#sick of life and its mundane suffering

[howdoyouget]

taking jason todd rights away from dc and putting them up on the shelf. you know what, bruce wayne rights too. you can have them back when you learn how to treat them kindly.

[shannonaesthetics]

More Valentin Viljoen (V) Headcanons! MC X V

IM BACK AND ROLLING WITH MORE HEADCANONS FOR OUR BEST AND FAVORITE VIGILANTE!!! I had tons of fun making the last one and Ill feed you guys with some more <3 (thank me, children smh. /lh /j /nm)

Okay so... *opens notebook* If you ever accidentally fell asleep when V's around, he'd let you rest aslong you wish but when he notices its getting a bit late or close to your bedtime, he'll gently wake you up so you can brush your teeth, do whatever nightly routine you do and then have your quality sleep.

He would NEVER lash at or snap at you when he's mad even if he's fuming, instead, he'd come to you for comfort and solace. He could be a full inferno but when he comes to you to let off steam, he's gonna be so relaxed afterwards as if he wasn't just about to annihilate someone's whole family bloodline 10 minutes ago. :3

Since canonically he participates in fundraising/charity events, he'd ask you to accompany him if you'd like. if he were to host one, he'd want you to be by his side as he works <3

If you have some sort of outfit mishap, let's say a string you're having trouble tying on your back, V will be right by your side and tie it for you. The same goes for hooks you can't reach. He'd also fix your collar if its a bit creased and help adjust your shirt. What a gentleman. :3

HFJbfjebfFEFE As a gift, he'd buy matching jewelry sets for you and him to wear <3 Be it a sun and moon rings, matching necklaces or bracelets. He would always smile when he spots you wearing it and would interlock your hands together to watch eachothers bracelet/rings side by side.

A pushover MC? Hah! Not on V's watch! He would SEATHE if anyone took advantage of your kind (doormat) personality and would stand up for you in every given chance. In no universe would he just watch you getting stepped on as if you held no value. Hold his dagger, he's gonna beat someone up.

Now, if you can handle yourself out in public, V would still insist on being with you. Not because he doesn't trust you, but just so you dont need to get your hands dirty. Thats his job to protect you :3

You both frequently visit each other so often that you both have copies of each other's house keys so you can come and go as you please. Your personal belongings would make themselves comfortable in his bunker because of how often you drop by to see him.

If you feel even a little bit sick, Vs gonna be your personal doctor, making sure you're taking your medicine on time, eating well, taking rest, and dealing with whatever work you need to complete. From cleaning the house or writing a report for work. Your well-being is his priority, after all.

If you suffer from bad mental health or any mental illness, he would be your number one supporter and be with you through every step of the journey. He would even recommend a good therapist for you and pay for your sessions if you're okay with it.

He would never force you into making decisions. Whether it be small mundane choices like picking out an outfit for the day or choosing what to eat and which restaurant, to major life choices like switching jobs or moving cities. He would support and give his own personal opinion in your favor at best. The main decision-making is up to you.

Hes your number-one supporter for whatever hobbies you're into and whatever interests you find intriguing <3 As long as they don't involve you getting hurt or hurting others, he's gonna let you be you.

He loves you for who you are no matter what race, gender, religion, sexuality, etc you identify as. To him, they specifically don't matter since its only YOU he cares about. And he loves everything that makes you, you. <3

Eheheheh... this is super silly... If you ever tease him by replacing your last name with his when you say your name ( 'Y/N Viljoen' ), he's gonna be so stunned that he will ask you to say it again to see whether you REALLY JUST REPLACED YOUR LAST NAME WITH HIS or his ears were messing with him. If you choose to repeat it, he's gonna be a red-flustered mess. The only thing coming from his mouth will be incomprehensible stuttering and him telling you to shut up. ( Ofc he'd never mean it but oh my god. Leave the man alone he might aswell ascend to heaven atp with how much youre teasing him. )

On the topic of flustered V, he's a total tsundere when it comes to your teasing and flirting. But he really does enjoy how it makes his heart flutter. He'd never admit it out loud of course but the way he never genuinely tells you to stop is enough of an answer for you.

Hes not the flirting type himself. But at rare moments, it slips out. Just like the way he was acting so charming and romantic when he was LITERALLY BLEEDING OUT ON YOUR DOORSTEP DURING HIS ROUTE LIKE OH MY GOD V. Its such a nice change of pace on how the roles are now switched that it makes your heart flutter in all the correct ways because of how well he pulls it off. Gah.. I love romantic men <3

If you own a pet yourself, V would suggest you and his more safer pets to have a little pet playdate <3 It would be great for your animals to get used to each others company and settle in each others homes since you'll be spending more time together!

Ending this with possibly the sweetest one. If there's a charity event for children and you and him participated in it, V would watch you as you interact and play with the kids cheerfully. He would study your facial expressions and your smile as you talked to the kids. He'd gaze at you whenever you would pick up the smaller ones or give them piggyback rides and something in him would open up... His heart would open up to the thought of, maybe one day, being able to have a child with you and watch as you and him take care of them and raise them. It'd be a fantasy he would silently wait for to come true but of course, he'd dismiss it for now since its too early to think of such thoughts and he wasn't sure of your opinion on it. But he'd still daydream... and wait...

YAYYY IM FINALLY DONE. Sorry this took a bit of time to write (Im a master procrastinator <3) But I had fun writing it! I never mentioned it but you guys are free to request any V or other KC members headcanons or fics. Im open to new things and its a good way to experiment with my writing <3 Tysm for 10 MORE FOLLOWERS??? OMG YALL IM SO HAPPY FBEHFBEG anyways enjoy your dinner, children. lovely mention to @megaroniandcheez for hyping me up for it sure amazing. -Shan/Shannon

[veeveefic]

aprilluc day 1: flower

~=~

Diluc was hardly what Crepus would call a sickly child - far stronger and more resilient than his father was at that age. But then, Crepus was never blessed with a Vision, and Diluc was at such a young age that there were bound to be…complications.

A child granted power will not know how to control it. Diluc was given flame to wield, and so he would suffer the scorch marks from failing to keep it in check. He always ran warmer than most, and the winter in particular was always especially hard on him, his Vision overcompensating for the cold until the sweat began to drip down his brow and it grew hard for him to speak. 

(There were times that Crepus wondered at that, at the two-sided nature of a god’s blessing. Promising greatness one moment, and weakening its bearer the next. It almost seemed cruel -) 

This winter seemed different. Diluc was growing older, his control over his Vision more stable. He remained healthy enough through the harshest months, and Crepus was hopeful - 

But whatever benevolent force of luck that was on his side ran out at the start of spring. Diluc fell sick with another of his fevers, shaky with tremors, gaze bright and glassy. He was hastened to bed and plied with soup and cough medicine, and remained in illness-induced stupor as the last of the snow melted. 

By the time the ground began to dry, however, he was awake enough to grow thoroughly sick of the four walls of his room. He has never taken kindly to being confined, and Crepus could see his patience wearing thinner, hour by hour - feverish, half-lidded gaze turning towards the window, yearning, reaching like a starved flower for the sunlight.

It’s the first warm day of the year, spring chasing away the harsh remnants of winter, fogging one’s mind with a peaceful fresh-grass tingle and making it near impossible to focus on mundane tasks. As diligent as Crepus claims to be, even he is not immune to what feels like every atom in his body begging to pull him free from his desk.

Weinlesefest is approaching. The Winery is nigh-buried in work. And yet, just this once, Crepus casts that aside, bundles his child into his arms, and heads out the door into the sunlight.

~=~

The breeze over Windrise is warm today. Crepus can hear the birdsong bring the landscape to life, drawing the grass from the earth, delicately pulling the flower blossoms open. He finds a soft patch of grass, and sits gingerly, careful of his child cradled close.

Diluc blinks up owlishly at the world, taking in the sunlight and the sound of rustling leaves. He’s still a little weak, still small and tired, but the nature around them seems to be restoring him. There’s already more color in his cheeks than there was at home.

It makes Crepus smile a little. The gesture still feels unfamiliar to him, disused and rusty - but his children are always the ones to pull it from him. Only ever his children.

(Their most precious gift to him.)

Nearby, close to his hand, there’s a windwheel aster growing. It’s small and still a little frail - it’s likely only bloomed this morning. On a whim, he plucks it from the grass, hushes Diluc so he stays still.

Gentle hands tilt his son’s head to one side, and slip the flower into his hair. Red blending into red. It’s a little big, and it droops slightly into his face. For some reason, it makes Crepus smile a little wider. Makes his heart feel like it’s expanding, like it needs more room to fit the love he feels.

(What a strange feeling, to love another, to care for someone else. It almost feels like absolution.)

Diluc reaches up, traces the petals with his fingers. Smiles, too, and though the motion is withered slightly by sickness, it still makes Crepus’ heart ache in that odd, new way.

(He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. 

He’s not sure he wants to.)

[coquettesinclair]

going syscourse on main again

I'm tired of people trying to separate pain, trauma, and suffering from CDDs. I'm so sick of people trying to paint disorders as quirky and fun to have.

trauma, pain, and CDDs are married. no ones saying pw/CDDs are constantly suffering or need to hate themselves. the majority of the CDD experience is mundane. but the disorder stems from trauma and pain.

being happy with trauma, pain, and CDDs is being happy despite them. you create your own happiness from your pain. a dandelion sprouting from cracks in concrete. the life beneath it has been suffocated and crushed, but a dandelion still manages to grow and thrive.

that dandelion is my happiness. ripping its roots from the concrete will kill it

[adainesfroggieboggy]

i want to share my future bad kids bc that i came up with for a fic. i love them dearly. Below the cut bc its so long.

Adaine goes to Fallinel for a while and goes into politics after college, but after quite a few years of working her ass off to fix the country, she leaves because Jawbone’s lycanthropy becomes very difficult for him to live alone. He has Sandra Lynn but they’re both getting old and he’s sick. She comes home for him, takes a job as the divination teacher at Augefort, and settles back into Elmville peacefully. I also think she dates a hell of a lot and I hc pan Adaine. I feel like with immortality, sexuality becomes pretty fluid, and Adaine very much leans into that. When she moves back to Elmville, she puts dating on pause and just teaches and cares for Jawbone (the principal of Augefort).

Fig and Ayda tour together for years. Fig loves playing and she never wants to stop. Not even when in their 30’s, Ayda decides she wants to settle down. They break up pretty amicably and Fig tours for a long time afterwards. She slows down when she hits her 40s and ends up living in Bastion City, still a rock star, but she doesn't tour quite so often or go quite so far, but she never quite stops. She's happy, and pulls tons of chicks when she wants to, but doesn't really date seriously? Even in her 40s, she's so young for an archdevil. Her friends have decades, she has centuries. She lives her young soul life for a long ass time.

Kristen spreads the gospel of Cassandra for a long time. She leaves the party to run the church and just gets too busy to continue the frequent traveling. She gets married and divorced, has a couple kids, and lives in Bastion City. She has a very amicable tradeoff with the kids and shares custody but spends the majority of her time running the church. Her kids are sweet and loved, and so is she. Her life is mundane and easy now, which she learns to really love. She just settles down and learns to channel her chaos. She becomes a very great mom, pastor, and person, doing a lot of volunteer and outreach work, loving the world, her life, and her family. I think she ends up having a very serious long-term relationship but keeps her very separate from her kids. it's a quiet life.

Riz is absolutely an investigative reporter! Murph says this in one of his fireside chats, and I wholeheartedly agree! He leaves the party first because he didn't ever want the adventuring life, he wants the detective, crime-solving part of it. He goes to school and ends up with a law degree (bc he's just cool and would absolutely take lawyer classes to make sure he was able to cite laws) and a really badass job as a reporter, kicking ass and taking names, but with words as his weapon! He stays in Bastion City, makes friends, and just is happy. He doesn't get married or have kids, but he has so much platonic love and familial love! He's so happy and cool and very effective. He likes to enlist Adaine for arcane cases, and she definitely heads over every time and stays over in his apartment and they're super close. He's also super close with fabian, but their lives are so different that it's a different kind of closeness.

Gorgug's life is super chill and simple He doesn't marry Zelda bc they're children, but he does fall head-over-heels for a woman and gets married. He leaves because he suffers a pretty severe head injury, but also because his wife is pregnant! He has a son his parents are so sweet and excited. He's a tinkerer, but also a professor at Augefort! Zac said that Gorgug may help people who are multiclassing, and I like the idea that Jawbone opens a completely new section of the school that focuses specifically on multiclassing, and Gorgug teaches both barbarian and artificer classes! He really chills out and his rage is very rare and almost always in defense of his family. Chill, happy, relaxed Gorgug just vibes with me.

FABIAN! My favorite most hc. He's a dad. He has two daughters and they're his whole entire world. Leaving the party was absolutely not his choice, but he lost his leg in a brutal battle and his body no longer cooperates with the way he needs to move. He's got chronic pain and just can't adventure any longer, so he ends up moving to a seaside town and becoming a stay-at-home dad. At some point during his recovery, his first wife leaves him and the girls and Cathilda moves in. The girls call her their Dida and she's like their other grandma. He's a stay-at-home dad and loves it! He and Aelwyn reconnect as adults and end up getting married now that they're no longer so toxic in each other's lives, and Aelwyn is an absolutely amazing stepmom. She'd never imagined having her own kids, but she loves the girls so much and they're all so happy together. Aelwyn is still a researcher and an abjurative wizard, so he happily stays at home. They might have a mansion in the sky because it's a bit in one of the fireside chats and I love to commit to a bit. They're so cute! Domestic, toxic masculinity is dead, stay-at-home dad and his smart, hot, kind, caring wife.

Also, bonus one, I am so tempted to kill Gilear. A lot of my hcs are based on actual things the cast has said, and Brennan says, "As the person who plays Gilear, I'd like to see him dead in the fucking ground." I am not a Gilear lover, I find him funny and entertaining, but there is something about that sad elf man that makes me wanna kill him. Like if we were in Spyre and I knew Gilear, I might just kill him. Straight up. (Kidding, kidding. I wouldn't kill him, but in a campaign? I'd probably attack him for fun so often bc i wouldn't have Emily at my table.) If he doesn't end up just straight-up dead, he's vice principal. It's much better to have his ex-wife's new boyfriend as his boss for the rest of his sad little life. No happiness for him. I love Emily, I love Fig. Gilear? Dead to me.

[miss-celestia13]

Devil in Paradise

Dark!Richy x Dark!OFMC One Shot

Aylins latest idea hasn’t turned out quite how she hoped. New identities. A cruise filled with the wealthy. Out in the middle of the ocean, Richy joins in with her scams, and she discovers it is possible for her to feel jealous…

These two have been waiting quite impatiently for me to come back to them. Expect plenty dark humor, more possessive smut, and a shift in their dynamic. Can be read alone without any knowledge of the fandom or pairing, but I have linked the last one below!

Flesh & Blood

People Aylin wants to kill or maim

1- The entire world. But especially the person who invented cruise ships. If they were already dead, she'd dig them up and kill them again just to please herself. She wanted to destroy it all. It all existed to piss her off. If she weren’t already living in a hell realm, she’d set it all on fire. Richy was already suffering. She took much enjoyment from it and didn't feel the need to add to it yet.

Aylin

Fuck this ship. Fuck the sun. Fuck the heat. Fuck it all, burn it down, and burn the fucking ashes. Sticky, moody, and annoyed. She was sick of it. They had managed to board without any drama; she’d sourced them new identities and paid handsomely for the privilege. Richy was delighted by his. His new name gave him a little more freedom, even if it made her snort laugh every time she tried to say it. Flynn. She was not calling him that. Not a chance. His beard was still a point of great pride for him, and she giggled every time she caught him staring at his reflection on any shiny surface he passed. The red dye had faded to a dingy ginger shade due to the sun and the thirteen showers she took to get the dried blood off when they finally found accommodation for the night after that night in the alley.

Richy had joined her at one point, and they’d broken the flimsy shower screen, but it was worth the loss of their deposit. The diamond ring had been pawned for much less than its worth but still a hefty amount that funded this whole project. No more lives had been taken, but she was close. She was on the treadmill again and did not know how to get back off. It gnawed in her chest. Every annoyance another person caused her made it rear up, and she struggled to force it back down. They could find jobs, settle down and live happily ever after. But that wasn’t them. Too mundane and boring. They’d kill each other before the week was out. Instead, they had bounced around high-cost resorts and hotels. Making off with cash, jewelry, and other valuables from the rich folk while making their way to the port.

It was exciting, and they had slowly built a good chunk of savings. Now they were far from Duskwood, or any other land, Richy could take part, and he was foaming at the mouth as they got ready. They were dressed to the nines, and she kept stealing glances as he moved about and pretended he wasn’t ogling her as she toed on her best heels. She didn’t know why he bothered hiding it. Part of the normal act he'd worn in his old life that he couldn’t shake off, she supposed. But it was stupid. He spent more time inside her than out. It was during one particularly memorable night that she had her “best” idea yet. Richy had been snoring beside her as she tossed and turned and tried to devise a way to get them as far away as possible. A cruise ship! It had felt like a stroke of genius. Until she boarded the fucking thing.

A giant floating city. It sounded perfect to get lost in and cause mayhem. She had read something about wealthy widowed people living out their golden years on those massive ships, and she knew the pickings would be easy. She had haunted more than one rich person's funeral so she could convince their crying heirs to part with a chunk of their inheritance. It would have been like shooting pigs in a damn barrel. But then the sun was there, hanging in the sky, a giant ball of hell that made her skin sticky, her hair frizzy, and her fair skin would have been roasted if she wasn’t militant about protecting it. She had taken to giving it the middle finger every time she was outside during the day.

Richy had it worse. A landlubber through and through, he’d spent the first few days a sickly green color and had kept her up at night with his retching. She was not made to comfort, but she had brought him some crackers she’d pilfered from the maid's cart on her way back to their cabin one night. It was the same thing in her mind, but he hadn’t been as grateful as she thought he should, considering she could have brought him nothing. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she leaned into the mirror and admired herself, painted her mouth red, and turned to a suited and booted Richy.

He scrubbed up well, too well, a voice whispered as he fiddled with his tie and met her wandering eye as she looked him up and down. The suit had been her last demand before they boarded this teeming beast of a boat, and he'd bitched about it the whole time, but he was smirking now, and she almost wanted to stay in. Then he opened his mouth, and she rolled her eyes, the notion soon disappearing.

“Are you done yet? We're late.”

Leveling him with a glare, she said, “We're only late when they're dead. You go first. They'll think we're together if we arrive as one.”

He frowned, looking uneasy now, “How do I know who to choose?”

“You find the one that tracks your every movement. You'll feel it. It's like a brand on your neck. Make yourself noticeable but not too much, or you'll be remembered. You exist only for tonight. Tomorrow you will be someone else.”

He looked ready to argue, but his jaw clenched, and he nodded before striding to and out of their suite door. She decided to linger behind for a little while, hoping she'd have to rescue him when she arrived, but as she entered the glittering ballroom, she saw that he was doing fine. Women of varying ages and degrees of plastic surgery surrounded him. She idly wondered how they didn't melt during the day when the sun seemed determined to flay the skin from her bones. Richy held court in the center, multiple drinks in front of him as their eyes met, and she gave a single nod as she surveyed the room for her own mark.

Casting her mental fishing line wide, she waved down a waiter passing by with a tray of champagne, snagging two glasses. She downed one and left it on an empty table as she sipped the other. After two turns of the massive space, she felt a tug on her line, a scalding stroke down her neck as she turned and saw the fiftysomething suave silver fox toasting his glass at her. She had hoped for someone closer to Death's sweet embrace, but as she didn't plan to do anything other than flatter and pander to his ego, she gave him a demure smile. Turning her eyes to the floor as he approached, thinking of the many ways she could torture Richy later to force a blush to her cheeks and put on her best impression of an innocent virgin as the man greeted her.

“I haven't seen you around. I would have remembered you if I had.” He grinned, teeth so white they should be used in toothpaste commercials and so perfect it was almost unnerving.

“I keep to myself mostly.” She hedged, hiding her coy smile in her champagne as he edged closer, and she could feel Richy watching them.

“I'm Darren. Care to tell me yours?” His voice had that lilt to it, the one that spoke of a life of excess and having everything handed to him.

“Lilith, don't ask. My parents thought it was unique.” She giggled, hating the sound and glancing over at Richy to avoid Darren's observant eyes.

He had his arm around one of the younger women. Bottle blond hair, tits defying gravity as she leaned in to whisper in his ear. He met her gaze, seeing something in her expression that made him smile slowly and move closer to the blond. She clutched her glass and looked away, hoping she wouldn't shatter it as Darren told her he loved her name and invited her to drink with him. She nodded, taking his arm and letting him lead her to his table. Perching daintily on her chair, she smiled when he brought them drinks, and she noted his was premium while hers was the free champagne being handed out like water. She hated when the rich were cheap. Still, she thanked him with wide eyes and feigned interest as he told her how he'd ended up on the cruise.

Her focus kept returning to Richy. Basking in the adoration of horny, husbandless women with too much money and insufficient brain cells to keep hold of it. It sickened her, and she didn't know why. It wasn't until she caught him sneering at her as she'd reached out to lay what she hoped was a comforting hand on Darren's arm and squeezed, something green flashing in his eyes. She wanted to hit him for making her feel something as sickeningly human as jealousy. Redirecting her energy, she pointedly ignored the anger pouring from Richy as Darren leaned into her personal space and tucked her hair behind her ear. Another shy smile, looking away from his piercing grey eyes as she acted the timid young lady.

The silver fox's scent was as rich as his wallet, but she was glad when he moved back, earning some points in her mind as he sensed her reluctance and did not push her. They chatted about shit she had no interest in, and didn't remember a word the man said seconds after it left his mouth. He left to use the bathroom, and she watched him until he vanished, letting out a long breath as her gaze returned to Richy's table only to find it empty. He wasn't on the dancefloor or at the bar, and he didn't leave the bathroom even after Darren had come out and gone to the bar. Sinking the last of her champagne, she huffed and stood, storming out of the room while Darren still had his back turned. If she had to search this entire ship to hunt that bastard down, she would string him over the fucking balcony.

***

Thankfully, she didn't have to go that far and found him in the first place she checked. And she was attacked the second she walked in the door. He was pacing barefoot as she entered, spinning to her as she locked the door. Her heart was already racing, the promising thrill of a good fight hung in the air, and her skin crackled with it, blood heating at the blackness overtaking his eyes. He’d tossed his jacket and tie on the floor and she could tell he’d been pulling at his collar to loosen it while he waited for her.

“What the fuck were you doing in there?” He demanded, hands flying up and dropping back to his side with a loud smack as she kicked her shoes off and enjoyed the cool floor on her sore feet.

“Nothing that you weren't doing, Richy. Don't fucking start. Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy the way she was looking at you! Touching you!” She spat, teeth bared, and fists clenched as they circled each other.

Her mind flashed back to that first time back in Duskwood. The fury and uncertainty as they sniffed each other out before giving into the need to claim and tear and break. Her blood was singing, she wanted to pour it out and paint the world red, so it matched the fury riding her. Richy’s response didn’t ease her any.

“Now you know how it felt when I was locked inside a hotel room while you were off gallivanting with other men!”

“How many times?! I wasn’t gallivanting. I never once touched or thought about touching them! You were lapping it up!”

“Why do you care? I thought you didn’t do labels.” He reminded her, and she regretted the day she ever met him.

Scowling, hands itching to hit him, she turned on her heel, aiming for the door and intending to get black-out drunk on free booze and fuck the first man to smile her way when he grabbed her by the back of her neck and hauled her against him. She struggled, clawing and scratching his arms as they banded around her and held her trapped. He was chuckling in her ear, she could feel how turned on he was, and her inner voice was crooning that she got just what she wanted, but she ignored it. She wanted to fight.

“Let me go, Richy.” She clipped as he avoided her attempt to stomp on his bare foot.

“Not until you tell me why you were really upset.” He taunted, voice like gravel. It was so harsh, and she tried to ignore the rush of wet heat soaking her underwear, but it was nigh on impossible as Richy ground his erection into her ass.

They were volatile and explosive, but that’s how she liked it, and even now, her need to be well and truly fucked had overridden all her rage; in truth, her fury only heightened it.

“The day you came with me, you became mine. I don’t like people touching my things without my permission!” She snarled as he dragged her over to their rumpled bed.

“Good. Because you’re mine, I don’t like watching you fawn over those men any more than you do.”

His arms were unwound, but she didn’t bolt like she’d planned. She didn’t like most people, hated them actually, but she could tolerate Richy, and she was easy around him. He always knew what she needed. Her heart rate climbed as his hands came around, and one gripped and twisted her chin, the other dug into her hip as he lowered his head to kiss her. Her instinct was to lean away. It felt too intimate somehow. Still, she fought the urge and let him. It felt more like an argument as he breached her mouth and swept inside. She could only match every stroke of his tongue. It was awkward, and she needed some control back as heat and want spiraled through her so intensely she felt out of her mind as she turned in his hold to face him.

His eyes were black as night, thrilling her before she closed hers again and grabbed hold of his shirt, tugging him back down and catching his lips in hers. Pressing in, teeth biting at his lips and smiling into the kiss as he took the hint. His hand slid into her hair, a sharp tug and pain flickered over her scalp, and she moaned as she felt her wetness slide down her inner thighs. He did it again, smirking as she trembled, and she had almost forgotten why she was angry with him. But then she smelt it. The overly sweet perfume that did not belong to her clung to his clothes, and her fury flared once more.

Breaking the kiss, she glared up at him and stabbed a finger into his chest as she ground out the words, “I can smell her on you. How close was she?”

He rolled his eyes, and she didn’t even think; she lifted her hand, intending to slap him, but he caught it as it swung for his face and took hold of her other before she could attempt it again. Turning her around again, moving so fast he had her wrists in his firm grip behind her back before her brain realized what was happening. The fine bones bent and twisted as he shoved a knee between her legs and bent her over the bed.

“Not this close. You smell like a different man every night, and I’m supposed to accept that, Aylin. You can do the same.”

Head shaking, arms straining as she tried to break out of his hold, huffing and giving in when he only held her tighter, and she sensed him drop to his knees behind her. She could see him between her split thighs, free hand eagerly reaching up her dress, and her underwear was pulled down to pool around her ankles. She was panting as she stepped out of them, blood racing in her veins as his fingers dipped into her dripping folds and made even more mess as he spread it around. Her teeth were buried in her bottom lip as he teased her with featherlight grazes over her clit, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan or whimper even as her legs shook and another flood of essence soaked his busy hand.

When he rose to his feet, the burn in her core became intolerable, and she was close to begging when he suggested something she usually refused.

“I want to bind your hands before I fuck you.” He muttered as he unzipped her dress and shoved it down her arms, leaving her completely bare while he was still fully clothed.

The idea of being under his control did not frighten her the way it had in the past. He had allowed her her way many times and had never complained. Black excitement filtered through her as she loosed a breath and nodded her consent, shifting on her feet as the emptiness inside her demanded relief. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his surprise in the loosening of his hand around her wrists. He let her go, stepping away, but she didn’t look as she straightened and flexed her hands as he shed his clothes. Her pulse jumped in her neck when his hands settled on her shoulders, whirling her around and giving her a biting kiss she felt in her curled toes before she was shoved hard. Landing on her back, arching a brow at him as he smirked down at her.

Oh, thank fuck, she thought he’d lost the rage, but it was there, in his eyes, flickering like a shadow flame as she arched and raised her hands above her head, crossing them at the wrist as he licked his lips. They were two monsters with the same damn hunger, and she did not have a lick of shame about it as he crawled over her, his belt in hand. She closed her eyes at the feel of the leather looping around her wrists, the metallic click on the buckle as he pulled it so taut her fingers soon tingled and the sound echoed like a gunshot in her lusty mind. There was nothing for him to tie her to. His growled warning made her press her thighs together as he moved down her body.

“Keep them there, or I’ll stop and leave you here until you learn.” Her thighs were wrenched apart when she chuckled and gave him a nod of agreement.

Testing her shackles, she found no give, and her heart was in her throat as she waited for his next move. Trust. Did she have it for him? She wasn’t entirely sure, but she trusted he wanted her more than he wanted to harm her and forced herself to go loose and pliant at the touch of his fingers as he parted her folds. His mouth was on her a second later, tongue gliding up the seam of her, hands pinning her thighs to the bed. Two fingers sank inside her, and he repeated the move, making her shake her head and sob as he drank her down, humming so low in his throat it vibrated through her. The rough scrape of his beard on her tender flesh drove her to distraction as he worked on her. Her hands grasped at nothing, the urge to bring them down and grab his head almost impossible to ignore as he crooked his fingers and pulled as she cried out at the flick of his hot tongue on her clit.

Blunt nails cut into her thighs as he consumed her relentlessly. Her throaty cries turned to warbling moans as he alternated between quick darts of his tongue and languid licks of her essence, his fingers moving within her and taking the edge off of the ache as her body writhed under him. He was determined to make her whine his name, lapping at her clit as her hands fisted uselessly, and she yearned to pull his hair. Tilting her hips, trying to stop him from moving away from where she needed him, the lewd sound of his devouring and the deep groans spilling from him made it impossible to hold her orgasm back.

Keening too loudly, his mouth sealed over her clit, sucking her into his mouth whole as his fingers teased her inner walls with delicious friction. He gave her no mercy as she shivered and sobbed, his tongue swirling over that swollen bundle of nerves incessantly until she tensed and jerked so violently he chuckled. Her trembling thighs, his skilled tongue, and the fingers in her cunt were a sweet torture as she clenched her teeth and panted through them, cries going wild as release suddenly swelled and crashed through her so hard she curled in on herself. She was sobbing, body twitching and spasming as the flutter of his tongue on her clit became too much to bear, refusing to back away as heat and sweat spread over her skin. He did not stop until she said, ‘Please.’

Aftershocks zinged through her muscles as she cracked an eye open to watch him sit back on his haunches, beard soaked and glistening before he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, making her inner walls clench on nothing. He did not give her respite, and she was not thinking about anything as the fire in her veins turned her blood to steam. Her legs were arranged to suit him, laid against his shoulders as he grabbed her hips and dragged her closer, impaling her on his thick length. In one effortless slide, he was buried so deep she couldn’t draw a breath in. Her bound hands prickled and burned as he bent her body back. Her muscles already burning, his cock filling her up and banishing the ache.

A low thrumming began under her skin as he moved, a tinge of pain, cunt gripping his cock tight and turning his grip on her hip punishing. He touched her as if he owned her, eyes never leaving her face as she absorbed his brutal thrusts, bound hands pressed to her chest in a mockery of prayer. Deep darts of his hips, circling and retreating to plunge back inside her, all of it sent pleasure sparkling through her. Her anger simmered in the back of her mind, growing quieter with every drag of his cock against her slick walls and the black look in his eyes. There was always a thread of hate between them, never more obvious than when they fucked, and usually, she did the possessing. It was her turn to be possessed, and it didn’t bother her the way she thought it would.

In the game they were playing, she wasn’t sure who was the slayer and who was the slayed as he slid free of her cunt. He ignored her indignant snarl as he ordered her to get on her knees. Her hackles lifted at the dominance in his tone. A scalding retort tried to sneak free of her teeth, darkness crossed his eyes, and she got just what she wanted. She was grabbed and flipped so fast she couldn’t track it. Ass in the air, face buried in the pillows, he shoved her legs apart and pushed down on her back to make her arch deeper, turning her head so her fierce cry as he pushed inside her could be heard by anyone walking past their cabin door.

Her arms strained, hands cramping and making her balance feel wrong with them trapped under her as he brought his hand down on her ass so hard she jolted. Rocking back into his thrusts, wetness out of control as he hit her again, and she was lost in sensation as he fucked her. Tensing herself, delighting in the pain and pleasure of being thoroughly invaded, she stopped caring that he had all the control. Her skin flared with goosebumps, her stomach tensing at the vicious snap of his hips; she let herself enjoy it. It was addicting, the desire and sense stealing pleasure. Each hit was the closest thing to heaven either would experience.

“You were made me for me, Aylin. Don’t ever forget that.” He muttered, pounding into her mercilessly as she thrashed her head in denial.

Richy laughed, the sound like black magic to her crazed mind as his hand slid around her hip and travelled over her stomach to dip into her folds and tease her clit.

“Don’t fight it. You clearly like it.” He baited her, still shaking her head despite the intense pressure building within her and the wetness seeping from her, doing nothing to convince him otherwise.

“Fuck you.” She managed, knowing it was futile, as her cunt clamped down on his cock.

“You will. Your turn first.” He returned, picking up his pace, fingers ruthless in rubbing that bundle of nerves.

Her muscles were tied in knots as the first waves rippled from her center and grew so potent she could do nothing but wail as he crowed his victory. It seized her like a vice, stealing her breath as darkness crept into the edges of her vision. She quaked under the onslaught, flame and its overwhelming heat flooding her system as he fucked her, groaning with every flutter of her cunt around his cock. She slammed her eyes shut, her mind fracturing into cracks and jagged lines, her distressed whimpers barely audible over the rush of blood in her ears as Richy slammed home one last time with a smile in his voice as he cursed her name.

His body blanketed hers as he slumped over her and pushed her down into the mattress, neither capable of speaking for a long while. The power had shifted, she could feel it as his heart thudded against her back, and hers found it’s usual rhythm. He was coming into his own now he was free of the chains of humanity and could be himself with someone that wouldn’t judge his darkest fantasies. She wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. In the past, it had always meant her doom and suffering. Giving someone power over her had never ended well, and she couldn’t see how this would be any different.

Still, when he rolled off her, neither had enough shame to feel awkward as he dragged her up by her hands and clumsily untied her. She rubbed at her red wrists, rolling her shoulders as he padded through to the bathroom, and she sighed when the door closed. Shaking her head, staring blindly at her own reflection in the night dark windows, Aylin decided to hell with it all. If she went down in flames because of him, she at least enjoyed herself first and hadn’t had to hide who she was in her last days. Many didn’t get that chance, and she was already tired of thinking about it. The bed sheets were damp on her side, so she took Richy’s side instead. He called her a bitch when he finally crawled into bed, and she was smirking, her back to him as she succumbed to the lure of sleep.

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

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. I was laughing at myself the whole time I wrote it because it's just ridiculous 😂 See you later! ❤️

[fortifice]

     What are you doing, Sampo ?  You're not supposed to be here.

     In fact, he's not supposed to be on Jarilo-VI at all, an outsider that believes that the Preservation is dull, a stick in the mud. The Eternal Freeze had plunged the planet into icy isolation which aligned perfectly with Qlipoth's desires. How sick fate can be, but with the tides of change stirring up yet again its no surprise that Aha had required one of their Emanators to be present. Too late to shake firm beliefs, but enough to help pull the strings of those with the Trailblaze in tow. It all converged rather satisfactory, Sampo had a great deal of fun. Yet, despite being finished with his task he still remained. 

     Just as he had started his journey here with getting to know a Landau, he is ending it with getting to know another in an intimate fashion. The amount he gets to indulge in thanks to the other is quite absurd, unexpected. But it's quite sad when he catches those azure hues lingering on him even after their act has come to a close. He can tell that he's in love. Sampo would love him back if he was allowed. 

     Set up for the next stage has already, Aha making their desires for chaos abundantly clear with the incessant ring of laughter that flows in Sampo's consciousness. Gepard is both an obstacle  &&  something of this world that does not deserve to suffer any longer, the Fool takes pity on him. Truly, he does.

     In the Restricted Zone, he's purposely chosen an area that sees less traffic. There's space to leave supplies  &&  the like around, but no need for a heavy guard presence.  &&  like a meeting written in the stars, Gepard's footfalls grace the quiet stone walls before his voice comes out like a groan. Emeralds drift from a box he'd been feigning interest in to rest upon those cute blues. How would they look with their light extinguished ?  

          ❝ I was looking for you, Gepard. Is that a crime ?  ❞  Tinged upon the crescendo is danger, a lower register alluding to warning that might sound a lot like his voice when they're more of a tangled mess. Thus, to hinge upon familiarity, Sampo is quick in pressing hands against hips, walking Gepard back into the nearest wall. A little rougher than he needs to be, but he wants to devour him while he still has his chance. Zero hesitation in crushing their mouths together, his tongue lapping in without welcome as he continues to press as much weight as he can into the other. Suffocation of affection, a bittersweet way to go, is it not ?  

     Assuming that the dagger he summons will hit close enough to his target. He's familiar with the anatomy of a human body enough that he should be able to fell even someone like Gepard without an issue, but it's not his skills that are of concern. Mask of the Emanator had done so well in concealing true feelings even from himself, hesitation weighing in for but a brief second. He's still kissing Gepard, one hand reaching up to hold his face  &&  keep him drawn in. Armed with knife in the opposite, Sampo forces himself to adjust his lower body  &&  apply a quick penetrating force, adjusting for the curve to the portion of abdomen that's exposed  &&  unobstructed by armor  &&  gilded adornments.

It would only be fitting for his end to be such a ludicrous act of betrayal. Gepard was forged beneath the preservation’s mantle, as unfaltering as the aeon, yet, he was a renegade to his oath, duplicitous in the way he had invited the elation into his life, his bed. He was deserving, perhaps, of the punitive act of slaughter, finally shedding enough blood as to satiate the omnipotent presences laughing at his expense. He did not know it as he walked those quiet stone paths, that he would die, that it would be something so ostentatious as to be imprinted on the minds of those unfortunate enough to find him long after his body had grown cold. It felt normal, long ago had he forgotten how mundanity had felt, it irrevocably changed with the thief as its portent. His eyes fall upon the other, his shadow burgeoned from where he stood, undulating like something half - starved, sinister, almost as much so as the predacious glint of emerald in his eyes. He had often thought it ravaging the way he looked upon him, like he was something to be coveted, he’s naive, so injudicious as he encroaches upon the elation’s dominion as if this would be yet another foolish, amatory encounter. “ You shouldn’t be here.” Sampo doesn’t look particularly bothered by Gepard’s admonishing, he knew where he should and should not be, most likely took pleasure in occupying spaces incongruous to him. Gepard had been so astute, a diligent soldier, a dependable man, love does strange things to people, rewriting them into a narrative they were never intended for. It’s why he doesn’t recoil from Sampo’s hands, from his mouth, being edged back into the wall isn’t unfamiliar, they have unraveled like this before. Sampo kisses him hungrily, tongue pushing past his lips unbidden, he cannot breathe, it felt as if the other was trying to devour him. His fingers curl into the sheer fabric of Sampo’s shirt, towing it down, desperate to find purchase somewhere, to catch his breath. He’s not entirely compliant, the other’s lip bitten in a way that evoked lust in its wake. The other should also know that Gepard wasn’t always inclined to depart with his authority so immediately, make him work for it - it wasn’t unusual. They part, the captain left to desperately try to catch his breath before he’s claimed again, hungry mouth, ravening hands, he’s being pulled apart, it’s not so different than any other time but there’s desperation there, like it might be their last. “ Sampo.. Wait.” he tries to interject but it’s to no avail, the other is having none of it, pushing past his boundaries until he was braced against the Captain’s eternally waning restraint and then he thrusts the blade beneath the fabric, Gepard teetering between agony and the gentle hand that cradled his cheek, like he loved him, like he wanted to. His eyes widen, shock withering his pupils to pinpricks, excruciating pain blooming from the wound, blood, so very warm, saturating the white livery, it's pushed in deeper and he gasps, ragged breath caught between his teeth. Sampo had betrayed him. It was such a crushing thing, like all the air was being expelled from his lungs at once, like the pain was spotting at his vision in shuddering bursts. He couldn’t move, he was effectively trapped between the wall and the other’s body, his hands push at the other but he can’t muster his strength. It's wrong, it’s so very wrong. He meets Sampo’s gaze and he finds those eyes, the ones he had lost himself in so many times, entirely unfamiliar, like they too were laughing at him. There was a moment, long and sinister, when realization came down upon him, a blunt impact, he never had known him, had he.  “ what are you doing..” he seethes between their shared breath, he twists the blade and the pained noise Gepard makes is like keening, wrung from his lungs until he hadn’t the strength to make any other. “ you lied to me.” 

[iironwreath]

Toll [Cihro]

[223]

Emerging from the third trial portal, Cihro landed with a wobble. He had a strong stomach—had to, in his line of work—but he wanted to throw up. The urge wasn't helped by the blood saturating his nose and sticking his clothes to his armour and skin. Its intensity clouded his head like it would be the only thing he’d ever smell or taste or touch again. The tearing and snapping sounds of Gruumsh ripping in half would live with him forever.

Cihro was about the quick, efficient kill, not torture and drawn-out suffering. The bit of torture Cihro had seen in his life—committed by Clasp or cultists or evil liches—couldn't compare. Gruumsh wasn’t mortal, and neither was Tiamat's punishment for him. Even knowing who he was, what he’d done, and what further violence he was capable of, Cihro didn’t think he deserved it. It was just pure malevolence and sadism and subjugation from one Betrayer God to another. Nobody deserved that.

They’d met plenty of colossal beings, but he’d never been inside their beating heart before. He’d never been bathed in their blood because they’d been drawn and quartered by gravity. It was the second time he’d been inside another creature’s ribcage in the last fifteen or so minutes. Had it even been fifteen minutes? He steadied himself on Day’s arm. 

He hadn’t expended much of his resources—his cloak, tattoos, and spells were all still ready to go. He had infinite arrows and he hadn’t been injured in Gruumsh’s cell—but there was a mental toll to Tiamat’s lair arguably worse than the physical. Before now he’d died and come back, been pummelled within an inch of his life on multiple occasions, and yet the physical trauma had become mundane. With powerful healing magic, his pain was usually short-lived. Expected and then repressed. The horrors, however, were almost incomprehensible. How did you process something like that?

The answer was: he didn't. He had never had the time, rushing from one thing to the next. He expected a lot of catching up when all was said and done.

Tiamat's avatar reappeared to boast about how inspired her chamber for Gruumsh was. Cihro held his stomach. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being outwardly sick. He needed the energy, anyway—the only thing in his stomach was a light breakfast. The Hero's Feast from the night before made them impervious to fear, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be unsettled and queasy with disgust. There were a lot of emotions related to fear that weren’t fear itself.

Elspeth and Day quickly got them cleared of the blood. Cihro breathed easier. Third trial down—one to go, then the fifth and final fight.

[mossandthoughts]

I live such a privileged life. I have parents who are willing to ignore my queerness and let me live at home. I cannot afford to move out. They love me in their own way despite God saying I am an abomination and will end up in hell.

I have a minimum wage job that keeps me busy. I have a few treasured friends. My mind has always been ill but thanks to medication I still have faint dreams of living in a small cottage somewhere and researching something of interest.

I have a rather large extended family who i care so much for even if some of them dont like who I am.

And I truly try to appreciate what I have and create beauty out of the mundane. My family started with nothing and now we breathe a little easier. Still, pennie’s are pinched. That’s the way things have always been.

I am no stranger to trauma and death within my own personal life.

Being a history lover I have studied the past and its triumphants and tragedies in every form.

Yet, death and suffering has become much more personal in my recent years. And wether it be some horror stories from war vets or School shootings on the news-With the internet nowadays I can read first hand accounts of survivors within my own agegroup. I’ve seen videos of Children huddled in a classroom trying to stifle their panicked sobs as a shooter hunts their building.

Ive seen videos of mothers crying over the cold bodies of their toddlers in Gaza. Those babies never knew a world that wasn’t against them.

Mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles some dead, some just clinging to life staring at me through my bright phone screen. I check the date and time, it was posted a couple hours ago. How long do they have to live? Will they survive the night? I feel sick and then I have to turn my phone off. It’s sickening that I can do that. It feels so wrong.

I’m reminded again just how good I have it. I’m reminded how that could have been my younger cousins. We are all human. Are they not my brothers? Sisters?

I hug my family and I tell them I love them often. I try to quell the thoughts of them in similar tragic situations. As of late I cannot help but fear that something like what I see online will happen to my loved ones in my lifetime.

[aroundtheneareststar]

October 30

curse

wild words

linger

in the air

meant to take one's life

and twist it

something arcane

something poetic

the power of utterance

manifests into pain

the tumor

of a malevolent gift

give to someone

a fear

a sickness

a lack

a suffering

and thank pointed tongue

acidic spit

the ancient act

of wishing the worst

upon another

warping mundanity

into horrid reality

but

is there an art to it

can beauty be found

in a handcrafted knife

despite knowing

all the open throats

words of destruction

still hold an aesthetic

what does such appreciation

mean

and if a curse

is one's favorite poem

what more lies beneath the words

can more lie beneath the words

or does macabre fascination

speak for its vile self

[cinberella]

DEVIL IN DISGUISE

Artist: @skylar102

Rating: M

Pairing: Malec

Word Count: 48.500

This fic was created for the ​ Mini Bang 2023 presented by the @malecdiscordserver

CHAPTER 4/7 Unsure

In the late morning, the streets of New York are as usual overly crowded other than rather filthy, and the air is heavy to breathe, the traffic noise hateful and the confusion is hardly bearable. All these things do nothing but bring back awful memories of another place; a dusty, noisy, and suffocating one. Certainly, Paris is a much more pleasant city to live in and decisively more fascinating, at least according to the limited experience the young Shadowhunter has gained in his life. In any case, the boy has to admit that even New York is definitely better than Hell, all things considered. And, most importantly, it is safer, physically and emotionally speaking, than the place where he grew up. The city of Alicante, in Idris. In fact, despite its natural beauties and the clean air, Idris can be as horrible as the last place where he was trapped in, forced to live in, until he managed to escape. 

But now his past doesn’t count. He has a bright future ahead, full of infernal flames and screeching demons. He giggles briefly, speeding up his pace. He arrived a few hours ago in the City, through a portal that opened in the middle of Central Park. Before reaching the Institute as expected, though, the blond young man, with his perfectly glamoured runes, needed to run a sort of errand - he had to take care of a delivery, actually - and is now wandering along the streets of Manhattan, peeking around like a curious tourist. All these people around him, millions of people, can't know that their end is near. Or at least, closer than they think. Once the Nephilim race is wiped off the face of the Earth, once they all are back to being mere Mundanes, degraded to their humanity, who will protect all these people from the Hell dimensions spilling over to Earth? No one will be safe anymore. No one who doesn't have demon blood in their veins. And even if they do, they will have a choice to make. Anyone who decides to stay on this doomed plane of existence will die a terrible death. 

The Shadowhunter grins satisfied with himself.

After all the suffering that has been inflicted on him, after everything that he has gone through, all the tears, all the unheard screams of pain, all the misery and affliction he learned how to live with, he will finally have his revenge. Against Shadowhunters, of course, especially his biological mother, who wasn’t able to protect him against his father when he was a child; but also, he will get back on these meaningless Mundanes who live their lives hating each other and rejoicing in the culture of “war at any cost” and in the prevarication of the weakest. They are the weakest creatures, though. And yet, they just keep fighting each other, stupidly and out of greed. They are no different from his mother, his foster mother. Incapable of loving without hurting, even her own son. Admittedly, she was always horrible and cruel in fostering him. Her love was sick and twisted, as it was his father’s. Well, no. His father never loved him. He was too weak to deserve his love. But he became stronger, then, to bear the pain, the loneliness of his days in Hell. Mundanes are weak, instead, and unworthy, and they are leading their own world to destruction. So, he might as well help them accomplish that. He has been living in Paris for a few months now, disguised as a worthy Shadowhunter, not a broken one like himself. He has been trying to blend in and get what he had been deprived of all his life. But soon he had grown sick of everyone around him. Simply, Mundanes don't deserve to live, they don't deserve the protection provided to them by the Angels’ warriors. They deserve to burn and be devoured by demons. And Shadowhunters too. Nephilim people, the most bigoted and arrogant kind on Earth. Those who have demonic blood, from birth or not, have always been discriminated against by those same people who should have protected them. Downworlders are not to blame, they are the real victims. So, they will be the ones who survive. The only ones. As long as they accept to abandon this doomed world to his fate of destruction.

Upon entering the large park surrounding the white imposing church, the Shadowhunter takes in the majesty of the building. For one of the most important Institutes in the world, the Clave chose a really nice place, he thinks ironically. Even if the people around him can't admire that glorious sight, glamoured to their eyes. But it doesn't matter; soon the city will be reduced to a pile of ash. No one will be able to protect themselves or find escape.  Not without an army of Shadowhunters ready to fight for their sake. The plan is ready to strike, they just need to get to Alicante. But for now, he has to play his role as a devoted Shadowhunter for a little bit longer. The most important secrets kept by Nephilim people are securely guarded in Idris. And the two most important ones are both related to Lake Lyn, on whose shores he grew up, before being abandoned in Hell by his father. It was his old man who told him about the first secret. He was obsessed with it, by the Shadowhunters' ultimate weapon, the so-called "wish to Raziel". He learned that the wish was considered their last resort in the event of an impending demonic apocalypse. But his father died before he could accomplish his sick plan of using it for his purposes.

Well, good for me, the boy thinks sarcastically. I do have demonic blood in my veins, thanks to him. And I would have died too.

Anyway, the Lake just outside Alicante is a mirror and as such, it reflects and alters reality transforming what may have been the greatest weapon against demons, into the way down to extinction for the Nephilim kind. If the sword Lucifer himself brandished against his brother Micheal was immersed in the enchanted waters by someone with angel blood in his veins, and if the Mortal Cup, filled with a few drops of demon blood was plunged into the lake too, for the blood to stain the waters, the runes on the skin of all Shadowhunters around the world would simply burn away. Lilith revealed the secret to him, during one of their boring days together. She told him that he has the power to do that. He alone could put an end to the Shadowhunters’ history, because of the peculiarity of his blood and the power of his name. What do a few drops of his blood even matter if he could get rid of that angelic blood that keeps his demonic powers under lock and key? Once free, he will be able to go back and also take revenge on his mother and claim the throne that belongs to him.

Only a few people know this second secret; the Consul, of course, the Inquisitor, a few Silent Brothers, and even fewer trustworthy Heads around the world. His Aunt Elodie, Head of the Paris Institute was one of them. In fact, the sword was kept in a secret place, not in Alicante, nor the City of Bones. No, for almost two centuries the sword had been kept in a crypt in the Pére Lachaise cemetery in Paris. Hordes of tourists pass by it every day, unaware of the value contained in those bare walls. The best hiding place is in plain sight, isn't it? Yet, this time, the trick didn't work. The Paris Institute was tasked with guarding and protecting the sword and had obviously failed in its primary task. The Sword was now in their hands, even though they had cleverly made the Clave believe that it had somehow made its way to New York, smuggled in by some corrupted Warlock. And that’s why he is here now. Ready to collaborate with the resident Institute to retrieve it. In the meantime, special measures have been taken by the Clave to avoid a demonic intrusion in Alicante. They are well aware that with the Sword missing, it could end in a colossal disaster. Eventually, he climbs the few steps up to the entrance and knocks on the large wooden door. After a couple of minutes, a young Shadohunter girl opens it. She smiles widely at him, throwing herself in his arms.

"Sebastian! You made it here, finally!"

"Hello cousin, it's good to see you again."

He hugs her back, hiding his discomfort at being touched.

"Come inside, Mom is waiting for you. By the Angels, she is freaking out and I have no idea why… I mean, do you even know why it is so urgent to retrieve that Sword?"

She twists her mouth in a grimace of worry.

“I have no idea, Aline. I just know that my mother is very worried and sent me here to help. I mean… The sword was in a crypt in Père Lachaise, if it was that important, they should have protected it better, don't you think?"

Aline nods pensively.

"Indeed. Well, maybe the Warlock who stole it did it out of contempt and you know how prickly the Clave is."

"Well, if that’s the case, Downworlders need to learn not to touch what belongs to us... If they provoke us to get a reaction, they'll get it, eventually and in defiance of the Accords."

“By the Angel… A war would break out.”

“Indeed.”

"Come, let's go in now. They are waiting for us. I can’t believe they are thinking of bringing the High Warlock of Brooklyn in for questioning."

"Right, but if anyone can trace another Warlock's portal into New York it's him... Unless he's involved firsthand with the theft."

"Seb, let's be careful of throwing accusations. Magnus Bane is also very touchy… Maybe even more than the Clave and he has all the reasons to be."

Aline asserts seriously, and the blond boy nods thoughtfully.

"That's true. Diplomacy is needed right now."

“Yeah… But Aunt Maryse is on the warpath, it doesn’t bode well. Not at all…”

Whereas the disappearance of the sword was kept confidential, the Consul issued a worrying and disturbing broadcast communication to every Institute. Due to an unidentified Downworld faction responsible for planning an attack on Alicante, no one of demonic blood will, under any circumstances, be able to access Idris.

Ah… they wish! Sebastian thinks sarcastically, until together the two Shadowhunters step into the Institute.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

He didn’t expect shit would hit the fan so soon. But at least Alec got to enjoy breakfast with his brothers and spar with Jace for a couple of hours before unsettling news hit the Institute with the force of a tornado.

To tell the truth, he had started to get a bad feeling well before the mess broke out. In fact, Alec had been thoughtful since he met the new girl, Clarissa Fairchild. The name didn’t ring any bells, but the sudden and unannounced arrival of a new Shadowhunter from Idris is pretty unusual, and Alec wondered if it had anything to do with the "mission" he, Jace, and Iz had been assigned. 

However, he had to stop worrying about the redheaded girl, when in the middle of their training session, they were summoned by their mother, very urgently.

They found Maryse pacing nervously back and forth in her office. No sign of their father.

"Alec, Jace, sit down."

They complied, looking at each other in concern.

"What is going on?"

Maryse stopped behind her desk, resting her hands on the back of the chair and squeezing it hard. She looked down at them with sharp eyes, taking in their disarrayed and sweaty state, but she didn't comment on it.

“So, do you have any news regarding your demon-spawn friends?"

"Can’t you try to be less… unpleasant?” Alec replied, exasperated. “Why you have to always sound so offensive is beyond my understanding. Shit… You go around saying you're sorry for having followed Valentine, but are you really, Mother? "

Maryse snorted impatiently, glaring at him. But Alec held her gaze, defiantly.

"Answer me, both of you. I don't have time for your useless do-goodery."

“It’s not…” Alec moved to stand up, indignant, but Jace placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Jace seemed perfectly in control. It must be said that their mother can't get on his nerves as she does with Alec. Maybe it's because Jace is more emotionally detached from her, not being her biological son. Alec didn't give a shit about that; he just knew his mother always pissed the hell out of him.

“It is still premature, Mother.” Jace reasoned with his cool, irritating attitude. “I have established a connection with Maia Roberts, though. I have not caught anything suspicious so far and even as regards of the High Warlock, he seems unrelated to the facts you reported. The man is too busy running his club, and, you know… doing his thing, am I right Alec?”

Alec’s only response was an annoyed roll of his eyes.

“Although…” Jace went on, looking at the woman again with a smug smirk, “Isabelle heard something unusual at the Hotel DuMort. She was visiting Raphael, you know, the Head of the New York clan. Oh wait, you don't know really. You don't know shit about them, yet you treat them as criminals! How fair of you, Mother."

Alec smiled complacently. He would have high-fived his brother, but it would have been counterproductive to irritate - more than they were already doing - the woman that, as a matter of fact, was talking to them as their superior officer. Neither wanted to end up on ichor duty... again.

"I told you, Jace, I have no time to waste.” Maryse sighed again, before averting her eyes.

"Unfortunately, rumors of an imminent Uprising have spread in Alicante and the Consul has set up further restrictions to get in Idris. Downworlders are now completely banned from going in, with no exceptions, and even Shadowhunters need a special permission granted by the Inquisitor."

"But that's ridiculous!"

And it is utterly ridiculous. Downworlders are already banned from Idris, aren't they? Only prisoners are allowed to be taken to the Guards, in shackles and magical restraints if needed, and of course, those already sentenced to death to be executed.

"No, it's not. Obviously, I told you about the ban because your friends might resent it and take it out on you. The motivation that was given was of a "technical" type, something to do with a wards’ malfunction, but it is obviously a lie, and I get Downworlders are no fools. So, it's important that you know what's going on in Idris for your mission’s sake. And you need to hurry. You must figure out who might be behind the conspiracy against the Consul as soon as possible before things escalate.”

"Well, the ban doesn't make our task easy. If our friends were already wary and mistrustful, now they will be even more so. Even if they do trust us, they won't tell us anything right now, knowing that the Clave is already sentencing them with no trial and holding them guilty."

"Don’t be silly. It's just a precautionary measure. We are talking about the Consul and her life. Not to mention the risk of a mass deruning. I don't know how such a thing could be even possible, but people in Idris are scared… I am afraid it's not so unlikely to happen… after all."

"But what about the Downworlders who are already in Idris?"

"They are about to be deported. A secret place has been identified where to take them and the new prisoners will be imprisoned at the Institutes and if necessary, executed on the spot."

Alec and Jace gape at their mother.

"This is martial law; you can't do something like that. You… The Clave is causing the Second Uprising, how can’t you see that?"

"Silence. It's not up to you to question the Consul’s decisions. You just must obey orders. I don't want to hear another word about the ban, do you understand? Just keep gathering information and go on with the mission. To tell the truth, I called you for another reason.”

“Another reason?”

“I was informed that a valuable item was stolen in Paris last night, and it appears to be here in New York."

"An item? What kind of item?" Alec asks, curious, but not that much. He guesses this is just another bullshit the Clave uses to keep them busy, while they set about ruining relations with the Downworld and causing a war.

"It’s an ancient sword."

The two brothers exchange a perplexed look.

"A sword." 

Jace repeats, raising one of his eyebrows at his mother.

Maryse sighs and sits down at her desk.

Alec looks at her more attentively and notices how tired she is. And concerned.

"Mother? What is it?"

"Would you believe me if I told you that I don't know?” She asks rhetorically and plaintively. “The Consul herself is arriving. Apparently, I don't have the clearance to know why this is so important, but we are going to help anyway, aren’t we?"

She exclaims on the verge of sounding hysterical.

Of course. His mother is offended, as if she hadn't yet understood that she lost the trust of the Clave 20 years earlier with her wicked choices.

"What's special about this sword?" Alec asks calmly. He doesn’t want to get involved in his mother’s little power games.

"I don’t have a clue, but I've never seen the Clave so agitated, well, at least not since the Uprising. Anyway, I need to talk to Isabelle now. Maybe she has something useful to report. Go and ask her to come here. The Consul will be here any minute and Sebastian is arriving too, to help us. I don’t have time for your bullshit. Dismissed.”

The two boys roll their eyes in exasperation and leave the room. They are so fed up with their other’s attitude. Nevertheless, just outside Maryse’s office, the two boys look at each other trying to process what  she told them.

"A sword? But isn't all this fuss about a sword strangely extreme? And what do we have to do with it? Even if the sword were here in New York, it would still be Elodie's responsibility."

“She sent Seb to help, didn’t you hear Mom?”

They know Sebastian very well; he is a very good guy, and he’s the Consul’s nephew, since the Head of the Paris Institute, Elodie, is Jia Penhallow’s step-sister, while the Consul's long gone husband was Robert’s cousin. So they and Sebastian are not directly related, but they have seen him quite often, especially when they were younger before their family fell into disgrace.

"Well, I guess we just have to wait for orders. They will tell us what they need us to do. In the meantime, let's go find Isabelle and the new girl."

"Clary, her name is Clary."

"I know."

"She is pretty." Jace states simply but wiggling his eyebrows right after that. 

Alec sighs. It looks like his brother is back to his usual swagger.

"If you say so. Talking about pretty, I need to make a phone call. See you later."

“A call?”

“If I am not mistaken, I still have a Warlock to win over.”

“Wow, I didn’t know you would be so dedicated to the mission.”

“You are jealous. Magnus doesn’t hate me. He quite likes me. And you can’t even bring Maia to tolerate you.”

“I’ll try another approach to earn her trust, and I am not jealous. There's plenty more fish in the sea.”

“If you say so. Just… Don’t mess things up with Clarissa… Clary.”

Jace shrugs, but a dopey smile plasters itself on his face. 

"I won’t."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

By Lilith… This is bad. Horrifying and rather appalling. Magnus would never have thought that Shadowhunters would attempt to sabotage themselves. Self-extinguish themselves. But that is what must be happening. Because, not many Downworlders know the truth about the Morning Star Sword, and even fewer would have the courage to embark on a suicide mission. Magnus knows about the powerful demonic blade just because of his father and his connection to Lilith. In any case, it’s utterly unlikely that this is the doing of some rebellious Warlock. And if it was the case, Magnus’ wrath would annihilate them, whoever they were. Exterminating the Shadowhunters, as tempting as it may sound, is a very bad idea. An idea only a rogue Shadowhunter can come up with. History always repeats itself, right?

And now, the situation could escalate so quickly, the precarious peace with the Clave could break so easily. From experience, Magnus knows that when situations worsen, Nephilim are not particularly good at handling them. The Clave has the bad habit of jumping to conclusions and sweeping away anything, and anyone, that stands in its way. 

Magnus tries to assess what happened. Someone stole the Morning Star sword from Paris. Meliorn told Raphael who told Magnus. And Magnus needs to tell Maia too, as soon as possible. Apparently, the Queen was informed about the misdeed through the grapevine, literally, her birds and her bees told her, whatever that would even mean. Meliorn said she didn’t intend to do anything to help to find it. On the other hand, the Seelie Court is not on the same plane of existence as Earth, so the Queen thinks she can play her little game, sure to remain untouched by whatever disaster may occur on the other side of their borders. And what a disaster that could be!

The Sword can be used against Shadowhunters, the same way the Soul Sword can be used against demon-blooded beings, but it can also destroy the boundaries between realms. So, maybe the Queen should worry too, Magnus reasons. The matter worries him, and it is decidedly suspicious; on the other hand, Magnus never trusted the Queen. Truthfully, Magnus had lost track of the sword a couple of centuries ago, but he knew it wasn't in Idris. Too dangerous to keep the Sword in the same place as the Cup, but now the Clave would stop at nothing to get it back.

Therefore, Meliorn decided to go to Raphael to ask for help, risking his life. The Queen forbade him to do so, but the brave man disobeyed her. She is known to be unforgiving and ruthless with the traitors, but Meliorn could not stand there at the Court and do nothing. On the other hand, Meliorn and Raphael don’t know the real power of the artifact; they are just worried about being falsely accused of stealing angelic heirlooms. Which is still a very serious crime, even under the new Accords. So, Meliorn's idea was to join forces and help the Shadowhunters find it, since it seems the Sword has landed in New York. Maybe Magnus should step up and come clean before the Clave accuses them of anything. Or maybe in the meantime they can look for the sword on their own and, if found, return it to the Clave, hoping they will believe their innocence? 

Suddenly, Magnus wonders if he can trust Alexander Lightwood. 

The people at the New York Institute will be surely involved in retrieving the Sword, but Magnus doubts they will be told the truth. Until a few days ago, Magnus would have remained rather indifferent to the fate of the Nephilim, although on second thought, if there were no Shadowhunters left, then who would protect Downworlders and Mundanes? 

He pictures Alec’s handsome face in his head. He is so damn young and in his own way he can be naive. The boy hasn’t lived through bloody centuries of repression like Magnus. And yet there is something about him that Magnus is incapable of understanding. That boy is a real mystery.

Sure, he's cocky and arrogant and full of himself. But Magnus had a glimpse of what was underneath that armor, that sort of bravado mask he wears. In their time together, Alec was sweet in some ways and a generous and attentive lover. The Warlock had remained anchored to his certainties: the Shadowhunters are sexually repressed and unable to let go. Well, that's not the case with Alec Lightwood. While their experience is clearly nowhere near comparable, the boy went out of his way to make sure Magnus had a good time. And he is not used to this. Having centuries of experience on his side and magic, normally people he sleeps with expect him to do most of the work. Instead, Alec gave at least as much as he received, if not more. And from personal experience, Magnus has learned that the way people fuck can reveal a lot about them. Moreover, Alec seems so resolute in carrying forward his ideals, even going against his parents. Many of the things Raphael told him about the Lightwood siblings genuinely amazed him. So, maybe he really misjudged Maryse Lightwood's eldest son. Surely the boy knows how to make even an experienced Warlock like him blush. He reads again the text Alec sent him that morning when he woke up.

"Thanks for last night, Magnus. I hope you had as good a time as I have. And I hope to see you again soon. I hope you will let me get to know you. Call me later, if you feel like it. It would make me happy."

Incredible. The boy is tenacious. Should he worry about that strange tingling that he can feel down in his stomach when he thinks about the Shadowhunter naked in his bed? And should he worry about the undeniable fact that he would, in fact, like to see him again?

Speaking of the Devil... Magnus' phone rings and the Warlock isn't too surprised to see the name on the screen. Possibly Alec is as tenacious as impatient.

"Alexander? Look, now is not a good time."

"Are you busy?"

"No, it's not that. It's..."

“Look, I need a minute. It’s important.”

Magnus doesn’t answer and he knows his hesitation and reluctance may sound suspicious, in case Alec already knew about what happened,

"Magnus…is there something you need to tell me? And I'm not talking about what happened last night at your place."

Sure enough, Alec already knows. Fucking perfect. Well, at least, he, Magnus Bane has an alibi. Possibly. Magnus sighs. He knows that regardless of what he is going to say now, he will presumably be summoned to the Institute shortly and probably accused either of knowing who the warlock responsible for the theft is, or of being the culprit himself. So, he thought about anticipating them.

"I was getting ready to come and see your mother, Alec. I will talk to her, as the High Warlock." 

The silence that follows tells Magnus that Alec wasn’t expecting that. Magnus had already decided that he might as well dip his toe in the stormy waters, before the actual shitstorm hits him full force. Hoping not to end up in the Guards arrested and charged with who knows what crime.

"Oh, I see. Well, she's busy with the Consul now. But if you know anything, you'd better say it when you come here. I'm telling you as a friend. Hiding things would make things worse. And I know you are innocent. Not that my opinion would matter to my Mother."

Magnus laughs. This boy is incredible.

"I thought we were many things, you and I, Alec, but definitely not friends."

"This is where you are wrong, Magnus. We can be friends. In fact, I also called you to invite you out for lunch, like a friend would do."

"Out for lunch, you say?"

“Yes… After you talk to my Mother we can go somewhere nice. What do you say?”

Well, why not. If he is free to leave the Institute after his interrogation, he would love to spend some time with Alec.

"Okay, Alexander, I accept your invitation. Just to warn you…  you'll have to forgive me if I won’t be my usual amiable self during our meal. Your mother has the special ability to ruin my mood."

Alec giggles, and Magnus can’t help but smile at the sound.

"I know what you mean. My mother is even capable of making me lose my appetite. But I guarantee you she's not worth it. And if you need to vent later, consider me available. Either way, I know an excellent Italian restaurant nearby, if you like pasta."

"I love it, Alexander, and I may need extra carbs, you know, in case I need to vent...later.”

Alec giggles again, and Magnus thinks he is lovely.

"See you in a bit, Magnus."

“I can’t wait, Alexander.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The meeting with the Consul is taking forever to end and while Isabelle and Aline have taken the chance for some shopping, Jace has disappeared somewhere with Clary. So, Alec is left alone at the Institute waiting for Magnus. It's already 1.30 and a deep hunger is devouring him.

He's in the training room, but he's not working out. Alec already had a nice shower and got dressed in a little more casual way than usual, ready to leave the Institute. Black jeans, an army green long-sleeved shirt, and his leather jacket. He's leaning forward at one corner of the room, sorting out a few items he and Jace left out of place when they were summoned by his mother. As he is busy stowing some weights in one of the racks, he hears someone clear his throat from behind, so he straightens up abruptly, looking back over his shoulder.

"Oh, Alexander, don't stop for my sake. I am, in fact, gladly enjoying the view."

"Magnus, hey. When did you arrive?" Alec asks, walking toward the Warlock and smiling at him.

"Not even 10 minutes ago actually. Your mother met me in the corridor, telling me she doesn't have time to hear me out unless I have information about the Sword. She was lovely, as usual."

"Ah... And did you have any information to share?" Magnus squints at him.

"I don’t, actually. Do you?"

Alec shrugs.

“I just know it was an ancient heirloom that was kept in a graveyard in Paris."

"Yeah... Yet I think they really want it back, you know? Anyway, I told your mother that no Warlock has traveled from Paris to New York in the last few days, and that the only portal from France I could sense was opened this morning, but it was the High Warlock of Versailles who did it, at the request of the Head of the Institute in Paris."

"Sure, one of theirs is here to help us with the 'missing sword' case.” Alec says ironically, air quoting the words.

"So why did it open in Central Park and not here at the Institute?”

Alec hums, thinking about it and it is indeed weird.

“I don’t know, but… I’ll ask Sebastian later,  ok? Anyway, what did my mother tell you, then?"

"That she didn't understand why I bothered to come, if I intended to lie to her and to remain in New York. She would summon me when she sees it fit to do so. As if she could order me anything." He concludes contemptuously.

"I know… She is ridiculous and she isn’t even aware of it. Well, I think we might as well go to lunch then."

"Actually, meeting your lovely mother made me jittery, you know? I’d really like to let off some steam."

A pleased smirk pops on Alec’s face.

"We could drop by your place after lunch, for… coffee. If you catch my drift."

"Yes, we could, or I could just have my way with you now."

"Now?"

"Now, Alexander. There's no one around..."

"Magnus, be serious. We're at the Institute."

"Don't tell me nothing sinful ever happened in here."

To be honest, there are some things happening inside the walls of the Institute from time to time, but Alec has always preferred to cater to his needs elsewhere. 

"You know, Alexander, I have a soft spot for forbidden things."

"Well, I can relate to that."

Magnus has come closer as he talks and is now standing in front of Alec, looking at him defiantly.

"So, what do you want to do... We can go to have our lunch or are you up for an appetizer?"

"What do you have in mind?"

"Nothing fancy, I don't want to get you in trouble. I could just blow you."

Alec is suddenly interested in Magnus’ idea.

"And would it serve the purpose? Would you feel better afterward?"

"Probably not, I'll probably be even more upset, but then we could actually go to my loft for a more extensive session of wild sex. Sometimes I enjoy the waiting, you know? In any case, at least you would definitely feel better afterward."

Alec’s eyes darken with lust. 

"Hard to say no, Magnus." Even his voice has dropped lower and the sound of it is so sexy that Magnus can barely hold back. The Warlock's hands are already on Alec’s jeans, undoing the button and the fly. The Shadowhunter remains still, his breathing getting uneven.

"You look good to eat today, Shadowhunter. This shirt makes your eyes stand out."

"Are you in the mood to compliment me today?"

"You're right, enough talking."

In a second, Magnus is on his knees and his mouth is around Alec’s cock.

"Fuck, Magnus..."

Magnus pulls back, chuckling. Ok, maybe he was a bit impetuous.

“Try to keep quiet. I think your mother would kill me if she saw me corrupting you like this."

"Oh, don’t worry, my mother is perfectly aware that I am already beyond corrupted, even if she pretends not to know."

“Now shut up and enjoy.”

Alec complies, closing his eyes and throwing his head backward.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"I never thought of all things that I'd be having lunch out with a Shadowhunter. But how could I refuse such a polite invite?"

"Don't make fun of me... I'm not used to this kind of thing; I know I'm not very gallant."

After he came into Magnus' mouth, he muttered something about time to grab something to eat, because coming always makes him super hungry. Really, not gallant.

"Don’t worry about it. You were cute."

"And you were beautiful, Magnus…" Sucking my cock… Alec thinks but does not say.

"See, you know how to be a gentleman, after all." 

Ok, maybe a little honesty is needed now.

“...I was saying you were beautiful on your knees, but now I feel like I am being a jerk. I already feel bad for not having returned the favor.”

Magnus chuckles and Alec smiles at him. It seems that theWarlock appreciates his boldness.

“You will. I intend on ravishing you later. And I bet you look fantastic on your knees as well.” 

Alec shrugs his shoulders but smiles pleased with the praise and at the same time endearingly sheepishly. Magnus feels a weird sensation in his stomach that is not food-related. It’s another type of hunger. Intense, consuming and so worth waiting to be satisfied.

"Magnus… This is new territory for me; I've never met anyone like you and I can't stop thinking about what happened last night and... God, I can’t believe we did it at the Institute.”

Alec leans forward to get closer and whispers not to be heard.

“You and your mouth are wicked, Magnus. You really caught me off guard."

Magnus wonders if he crossed a line… even if it’s too late now.

“I am sorry if I pushed you…”

“No! I mean, I liked it. I had never done anything like that under the roof of the Institute. BuutI really liked it… I too am fascinated by forbidden deeds, evidently.”

“Oh, you are a naughty boy, aren’t you?"

"Maybe. It's not just that, though. You're amazing Magnus… And I'm not just talking about the sex, I like pretty much everything about you."

"Now you are making me blush, Alexander and that's not appropriate foralunch between friends."

"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

"No worries, it takes more than that to embarrass me, but to be honest, I think I like you too. I didn't expect to feel so comfortable in your company. I must confess that in the past, just the sight of your runes made my skin crawl. But you're different, Alec. And that's a good thing."

“Thanks, Magnus. I am glad you aren’t rooted in your beliefs anymore."

"And what would they be?" He asks curiously.

"That Warlocks need to stay away from Shadowhunters; that we can't be… allies or even friends."

"Do you really want to be my friend?"

Magnus is clearly provoking him. After all, not even an hour before the Warlock was sucking his cock in the training room of the Institute, making him come in the span of minutes. Alec wants surely more than to be his friend. But he needs to earn the man’s trust, first.

"Maybe? I don't know. I'd like to hang out, to talk with you, to learn what you like. I don't want to put any pressure on you, but I would like to see you again. I admit I have been thinking of you since we first met."

Magnus looks intently at him before answering.

"All right." He says, simply as it is.

"All right? That’s all?"

"Yes, Alexander, it's fine. Maybe you're right. I've known for a long time that Raphael trusts you and I do trust Raphael. So, we can try to be friends."

Alec smiles goofily at him. Then a naughty glint shines in his eyes.

“And as a friend, I could still help you to vent whenever you need it… I mean, if you want.”

Alec stops speaking abruptly, as if a sudden thought has hit him and he looks down at his hands on the table.

“Alexander?”

"Magnus…” The boy sighs and looks up at the Warlock again. There is something different in his eyes. Guilt? Sorrow? 

“I know you have a very good reason to hate my parents. I mean I hate them too for what they did to your people. I have never been able to accept that. Even less to forgive them. But I swear, I am nothing like them, nor are Isabelle and Jace. And I… I am sorry for how you had been treated and for what you had to endure because of the Clave. But things are changing you know? If only you could see it… I know that it seems like my siblings and I hang out with Vampires and Werewolves only to have fun, but it’s not like that. I have a bunch of pretty nice friends among them, and I care about them dearly.”

“I believe you, Alexander. I will be happy to see this change you are talking about. And, don’t worry, I am not one to judge you. I mean, you are young and attractive, I can see why other Downworlders seek after you. If I am not mistaken, I was captivated by your appeal too, wasn’t I? Now let's decide what we want to eat, what do you say?"

"I say that I am famished and that I think I will have everything on the menu." 

Alec exclaims excitedly, rubbing his stomach, all the seriousness of his previous words gone. 

While Alec’s big smile enlightens his ridiculously pretty face, Magnus can’t help but look at him with fondness. Yes, Alexander Lightwood is different. And Magnus feels his century-old defense start crumbling.

The boy is nothing like he expected him to be, and it’s a nice surprise. In this time of crisis, it’s a nice surprise indeed.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Magnus can't wait for the elevator to get to the top floor. Alec's mouth is highly distracting. On more than one occasion he found himself staring at it, not understanding the words that kept flowing out of it. Incredibly, the more he kisses Alec, the more he wants to kiss him. There is something so energetic in the way he promptly responds to every kiss, or how he pulls Magnus closer and closer against him, how his big and strong hands are everywhere on his body.

Magnus refuses to think about the consequences of liking Alexander Lightwood too much. The boy is charming, confident, far from being a virgin, but so authentic in his way of giving himself. Magnus realizes that Alec probably speaks the truth when he asserts that he doesn't care about the differences between Shadowhunters and Downworldres, that as far as he is concerned, there isn’t any difference at all. Magnus wants to believe him and he doesn’t know why. The Warlock is so lost in the kiss, that when Alec suddenly pulls back to grab a fire message, he blinks stupidly at him for a second or two. They are still in the hall of his loft and the door is still open.

"Shit..."

"What?"

"They are coming here."

"Who is coming here?" Magnus asks stupidly.

"The Clave, Magnus," Alec says sternly and as if it were obvious.

"The Clave? The Clave is coming here?"

"Yes."

"What does the message say?"

Magnus is quick to grab it from Alec’s hands and read it before it disintegrates. To his credit, the Shadowhunter doesn’t even try to stop him. ì He keeps staring at his own feet, crestfallen and miserable, his hands closed in tight fists along his body. Magnus quickly scans the message with his eyes, in utter and ever-growing disbelief. He feels as if a bucket of ice was thrown at him.

"Alec, thanks to the info Isabelle gathered at the Hotel DuMort, we are about to arrest the High Warlock for high treason. You need to go to the residence of Magnus Bane. Jace and Clarissa will join you to arrest him. Be careful, your were so brave to get closer to him to obtain info, but he is a dangerous man. Good Job, anyway, I am proud of you. Mom."

Magnus gapes at the Shadowhunter in front of him as if he were seeing him for the first time before his astonished expression turns to one of disgust. Alexander Lightwood is not innocent, he is no different. Alexander Lightwood plays dirty and is nothing more than a traitor. And Magnus has been just a fool, who once again was falling for a betrayer and a liar. He maybe hates himself more than he hates Alec. He raises his hand, burning the remains of the message to ashes and the air around him charges with magic, and not a friendly one like the one that healed him. Magnus’s eyes are burning gold, and his expression is furious. Alec has never seen anything more powerful and terrifying. 

And… beautiful. 

He would get closer to calm him down, to explain. But Magnus won’t listen to him now.

Not a chance, Alec is perfectly aware of that. And he knows he is in danger.

As if reading his thoughts, the Warlock speaks to him in a cool, detached voice, so different from his usual sugary purr.

“Run. Before I incinerate you too.” 

God, the Warlock sounds serious and threatening enough, doesn’t he?

He does, and Alec can only spin on his heels and run away as he has been told.

[paragonrobits]

some more fun (or, well, not so much fun as ‘horrifically depressing detail that clarifies the position of Werewolf: The Apocalypse as not solely the action-focused beatstick of World of Darkness, but a look at how part of the heroism of the Fera is them keeping up a fight they know they CAN’T win) details about the Garou (werewolves) in particular but pretty much all Fera suffer from, is a supernaturally brutal variant of depression that comes from the soul and spirit, and the wounds of the world around them

one of the most important aspects of the true werebeasts of the World of Darkness, collectively called the Fera, is that they are as much spirit-creatures as they are flesh. Just as the Garou are both wolf and men, or the Khan both tigers and humans, the Fera are in deep connection with the spirit world and all that implies; they FEEL things and it influences them, even the ones who have a harder time stepping across the barriers separating the shadow-spirit world from the material realm.

And the World of Darkness is fucked up, in many respects.

They FEEL it. When a werewolf states that something is deeply corrupted, its not a metaphor. They FEEL it; the evil done by human hands sinks deep into the world, poisoning the spirit world, lingering for an age afterwards. It may never entirely fade away. There are parts of the world where horrific atrocities have been done and those wise in the ways of the spirit insist: do NOT step sideways into the spirit world there. Do not do it; you may not come back, and you may not want to. Not because there are vile and awful spirits there, or the lingering echoes of the people who died in pain and despair (but there are plenty of both), but because to feel their pain is poison to ordinary humans alone.

Imagine what it does to beings who are intimately of all the worlds.

And so, the Fera feel the pain of the world, and it kills them. This is the sickness the Garou called Harano; a deep and horrifying form of spiritual depression, lingering from the world’s pain. It’s a little bit of guilt, for the werewolves KNOW that much of this is their fault. It’s a little bit of cosmic despair, for the Wyrm is WINNING. It wins with every single moment of indifference and apathy; it wins when horrible things happen because people turn a blind eye to suffering as long as it doesn’t affect them, and wins when awful things happen and the world just moves on, indifferent to the horrors in its wake. And it’s mostly just the perfectly mundane aspects of fighting losing battles, whether its the mundane of seeing people die and corporations prosper as the natural world the Fera care for slowly get withered away, or the people they try to protect are slowly whittled away bit by bit. It’s there for when the beasts they call kin fade away, the wolves and tigers and more faring even worse in WoD than they do in real life. One too many bad days and exhausting pyrric victories and terrible losses build up.

And somehow, some part of them dies, and they just stop.

This is Harano. More Fera succumb to this than they do to mundane injury. A werewolf may be able to shrug off all but the most vicious and powerful of weaponry, but their hearts and minds find the seeming hopelessness of their battles something you can’t heal from.

Of note, this effects the Mokole the most; the werealligators and crocodiles (and many other reptiles besides); who remember the past. They were THERE, 65 million years ago; they were there when the people before humans died. They have been there for countless eons since, watching so many things fade away and die. They carry an ancestral memory of everything an ancestor experience, and what THEIR ancestors experienced. And it is so much loss and despair.

There is a reason the advice of the Bastet when it comes to their scaled cousins is to let them lie. Brother Dragon, they say, has been through much; too much. Harano is a peril for all Fera, but it is especially terrible for the Mokole, as the ocean of despair behind them consumes them. Imagine all the most horrible things in human history, and the things that predate human history:

now imagine seeing it for yourself, and EXPERIENCING it first hand... over and over again.

[originalwinnercheesecake]

What Hollow Minds Revealed about Belos

Okay Wow , like Wow the last time an episode of a kids cartoon scared me this much... well okay it was when I first watched gravity falls “Northwest Mansion Mystery.... Hollow Minds may have been worse in than that. Everything Scary in NMM was so far steeped in “Cartoon” that you have to laugh at just how absurd the whole trama inducing situation was. A 100 year old ghost comes back for revenge over not getting a party invite? Stuffed animals coming to life and giving you a death message? People turning into tree’s? None of it could ever happen in real life. As people have pointed out though while Belos’s ���magic spells” are fake, the way he lies, cons, plots, abuses, pretends to care for everybody but secretly cares for no one... its all realistic to the way Puritan Witch Hunters treated people back in Salem time. Its all realistic to how Dictators and tyrants treat people now.

Lets talk about Belos Pretending to care for a second. It is seeded throughout the show that while he is he main villain, he won’t be the Final Boss, His plans aren’t all his, and while he cannot talk to the Titan, he is talking to some powerful being who the crew will have to deal with one he gives out (more on the Collector later). His ability to swing from “Kindly Grandpa” to “Merciless Dictator’ is really unsettling. Hunter clearly suffers from pressure and PTSD, but their will be times where Belos acts really loving and fond of Hunter. the only time we see him strike at Hunter, he 1 misses and 2 acts like striking at him was an accident. When his VA tweeted about Belos being “misunderstood” I started to consider the possibility that his “curse” was also a metaphor for a condiion like involuntary muscle movements or schizophrenia, and because he is a puritan he refuses to take the potions to fix it. Also in Coven day Parade when he told the coven members that he struggles with Insecurities over his face but that their love for him gave him confidence , then took his mask off and showed them his face. You have to wonder if he does have any real fondness for these people. You know by now he wants to get rid of magic, but does he believe doing so will help these people, does he want to take them to the human realm with him to live “cleaner” “more worthy lives” as mundanes? And there is the whole lost brother, and grimwalker clone thing that suggested how lonely he is.

Does he truly love Hunter? His people? His brother? We get the answers in this episode. No. No. Yes, but also no. I had a lot of trouble making out any of the paintings in the deeper levels of Belo’s subconscious, and didn’t at first notice the ones of Caleb (I am going to assume that is his Brothers real name.). But I looked through the posts some other fans made, and I think we have enough to already piece together two’s backstory. Spoilers under the cut.

Okay so Caleb is the older Brother. He and Hunter look near identical (there ears and scars are the only diffrence). Caleb took care of Phillip a lot and the two were very close. Kid Phillip’s mask and sword are toys Caleb made for him. Growing up they both hated witches and witchcraft. Maybe in childhood their family’s crops did bad one year, or someone they loved got sick, and the church told them it was the “evil workings of a witch”. Regardless they went to the trials/burning’s for fun. They would play that they were witch hunters as kids and it was the profession they went into as adults. It was also likely their mission when they came to the demon realm. I cannot tell if both Phillip and Caleb experimented on themselves with gliphs and other forms of magic. I think Phillip might have been the only one to absorb palismans. If Caleb did anything to himself he made it through the... changes much more smoothly than Phillip. Caleb loved and tried to take care of cursed Phillip

Caleb originally hated witches, and was right there with Phillip on tricking, hunting, and getting rid of them. Heck he may have been the one who taught Phillip to... but then he went through a change in character. He started spending time with a wild witch whom I am guessing was A.) a Clawthorne, and B.) most definitely someone he was originally trying to catch. She foiled his plans and it became a chase, battle, dance thing. Caleb started seeing magic, the isles, and witch craft in a different light, and eventually love happened between him and Miss Clawthorne. Caleb tried to talk to Phillip about it, explain his new relationship,and how they were wrong. Phillip did not react well and was not accepting of his brothers 180 change. When Miss Clawthorne got pregnant Caleb left Phillip for good (or from his point of view until Phillip could accept his new family) and went with her. This opens up the idea that the reason Belos treated Lilith and Eda so badly, took such joy in hunting Eda, breaking Lilith, and forcing the two to fight wasn’t just because Lilith broke his nose in deadwardian times. He likely associates them with the witches who took Caleb away from him (Caleb’s own wife and child) and was taking revenge on them for it.

In the past he took revenge on Caleb. Caleb did not die from a curse; Phillip killed him. And it wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t some talk that went wrong.It wasn’t a confused gliph combo resulting in a deadly explosion. Caleb didn’t accidental fall on to a titan’s vein after Phillip shoved him in an argument, leading to Phillip braking down in regret. Phillip went after his brother, and ambushed him and his wife. He started a fire, he pulled a knife on him. Caleb still tried to reason with him and get him to stop, but to no use. Miss Clawthorne tried to save her husband but couldn’t and had to leave his body behind and flee to protect their unborn child. Phillip kept his brother’s skeleton to make into clones (Caleb’s wife could not even bury her husband).

It seems like Grimwalkers aren’t necissarly made to be key sacrifices or instruments in Belos plans. Rather he makes them out of a desire to recreate the bond he and Caleb had when they first came to the isles. Hunter is like the 17th GrimWalker Belos has made. The other 16 all looked slightly different from Hunter, and their original ages may have been older than his. Important the other 16 were not failed protospells that stopped working or disappeared at some point because Belos had not yet perfected whatever he had to do to create them. Every single one of them eventually becomes fascinated by wild magic or comes to care about the isle residents and decided they want to stop what they and Belos are doing, just like Caleb did. Belos then kills them too. He has killed so many the collector even jokes about it being a game to him. Belos assures the collector “It hurts every time he chooses to betray me”. Note he is speaking in present tense, not past tense. This is something he has come to accept will happen each time, and he will always kill them and start over. He tried to keep Hunter shut up in the castle and away from wild magic books to delay the inevitable, maybe because Hunter is the closest looking to Caleb yet. But he knew and accepted that it would come to this. He took Luz and Hunter to all those rooms because he was collecting junk for the traps. The last room he takes them to is the golden guard grave yard where he has constructed monuments not to each guards life, but to when he killed them. Belos makes the grimwalkers for companionship, but once they challenge him he ends them and forgets anything else they ever did for him. He tried to have Hunter devoured by the mindscape with no hesitation. He told Luz with no remorse “I’ll just make another one”. Hunter was a favorite toy, but still a disposable toy.

Alright let me steady my hand, an lets move on to Belos and the Collector. So the collector is the entity Belos communicates with I guessed that back in Elsewhere and else when. Back then what surprised me was that Belos had apparently acted on his own a really long time before meeting the collector. Good-bye theory that Belos was just an innocent and curious child whom some dark being corrupted. Now what surprises me is that Belos knows he is talking with the Collector and not the Titan. I really thought he genuinely believed he was carrying out the will of this realms version of God or if not him than atleast a remorseful angel. Belos is one talented lair and I both hate him and now relate to all the witches he fooled. Belos is only misunderstood by the coven members. He knows exactly what he is doing and he has NO good side.

 I also think I put together What the collector gets out of helping Belos... Belos is putting all of the Isles residents into a collection for him. The 9 covens, 9 categories. The seals, stamps of ownership. Wild witches who refuse the seals are petrified and brought into the collection as large paperweights. At the center of this all we have the 9 most talented witches, a grimwalker creation, and a human from a time long past, the prized jewels of the collection. But wait? According to this episode Belos doesn’t just want to drain the citizens of the isles of their “evil magic”, he wants to kill them all. Why would the collector let Belos get rid of his collection. Becasue the Collector is, physically speaking, a young child who is board with his current toys. He will allow Belos to get rid of them if he can replace them with new, more fun, toys. I think this is where the portal comes in. Belos may not want to invade the human realm, but the collector does. His one human is old and not likely to last much longer, so he will need another one, better yet what if he makes an entire collection of human toys.

Will Belos not be the most dangerous villain of this story? Will he die before it ends, making the Collector the final boss Luz and Co will need to defeat to stop the Day of Unity? I have long since theorized, and I still do. Will Belos be killed by the Collector once he has outlived his usefulness? Possibly. Belos may even know this is a probable end to him. If so I doubt he cares, He lives to hunt and eliminate witches. As long the witches all go Belos would probably allow the Collector to kill him, with at most a last request to have his body taken back to the human realm to be buried.

[liesmyth]

Anyway fwiw the asks in my inbox got me to Think About It (to myself) and articulate (in private) why I feel very differently about Cytherea than I do about Dulcinea, or other characters who are suffering from illnesses in ways that are... more mundane. I like Cytherea a lot as a character but I like her in the same way I like Alecto; they’re both very inhuman to me. IDK how else to put it besides: Dulcinea is a sick person. Cytherea is a walking body horror trope. There are a lot of layers to her character and her entire arc is basically a murder suicide mission with a flirty detour, and I think there’s a lot more to her actions and her choices than needs to be unearthed - it’s been years since I first read GtN but I’m still spinning her motivations in my mind trying to make sense of her etc.

She’s a person with layers but she’s also a literal walking biological bomb, and I think that’s very much a deliberate narrative choice on TM’s part, to take something that is common (illness) and bring it to its most grotesque extremes (illness frozen in time that can be manipulated by your enemies against you, etc with a touch of the Terminator thrown in). To me, it’s familiar in the way many chilling horror tropes have relatively mundane roots, but I really can’t see it as a normal or relatable illness in the same way I can’t see stuff like necromancers’ reproductive issues o their extreme fragility as 1:1 to real life counterparts. (And I think that if you that’s a very valid interpretation, but frankly it’s not fair to expect everyone should do so)

[afreesworn]

Friends and Debts

Anchor Saltborn.

Sour disposition. Loyal to Ironsong. Suffering from aether sickness. Possibly prone to attacking strangers upon regaining consciousness. Perhaps even involved in illegal affairs.

The last bit was pure speculation on Roen’s part but both Shael and Brick avoided answering the question of how and where their friend contracted his current ailment. Roen knew next to nothing about Brick – other than he seemed formidable, careful, and was most frugal in his speech – but the fact that Shael was tight lipped about so many things surrounding this man and her next urgent matter, likely meant that they were all involved in something Roen would not approve of.

But that never stopped Shael from getting her involved before, even peripherally. And given their past together, and for all that Roen owed the smuggler, she couldn’t say no.

Aylard’s death would forever be a deep wound in her soul, one that Roen could never willingly mend. The pang of guilt was well deserved, and for that, Roen would forever feel indebted to Shael. She honestly didn’t know how that could be rectified.

Which brought her attention back to the man laying on the bed in front of her, clearly in pain though not wholly conscious. His countenance had yet to relax from its tight grimace, and often he let out a moan of pain. Roen had given him his tinctures and every few bells, sat him up, tried to get some fluids down without him choking, so his body didn’t become completely depleted. She wiped him off with a wet cloth now and then to cool his fever, but the heat beneath his skin would not relent.

"He's sick so ya don' need much doin'. Just make sure he don' move on tae the great stream, yeah?"

Roen had not seen Shael in over two years. And for the past year, she had been writing letters and leaving missives for the highlander at her usual haunts. But there had been no answers. Then suddenly, the smuggler shows up out of nowhere and asks her to nurse her ailing friend. 

"He's not the most friendly o' folk, and when he wakes up, ya may want tae be armed."

It wasn’t a surprise that an acquaintance of Shael would show aggressive proclivities, but the male didn’t look like he hailed from Gyr Abania. And if the Higan letters she spied on Brick’s notes were any indication, both the xaela and the hyur had spent some time in the Far East. 

So was it true then that Shael too had spent some time there in the past few years? Roen had heard rumors of a red haired woman sporting a magitek gun in Kugane, but mentions of such foreigners were commonplace in the port city. And Roen was first to admit, at the time, she herself was too busy with personal affairs of her own to be on the lookout for an old friend.

But now that she was back in Eorzea and gave herself a reprieve from her travels to attend to some mundane business – much to the delight of her accountant – her thoughts had strayed more than once to her past acquaintances. And once the news of her partner Shooey’s death reached Roen’s ears, she had reached out to Shael in all the ways she could conceive of, only to be met with silence.

For as long as Roen had known Shael, the highlander had Shooey by her side. And the fact that she had disappeared from the face of Eorzea right after his passing, it worried Roen. Her resurfacing brought much relief, but now also many questions.

Just who are you? Roen asked silently, looking at the ill hyur next to her. The fact that Shael finally made herself known, just to ask for help in taking care of this man, meant something. It did not escape Roen’s notice that Shael looked relaxed around Brick, and very much intent on keeping Anchor alive. Roen could see the two had a significant place in her friend’s new life.

A small smile found its way to Roen’s lips. She was glad. She knew all too well how losing someone so important could tear a part of their heart out, and how difficult it was to move forward after. To find the next reason to keep going. 

Glancing at the groaning man next to her, it looked like Shael had done just that. Roen exhaled and stood, walking to the head of the bed to lift him up for his next helping of water. 

She had cost Shael someone very dear to her before, and she could never repeat that mistake again. So if it was left to her to feed this stranger water, wipe him down, and clean up his bile until he woke, then so be it.

[revenantpoet]

- @RevenantPoet

Text Version:

Ascension

Gods mean nothing They never have They never will

I look at the world around me And I see no sign of any god that matters There's death There's sickness There's suffering

The landscape is a wasteland Humanity reduced to whatever sludge survived the wreckage Crippled by sickness and lack of resources The world is dead And any gods better hope that they’re dead along with it Because if they’re out there I’d destroy them myself What god annihilates the entire world, And all the hope left in it And disappears without a trace to leave its creations to whither? There’s nothing to have faith in Not anymore

Except Of course There's you

It wasn’t as if I wasn’t fighting before you It wasn’t like I lacked the drive Or the conviction But you inspired something deep within me Something I can only describe as a single word Faith

And it’s stupid to even think the word There’s no magic or religion to save any of us Least of all me Someone that humanity has painted as a villain A person who uses that hatred to fuel themself To prove all of them wrong To take this decayed world And let it rot But then to fertilize it To cast spores to take root And grow and heal anew It’s not a miracle It’s hard work It’s stupid work, most people would say Done by someone with nothing left to lose

And yet there’s something about you that is faith That tempers that anger and that resentment And turns it into passion A ferocity for justice In you there’s something that transforms the mundane The putrid stench of death and rot of this ended world And frames what’s left and what grows within the ashes As magic

The bond that stretches between us Is the only thing that is godlike to me It’s the only matter religious The one soul in my life I have the most faith in

I know that you’re there for me I know that you will always be my support I know that where I fail, you step up

In a world that is not only failable But failed Where society and any kindness it once had Is sunk beneath sand and rot and rust You are my anchor My lifeline

Not even death can hold us apart Because if god is dead The afterlife decayed and desolate with it If “the end” is the only hope left for us Our faith Our trust Our love Will reforge whatever power is left in this world And I will walk up to the long-abandoned throne Into the heaven that has wasted away into a sea of ash And I will sit in it I will drag myself out of the grave Just to hear your voice again Just to keep your faith, and your trust Just to hold you, even only one last time

But if it has to be one last time If there are any reapers out there hunting for my head They’ll have to fight me They’ll have to destroy our faith Pull me off the pillar of godhood Obliterate my very soul To tear me From you

HOO BOY! THAT SEASON FINALE!!! This poem may be terrible, but! Though it felt like nonsense while typing, didn't read too terribly while editing, and I wanted to write something to send season 1 off with! I’m going to close off this collection with this poem since I probably won’t be able to read the light novels, but I’ve been known to change my mind :’D No matter what, I hope that you enjoyed it even a little, and that you're all doing okay on your side of the screen <3