merely prolonged the imminent.

The muted sound of the boat creaking and the churn of choppy water was but a faint backdrop. A quill drawn up to scratch ink into worn pages broke through a moment of silence. And it seemed to break her.

"Please..."

There she sat in his chambers, a maiden, with wrists knotted behind her back, holding her fast to the mizzenmast. The girl spoke so softly under the shadow of breath, like a whisper of a last attempt. Her hooded head dipped down so low, she feared that he had forgotten her, but he hadn't. Oh, how he wished he would - wished he could.

The Captain's eyes locked in on her immediately. "Please." The word fell again from full lips like a prayer and his body flinched, turning ever so slightly toward the source. Slowly but surely, she was reeling him in. Wayne tried his best not to think about the myriad of methods he had at his disposal to make her say that word.

But he longed to hear it again.

Ardently.

And again.

Softer. Louder. Harder.

Again.

Sweet staccato - in tandem with each of their heartbeats.

He blinked brilliant sea foam colored eyes, rapidly in an attempt to sift away the dangerous thoughts, to wash them away like a turning tide would carry in a newborn turtle to the sanctity of the sea's embrace. To join its brothers. Never again to see its mother, so much of that was true of himself.

The true parallel was the perseverance, he did what he had to survive. And that included tying up loose ends.

"It's been hours..." Her voice was barely audible but held weight, as that of wavering waters, depths unfathomable. "The ship sailed through the turmoil..." Wayne wondered briefly if the squall had shaken her. Made her feel even more helpless. Tied up in his quarters with the boat rearing and rocking through turbulent sea. Alone and powerless. "You promised upon your return that you would...tell me my fate."

Had he?

Suddenly, Wayne craved the whiskey he saved for occasions or the occasional situation where he'd had to make a particularly tough call. Did one such as this constitute? Surely he had to have a drink or at least something to numb himself with. Why wouldn't he need a buffer or a filter to cloak himself, when to be in her presence was to grab hold of the ship's wheel, round it an about face and venture back into the maelstrom?

"I've made no such promises..." Captain Wayne smooth creases from his papers. "I have yet to reach a verdict regarding your fate. And until I do so, you will remain in my quarters. Silently." He included.

Captain Wayne traced his map with a finger and made a notation. Four. They would arrive in four nights. He'd relay this to his first mate Jon in the morning and then, the crew. This storm had slowed them, but they would dock in a few days if the ship remained on course with no interference. His lip curled. No external interference.

"I will..." The maiden conceded reluctantly. "Only if I may ask you this, so that I may prepare myself... What should I expect in these circumstances...?"

"I have said - you will wait," Wayne replied tersely. "Do as I ask." But that command sounded weaker than the last, to both of their ears. His resistance was dwindling, almost as if she were a mermaid or a siren seducing him, inducing him into action with a spell to make him serve her and bind him to her for all time. Though she sat bound before him.

And why?

She walked upon two legs with nary a tail nor fins in sight, how was that she in her cloak and white dress had awakened something in him he previously believed to be dormant?

Wayne had seen the finest things that this life had to offer. Treasures beyond measure. The seas, the skies, jewels, and the fairer sex - he had seen, but never indulged, never been tempted to stray. To allow any of these countless vices to corrupt him would cloud his judgment.

None had managed to rouse him like she, stringing along his soul and wringing up his beliefs.

And how?

Between her two hands, were they not tied?

"You..." She tried again. "Appear to be a reasonable man. More than fair." The woman licked her lips.

No.

His temple pulsed, an accusing finger jabbed in her direction. "You speak of fairness? Everything you've shown me is in complete opposition." He scoffed. "You stand to disregard this ship and my position, with your very existence - unsanctioned presence - aboard my vessel."

The maiden appeared to pale even further, but she continued. "Perhaps, I can make my case to you properly... Explain -"

"Captain," he interjected, needlessly. "That is captain, to you maiden." He peered over his pages at her body, mostly obscured in the sparsely lit room. "You may not be a member of my crew, but this is still my ship. And on my ship, you will address me by the appropriate title."

"Am I to stay here all night - bound...?" Her thighs turned in the loose fabric of her dress. And Captain Wayne found he had to glance away. "Captain," she added.

"Yes." Wayne's quill pierced the paper in his frustration. He cursed under his breath. "You are to remain here if I so command it."

"Then, I am to be treated as your enemy?" She blinked in realization. The woman drew her knees up. "And once you've turned me out, you'll cast me off? Or...flog me?"

Oh.

Captain Wayne's jaw twitched at the last in ways that flogging had never previously prompted. His consciousness betrayed him. The ripple expanding inside him incited such distracting warmth. But how was he to know that such suggestions would only bring about visions of a pale body, bare, bucking and bound to the mast, a moaning mess before him with a leather flogger in hand. Her hair askew, skin deliciously rouge and ripe while she begged for more.

This maiden was violating his vessel, he was fully in the right to flog her...

But.

"What you are remains to be seen... But you're hardly as innocent as you claim." He cleared his throat. "I should have you locked in a cell down below like the prisoner you are." Wayne didn't have to turn to her to know the defiant sparks he had felt had started to fall from her. Yet, he did not go to her. "But as I have not, do not test me."

"So then, in a manner of speaking, you have decided..." She mumbled low. "What am I if I am to remain here in your chambers like this? Your personal prisoner?"

Thoughts of a personal prisoner in his private quarters elicited Wayne's mouth to water again. Why did her words titillate him so?

The girl shifted, ropes groaned as they squeezed upon the smooth red wood of the mast. "Surely you cannot keep me," she murmured quietly.

He rolled up the map at last. "Are you willing to take that chance?"

For a time she was silent, as if that thought hadn't been meant for his ears.

"I would prefer to come to an agreement rather than to come to that, Captain."

"Hmm." Rising from the desk, he took a heavy step, as he pondered. "Prisoner or not, you have nothing to offer. Not materially nor strategically." She wasn't trained to be a seafarer, it was true. "You could serve to be no more than a liability to me."

"That's not true -" The woman insisted. "This is a misunderstanding..."

"If it is a misunderstanding, explain your presence aboard my ship? Is it an accident perhaps because you were caught?" The captain lashed quickly, glaring sharply in her direction.

"No..." She breathed. "You are correct... I boarded without permission and unbeknownst to you - I stowed away." The girl hung her head. "But, please allow me let me stay."

"You confess to being a stowaway, and you would like to be permitted to stay?" Captain Wayne asked, incredulously.

"Yes. Please." Her voice quivered and he could bet her lips did in turn. "If I may, I would like to stay."

She sounded like a woman on the verge. Why would she beg to stay on a strange vessel after her confession? A prison aboard a pirate ship was preferable to other options? But it was suspicious. Was she a mere interloper or did she have mutinous aims? Or worse, did she seek to end him?

The faint cruel smirk faltered.

"I'll bet you'd like me to let my guard down... Is it because you wish to do me in?" Her head shot up and her eyes were widened. The Captain continued callously. "Is that it? Have I figured you out?"

Looking at the crumpled form bent before the mast, it was difficult to think such a thing was true. But so thought the men fooled by sirens into believing they were lovers, before their bodies were crushed and ripped apart by rocks and waves.

Suddenly, the woman glanced over at him, unblinking, the whites of her eyes glowing. "Just as you wouldn't hurt me... I have no intention of hurting you..."

Without warning, a deafening crack gave way to a residual flash of lightning. The remnants of the storm cried out into the sky for vengeance to all that had escaped its wrath. She yelped in shock, as he was suddenly right behind her. "I'm one of the most lethal Pirate Captains of the age. I may have spared you, but you have no idea what I would do." A strained gasp escaped when he whispered into her smooth neck. The waves of hair fell to one side under her hood. "But you. You're perhaps worse than I, you're not blameless," He said darkly. "So I'll ask you again... You hid yourself on my vessel, in attempts to what - to kill me? Did someone send you?"

The maiden's breath hitched in her throat. "So hardened by the life of a pirate that you assume the worst of anyone... I've told you, I wouldn't - I could never." She sounded innocent. "Please." Her head angled toward him, her eyes had grown wide and wet, and her voice aching, as though the thought of doing him harm caused her pain. Even though he'd been the one that had her strewn up in his room and surely she was in worse pain, with her wrists raw and red. "You know I would never."

"Why should I believe a single utterance from your lips, when you have shown me little more than deceit?" A finger reached down and parted her lips with their rough textured tip. The silkiness, he had been compelled to touch. "How am I not to think these are not the lips of a traitor, when only one with traitorous aims would hide themselves as a stowaway aboard my ship?"

"Then, I'll have to show you... To make you see..." The maiden's tone was downcast, but only on Wayne's behalf. After all, he was a man who had seen such atrocities that he had grown desensitized. He could never easily believe in another, even if they had no malicious intent. One could swear she leaned into his touch, even brushed his digit ever so gently with the cupid's bow. "I am not."

Wayne withdrew his finger from her warmth to stand before her, somehow waiting for her to show him, to prove it. When she lifted her hooded head, he felt the strength in the gaze she placed upon him; it was parallel to the pressure on the ocean floor. Shameless eyes, she took him in with the most undeniably, desperate need. Those dark eyes of hers traced stroke after stroke into him, the deep tan skin turned darker by the unfiltered sun's rays, though under those eyes Wayne's body had never felt more ablaze.

Oh how he wanted her to look at him, to burn through him with the intensity of her stare like the scorching sun bleaching the wood of the top most deck. More than he had ever wanted anything in his life, he wanted to hold her and for her to look at him as she did. More than he had ever wanted anyone to look at him.

Wave after wave of drunken heat crashed over him as she took him inch by inch. The salt water whipped waves of dark hair, aqua green eyes. The leather strings of his tunic that lay unlaced with the front falling open to reveal the planes of a broad, muscular chest. The tanned flesh was a stunning contrast to the white fabric, with the rolled up sleeves revealing scars set upon the rich skin. The snug fit brown leather trousers did little to disguise that he longed for the chance to drink her in and then drink her down until he was drowning in her.

It was dangerous to have her on board this ship.

All caution fell away when compulsion drew him nearer, called his breath to brush her cheek. And she inched upward as several bristles of stubble scratched her neck. Her eyelids fluttered and the entirety of her being almost reverberated. And he heard a tiny note of a noise scale up the back of her throat. One of pleasure.

He closed his eyes and savored the song from the siren's lips. That illustrious sound of music, it was far better than he had mused. At once, he had to clear his senses, to distance himself from her. He stood by the door. His hand pressed into the wood wall, catching his breath.

But at last she spoke. Her voice was raspy, though in it was a concession. "Whatever punishment you ultimately decide - I will accept. And... I do not fault you for it."

No adequate explanation or reasoning and he longed to do whatever she asked. Baseless, he wanted to believe her.

Suddenly, Wayne sought to go against everything he stood for.

He took long strides over to where she sat with his leather boots creaking on the surface of the wood floor. A shadow fell over her, it grew until the maiden gasped. She sat up sharply, feeling the ends of her ropes loosened from around the wooden mast. She stood, slowly and shakily and searched for her former captor. As quick as the turn of tides, he had materialized by the windows whose shapes carved out a wide view of the endless blue reflecting the stars and moon.

"Did you just - free me?" Her wrists were still wrapped, but no longer tied to the mast. The maiden massaged her hands, they were finally regaining feeling. "Why...?"

"No more questions." Wayne said urgently, his back to her. "Come here, into the light."

"The light?"

"You wanted me to see you, to believe you..." Captain Wayne repeated.

"Yes," The maiden lingered by the pole, shaking her head slowly. "Do you...?"

"That remains to be seen..." He said cryptically. "But, I gave you an order... I wish to see you...properly."

The maiden had gazed upon him for a time and arrived at an answer. What would happen if he did the same?

"Oh..." Her cheeks tinted with rouge. But she sounded almost eager. "Yes, Captain."

Was it an eagerness to be close to him?

Upon her approach, he seized the ends of the rope in one hand, to take her in and to take in the white dress under her cloak. The long sleeves, the lacing of the corset secured the tight bodice to her tiny waist in ways that made him thirst as though he'd swallowed several gallons of saltwater. At last, he removed her hood and angled her chin to examine the unnaturally pale skin, almost in violent opposition to the thick tresses, they were jet black, located at the other end of the spectrum. With fast fingers, he brushed the hair away. The soft skin smoothed onto her sharp cheekbones. He settled upon the eyes carved into the marble.

They were blue-violets and lavenders. Perhaps, purples and magentas. Inconceivably, sapphire, amethyst, and ruby. All manner of flowers, hues, stones were fused together in fire to paint vibrant colors and brilliance he had never seen. The treasures and cosmos abound in those orbs alone shouldn't have been allowed to take shape. The ripples throughout him thought otherwise, his body pulled toward her, aura reaching out through the rope, the tethers were a link bridging the physical over to the subliminal, finally manifesting in his breath reaching out beyond his body to feel her.

Yes.

All that he thought he once knew was threatened, this maiden had turned the tides and now it was he who was captive.

A woman like her couldn't exist - shouldn't exist.

How, if her presence alone could rise up and give shape to feelings of which he hadn't spoken the names. And if he had known of their existence, he thought them to be myths. But how were they fancies, if there were a mythical creature standing before him?

Who or what was she?

The maiden bit her lip, still gazing up at him through the curtain of her dark lashes, as they stood together in the light twice forged from silver light of moonbeams and fire from whittled down candles. Her eyes were half-lidded, as they drew to close. And his grip on the rope slackened, the captain tilted downward to her until his mouth hovered within an inch of her own. Her chest started to rise and fall faster in the low neckline - crests of waves - pushed up by the corset and Wayne needed her, so much already, he knew she had breached through the hull of him.

*

"Captain, you wished to see me, privately?" Wayne glanced twice around the deck, ensuring there were no onlookers, before he feathered Raven's palm, twining their fingers and pulling her through the door to his quarters. An excited blush rose on her face, but her expression remained neutral as she awaited his orders.

Whatever was between them, there was still the matter of what to do with her. The crew had a code, it mandated she had to be punished, but if not made useful in some manner. A captain and his crew mates had to see to that. There was a stowaway onboard that claimed she wanted to stay and he had to be impartial. Or at least attempt to do so.

"I see, you're settling in, but your place here is not set." He frowned. "You would like freedom and free passage aboard my ship. And in exchange what will you offer me?" The captain folded his arms. "I found you with no personal effects on you. Nothing of value. You have nothing to barter, a fact of which we are both aware." It would have been laughable to some to negotiate terms with a stowaway, but Wayne was willing to hear her.

Raven's eyes sparked with that defiant, daring he had come to know from her. "I may not breathe the ins and outs of seafaring life into my bones or blood, as you pirates do, but there are things I do know..." She paused. "You think I have nothing of value, but..."

"But?" Wayne paused and turned to her fully.

"I... have myself."

"You?" He cocked his head. It was undeniable that his interest had been peaked. He wet his lips. "Elaborate... I would like to understand your terms properly."

"Surely, it should suffice... If you claim me... If I'm yours..." Her heart began to pound flippantly. "The Captain's woman..."

[illuminatvm]

INTRODUCE YOURSELF

Hello! I’m V, she/her, 25, EST, aquarius sun with an aries moon and rising. dumb as hell, illiterate as fuck. hobbies include buying books and never reading them, crying over the fact that i can't travel right now, and being consistently inconsistent with a hyperfixation.

DESCRIBE YOURSELF AS A WRITING PARTNER

oooh! okay, so i like to think i’m pretty laid back but that’s when i’ve gotten through all the nitty gritty of plotting. I love figuring out details and timelines, trading headcanons back and forth and really digging deep into a character and pushing their morals and beliefs and connections to others. I’m also a hoe for the aesthetique and love sending off musing inspo or instagram posts and quizzes between heart-wrenching angst. My writing style tends to veer towards the introspective prose at its best and at its most direct will focus on actions instead— which makes sense when my favourite threads to write are either emotionally harrowing or big fight scenes.

WHO ARE YOUR CHARACTERS?

𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐚 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡

Faded mauve and golden gray // a soft voice in a nearly-gone memory // perfectly made earl gray tea // long-gone chateaus and gilded walls // heavy silk and creamy marble // eyes so blue you’ll drown // the safest you’ve felt in years // curated clutter // chiffon cake and pearls // peony-fragile wings // breathless laughter // subtle power // smiles are merely animals baring their teeth

Species: guardian angel

Age: Appears to be in her early/mid-thirties, dates back to the 1400’s

Occupation: real estate developer. 1% for the planet board member. LVMH shareholder

Spoken languages: The better question is, what language does she not know?

Current place of residence: a penthouse suite in downtown seattle

Time in Seattle: 10 years

𝐅𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐀𝐲ş𝐞𝐠ü𝐥 𝐂𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐥

welcome to the club // deep crimson and glittering gold // the overwhelming ache of melancholia // neon lights and leather jackets // a life in the shadows // golden rings twisting with worry // sharp eyeliner or none at all // longing to belong // lithe hands of creation // more blankets than you need // starlight is the best light // half-truths and sharp knives // laughter that shakes your being // not dead yet barely alive

Species: shadow-graced

Age: 28. became shadow-graced at 24.

Occupation: jeweler. small-business owner

Spoken languages: English, Turkish, Italian  

Current place of residence: apartment in capitol hill

Time in Seattle: four years

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐳𝐨 𝐑𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐥𝐢

half-finished lattes // black t-shirts // empty mirrors // cracked book bindings // piles of coffee beans // hair pomade // lingering hugs // tired eyes // chocolate fondue // cloud couches // a labyrinth in human-form // a smoke filled chest // mulberry and cedar // old leather // messy hair // a watch glinting in the light // wolfish grins // early mornings and late nights // commanding attention

Species: vampire

Age: appears to be in mid-thirties. At the age of 35. Born in 1820.

Occupation: owner of Regime du Matin, independent bookstore + cafe

Spoken languages: English, Italian, French, German, Russian  

Current place of residence: top floor of Regime du Matin

Time in Seattle: two years

PLOT IDEAS / WANTED CONNECTIONS

Annora’s plot/wanted dynamics page

Feray’s plot/wanted dynamics page (coming tonight, i’m just being finicky)

Carmine’s plot/wanted dynamics page

PRESENT HEADCANONS

𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐚

To have lived for so long is both a blessing and curse. She remembers when palaces were built and bitterly recalls wars, can never hide the regret upon her features when she thinks of the fall of kingdoms and losses of beauty and majesty and brilliant minds. Devotion, steadfastness has matured, has evolved in the modern world and so too has Annora. Nowadays, you might see her working not merely to protect the people, but the place they inhabit. Technology and the divine have never been meant to mingle, but within her limits she involves herself with innovation— for the good of humanity. Of course, she is careful to remain in certain obscurity. Annora Leigh to mortals is a name forgettable and a face hardly seen. The world can not be saved by a single guardian angel, but she has not lived for so long that she can not try.

She likes to be busy, and she is. It isn’t uncommon for Annora to be in one city one day, then another the next. How she’s in Seattle continues to confuse the many as most of her real estate projects are on the eastern coast of the United States and Europe. But, she is here, and so far there are no signs of her leaving. An angel such as she isn’t so afraid of roaming the streets alone, not when her angelic lineage is so potent. If she isn’t working, she’s often volunteering, or spending time with those she considers her family— mortal or otherwise. If she could split herself into a legion, she could. Unfortunately, however, she is only one. Though that’s never quite stopped her from getting her way.

𝐅𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐲

She’d nearly died at the age of twenty-four while in London. In the years since, she and the entity she is bound to have settled here in Seattle, reverting to her birth-given name as she rediscovers herself in this new life, refining a new hobby of jewelry-making as she continues with a more quiet and subdued existence. Her workshop exists above the place where humans and supernatural-alike mingle, a club known for pleasure and indulgence. Lovers do no exist, friendships are distant if not fleeting. A love like her parents’ seems like an impossibility to her now. Her sins are her own, and watching love be wiped away by rage and betrayal was more than enough to cast herself away from the intimacy of knowing and being known. People couldn’t lose you, nor could you lose people if you weren’t present long enough for it to matter.

Though she lives in Capitol Hill, there are many days (and nights) that she’ll not stumble home until late. Her ties to the being that saved her from the brink of death are strangely pulled taut— so while her jewelry workshop (think brands like Sofia Zakia or Tippy Taste or Borcik Jewelry) and small storefront exists on the street level, an exclusive club of debauchery and sin exists below, its hours running until nearly dawn. Sometimes, you’ll find her posing as a bar girl, rarely will you see her indulging with or without the one who chose her for a life of the shadow-graced. But, she is loyal and indebted to them, and luckily in Seattle, everything is within arms reach.

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

Within him lies the great desire of perpetual warmth, and the ability to give that same warmth to others. That is what the cozy walls of his cafes evoke, what seeps from the man that seems wrapped in tarragon and cinnamon. No, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Not when the last had left him so cold that he’d felt frozen from the inside out. The past few decades have been spent perfecting his craft, doing everything to feel warm and alive — from coffee, to spontaneous relocations, Carmine’s pursuit of never ending fire is never over. Perhaps there will be something, someone that will finally cause him to burn, to smolder brightly even in the light forever, something that’ll bring the restlessness within him to settle into sincere warmth. Or maybe he won’t, and he’ll lose his spark and suffer from an endless cold for the rest of his days.

Business as usual. The cafe caters to both humans and supernatural beings alike. However, humans only know of the main floor and upper two floors of the building. Supernatural creatures are able to access the two lower levels and the second-highest level of the cafe. Carmine lives on the uppermost floor, although all visitors have access to the roof. He’s far more content with his life here in Seattle than he assumed he would be. Although it’s largely in part to the environment he’s created for himself: not a bar, but a place to enjoy drinks and be with friends, curl up by a fire and get lost in a book that either you’d brought yourself or have pulled off of a shelf. He’s been known to be found lazing in the plush couches instead of returning to his own floor, but all staff members suggest you run when he picks up the guitar. The man has absolutely no musical talent. Please don’t ask him to sing.

DO YOU HAVE ANY INSPIRATIONS FOR YOUR MUSES 

𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐚'𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

𝐅𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐲'𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝