kurozu501 · 1 year ago
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i keep thinking about melusine telling aurora "i wish i lived for myself. i wish i could be selfish because then i'd give you exactly what you want, id whisk you away to the outside world and keep you all for myself despite knowing living in that world would be a living hell that'd make you miserable. but i only live to please you. so i have to do whats best for you" as she's murdering aurora. so incredibly good.
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janeway-lover · 5 months ago
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Heloooooo
Can you tell me a nice story about idk pink fluffy unicorns dancing on rainbows or smth? I‘m currently reading pet sematary AND I‘LL FINISH IT SOON AND IT‘S DSRK AND I THINK IT WILL GET REALLY SCARY AHHAHAHAHAA
So I need a nice story to calm me down before I go to sleep (it‘s 11pm…)
okay, let me think.
i don't have a story off the top of my head right now...but, what I could do is show you what I have written for my Lucifer fic.
The Lux is a glittering palace of indulgences, hung carefully as the crown jewel in the sparkling city of Los Angeles. (And wasn’t that just so ironic, that the City of Angels had become the Devil’s beloved home? Amenadiel liked to say that, at least.) Music and liquor flowed freely, with beautiful men and women everywhere you looked. 
Lucifer sat in the midst of it like a king atop his throne, surveying his kingdom with pride. When he saw Mazikeen stalking his way, he raised his empty glass, knowing it was unlikely she’d get him another drink but willing to try anyway. And then he saw what - or more accurately, who - she was dragging over to him, and he rather reluctantly put his glass down.
“Maze, why have you brought me a child? I seem to recall that children aren’t allowed in nightclubs.”
“I’m not a child!” the young girl says, trying to get Maze to let go of her. But a demon’s grip is not so easily broken, and her hold on the girl’s forearm remained.
“I found her sneaking around in the back. She must’ve managed to get past the bouncers somehow.” 
“I see.”
“She said she needed to talk to the owner.” And with that, Maze lets go of the girl, who straightens up to her full height of five foot one and looks Lucifer dead in the eye.
“Well, you’re in luck then.” He spreads his arms dramatically and smiles. “Lucifer Morningstar, owner of Lux, at your service, child. What can I do for you?”
“Why are you encouraging this, Lucifer?” 
“Because, Maze, I am very interested in why this child requires my services as the owner of this nightclub.”
“I need to make a deal with the Devil,” the girl says abruptly. 
“Oh?” His whole demeanor changes. Gone is the cheeky smile, replaced with a more serious look. “And what makes you think you can do that here?”
“I - I read about it online,” she says, pulling out her phone and flipping it around to show him her screen. 
[INSERT SCREENSHOT OF POST HERE]
“I have no idea what this is, but I am offended by the claim that Lux is a ‘dumb pun.’ It’s a very good pun.”
“That’s - that’s not the point!” She emphasizes this with a stomp of her foot. “I know who you are! You’re the Devil! And I need to make a deal!”
“You need to make a deal? Really? A child like you? Why? What use could you have for such things?”
“I’m not a child! I’m fourteen, I’m basically an adult and I can take care of myself!” 
Lucifer just raises an eyebrow.
“If you can take care of yourself, then why do you need to make a deal with me?”
“Well, I - I mean, um, it’s just that -” He stays silent as she tries to stammer out an answer. 
“If you need to take a moment to formulate your thoughts, I can wait.” If looks could kill, the Devil would’ve been slain by this young girl. (Well, to be fair, if looks could kill, Lucifer would’ve been killed LONG ago.) But looks do not kill, and he’s dealt with more than his fair share of nasty glances. Eventually, she must admit defeat.
“I was trying to be grown up,” she mutters. “But I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That would be because you are not grown up.” His voice is softer, kinder. “What’s your name, my dear?”
“Maddie.” She won’t look at him, her eyes focused firmly on her shoes.
“Hello, Maddie. Can I ask you something?” She nods. “What is it that you desire?” This gets him a glare from Maze, but he keeps his focus on Maddie as she looks up at him.
“Somewhere - somewhere safe to live. So I can be me.”
“I see. And how were you hoping to accomplish this?”
“I ran away. I - I thought I knew what I was doing, but - but I only have fifty dollars, because I didn’t want to steal because that’s a crime but I don’t have anywhere to go and I just really need to make this deal and I - I -”
“Okay, okay, breathe. Maze?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you go get a water for the young dear?” She rolls her eyes at him, but goes over to the bar anyway for a water. Both of them are silent until she returns with a whiskey glass full of water. “Really, Maze?”
“Would you have preferred a wine glass?” She hands the glass to Maddie, her tone going to something softer. “Here you go, kid.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mention it.”
“Now, back to the matter at hand,” Lucifer says. “Maddie, dear, I’m afraid I’m not going to make a deal with you.”
The glass slips from her hands at his words, the only reason it doesn’t shatter upon the dance floor being one very attentive demoness.
“Lucifer, what the fuck?”
“Let me finish, Maze.” She looks at him; he looks back. She raises an eyebrow; he nods.
“You stupid fucking sentimental idiot.” 
“What - what are you talking about?” 
“Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean for you to get left out, but I wasn’t quite finished. I won’t make a deal with you because I’m going to give you a better offer. Everything you asked for - a roof over your head, safety, acceptance - and more, and you won’t owe me any favors for it.”
“Wait, really?”
“Yes, really.”
“What’s the catch?” She’s glaring at him in disbelief, but he can see how desperate she is for this to be true.
“No catch.”
“You won’t take my soul?”
“Souls are really not worth as much as people think they are,” he says, Maze rolling her eyes in response.
“Well, okay, I guess.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. It’s not like I’ve got anything to lose.”
“Wonderful!” He smiles, clapping his hands once as he stands up. “Maze, could you take our guest upstairs to get settled? One of the guest rooms should work, I think.”
“Wait, what?” Maddie freezes in place, her eyes wide. 
“Oh, should I have made it clearer? You’ll be staying here for now. I’ve got plenty of room.”
“You - you want me to stay here? I’m supposed to live with the Devil?” Her voice gets louder and higher, but no one in the club seems to notice. Call it a miracle if you’d like.
“Well, you were perfectly willing to sell me your soul earlier. This seems like a much safer compromise, doesn’t it?” But he can understand her hesitancy. “If you’d prefer, we can find you somewhere else to stay tomorrow. There are plenty of people who owe me favors that would be willing to take you in. But it is late, and you need rest.”
“I guess so.” Her voice seems so small now, and she looks up at Maze, her eyes desperate. 
“I promise, he’s safe. I’d have slit his throat a long time ago if he wasn’t.” Maddie nods, looking just a little braver. “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.” The two of them go hand-in-hand into the elevator, leaving Lucifer in the midst of the glittering indulgence of the Lux with a vaguely warm feeling in his chest. 
“Oh, that’s new,” he says to himself. (It isn’t, not really. But that darling urchin known as Trixie usually gets up to enough mischief to distract him from any warm and fuzzy feelings.) “I don’t know if I like that.” He motions for a bartender to get him another drink, drinking it slowly as he thinks.
-
Across town, a cellphone rings. With a sigh, Chloe Decker picks up her phone, another sigh escaping when she sees who it is.
“Detective! I need your help with something.”
“Lucifer, it’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”
“Oh, come now, it’s hardly even midnight! The fun is just getting started.”
“If you’re trying to get me to go clubbing, you know full well what the answer is going to be.”
“That’s not at all what I’m trying to do here, Detective. Although I am asking you to come over. Like I said, I need your help.”
“Can it wait until the morning? Dan is working tonight and I don’t want to leave Trixie home alone.”
“Of course, of course. In fact, you can even bring the little urchin along with you.” 
Chloe’s eyes narrow.
“Tell me what’s going on, Lucifer.”
“Right, ah, of course. You’re good with children, correct?”
“Please tell me there is not a child in your nightclub.”
“There is not a child in my nightclub.”
“Oh thank goodness -”
“There’s a child in my penthouse.”
There’s silence for a moment. Lucifer wonders if she’s still on the phone.
“I will be there first thing in the morning. If you manage to lose this kid before I get there, I will send you back to Hell myself, got it?”
“Oh, cheeky.”
“Good night, Lucifer.” She ends the call with a sigh, rubbing her eyes. “Well, I guess we’ve got plans for tomorrow.”
Unseen by Chloe, Trixie closes the door of her room, slipping back into bed as quiet as she can. Something tells her that tomorrow is going to be an interesting day.
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ambientstars · 4 years ago
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Praise - part 3 (Whittaker!master x reader)
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Gif credit: unknown
Warnings: angst, alcohol, eventually nsfw (tied up, blindfolded, praise kink, waxplay), but mostly a bunch of softness you’re welcome
Note: SURPRISE!! I didn’t plan on making a third part to this, but literally one person asked and that all it took for me to write it. This will be the final part because I don’t think I can take it any further. Kind of a longer one this time (2k more than usual) because ya girl tried to put some more storyline into it. Anyway, enjoy my loves!
———
“How do I look?”
You stood facing the mirror, smoothing out your outfit and taking in your reflection.
“You could be wearing a paper bag and I’d still eat you up,” The Master stood behind you, hands on your waist, her fingers digging into you almost painfully. “But I must say you look delicious in this.”
You frowned, confused. “I’m not a snack, you know?”
She laughed, moving hair from your shoulder and placed a wet kiss on the side of your neck. “No, darling, you are the whole meal.”
You turned, amusement clear on your face. “Are you hungry or something? Do you want to go and get some space food instead?”
The Master snorted, stepping away from you and picking up her jacket. “Let’s just go.”
Today was the anniversary of your renewed relationship with The Master. It marked one year of being by her side, of calling her yours and of being the happiest you’d ever been in your life.
And boy, what a year it had been. It started off just like it had before, full of passion, heated desire for one another and spending most days close to each other, taking every opportunity to touch, kiss and caress the other every chance they got.
Except this time, it didn’t fizzle out, it didn’t turn sour and it didn’t become toxic. Your relationship became stronger every day, your trust for each other grew to new heights and you considered it to be healthier than it ever was before.
Tonight you were going out to celebrate, to the club you reunited with The Master at. She had said it would be a nice full circle moment and you had to agree, for if you hadn’t gone there in the first place, you wouldn’t have seen her again and began a new journey with her.
——
The club was just as packed as it always was, each area full of aliens of all kinds, the line to get in twisting around the building.
The Master walked right up to the entrance of the club, ignoring the queue entirely. You hurried along with your hand in hers, trying to keep up with her quick pace despite her high heels.
The bouncer at the door nodded at the timelord in recognition and opened the door without a single word, allowing you both in immediately.
Sometimes it slipped your mind that you see a different side of The Master, others viewing her as dangerous and evil, not to be messed with and granting her whatever it is that she demanded for the sake of their lives.
She led you straight to the bar, pushing past the crowds and stopping at the VIP spot of the bar where orders were taken first before anyone else waiting. She ordered your favourite drink without you having to tell her and it made your stomach flutter that she actually did listen and learn about what makes you click and your favourite things.
The drinks were on the house just like they always were. The Master never paid for anything, ever and it was a hard press to even think of a time you’d seen her with real money in her possession.
“What’s got you so tense, darling?” The Master slipped a hand around your waist and pulled you in close, which admittedly did help to relieve the odd tension in your shoulders. “Relax, enjoy yourself. There’s no danger here. Not with me around.���
You didn’t need to look at her face to know a self satisfacted smirk was painted right across it. “Something just feels off.”
She took the glass from your hand and released her gentle hold on you, effectively removing the protected feeling it gave you. “Why don’t you go and dance for a while? Burn off some of that tension.”
You finally looked at her, your cheeks heating up just at the sight of her under the colourful lights. “I don’t know… I’m not really feeling it.”
Placing your glass on top of the bar, she held your chin between her finger and thumb, and brought her face inches from yourself. “I’m not asking. I want to watch you dance. Now be a good girl and give me a show.”
After a quick peck on the lips, she moved away from you and seated herself at an empty table with a perfect view of the dance floor.
You did as you were told, making your way over to the dance floor and taking a deep breath, trying to push away the bad feeling in your stomach and allowing yourself to enjoy the music playing loudly throughout the building.
You performed as best as you could for The Master, your eyes closed, your hips swaying and your hands roaming your body like you were exploring it for the first time. Eventually your muscles relaxed and you could let yourself move freely with the music, a soft smile gracing your face towards the end of the song.
The sinking feeling in your stomach returned, however, when you opened your eyes expecting to see The Master watching you with a proud look and instead catching the eye of The Doctor who stood only a few meters away from you.
He was with someone, a redhead woman, who stood closely by his side, smiling up at him.
She was beautiful, from what you could tell at this distance with flashing lights in your eyes, her frame petite and clothing that seemed more casual than your own, almost like she didn’t expect to be brought here and instead dressed for a different kind of outing - which didn’t seem entirely impossible given The Doctor’s habit of landing in wrong places at the wrong time more often than not.
You held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, your face no doubt mirroring his own expression of shock, confusion and hurt.
You hadn’t seen or spoken to The Doctor since you left him a year ago, abandoning him yet again without saying goodbye. You often wondered how he was, hoping you’d bump into him one day if only to know that he was still alive and well, your guilt eating you up inside, but now that it was happening, it felt like a metaphorical house of emotion was crushing you, not at all feeling the way you thought it would when you eventually saw him again.
In your stupor you hadn’t noticed The Master come to stand beside you, also looking in The Doctor’s direction, but eyeing up his new companion instead. “See? I told you that you’d be replaced in no time.”
The Master loved a good I told you so moment and this one hurt, like salt in a wound. She was right, of course she was. She knew from the very beginning that your spot would be filled by someone else almost as if you never existed and deep down you knew it too, but a small part of you hoped that it wouldn’t be so soon, that you meant more to him than just someone occupying an empty space in his life and replacing you as soon as you left.
You broke the eye contact with the timelord you once viewed as your best friend and turned to walk in the direction of the restroom. The Master was hot on your heels, throwing an unreadable look towards The Doctor as she also turned.
You fought back tears as you reached the door, flinging it open and pushing past everyone inside to get to the sink, ignoring the grumbles and annoyed comments thrown your way for the intrusion. You leaned against the basin, breathing deeply to try and keep the sobs at bay, your throat tightening.
From beside you, you heard The Master tell everyone inside to leave and give you both some privacy or else face the consequences. Of course they all listened immediately and hurried out until it was just you and her left in the room.
“What’s all this for?” She came to stand beside you, leaning back against the sink next to the one you occupied. “You’re actually sad? Need I remind you, you left him?”
You sniffled and shook your head, willing yourself to calm down. Again, The Master was right. You had been the one to leave him, not the other way around. You had no right to be so upset to see him with someone else when you came here with your own someone - someone he’d been at war with since post childhood, someone he thought would kill you in cold blood, someone who was the last person he wanted to see you run away with.
“I just didn’t think he’d find someone else so quickly.” You released a shaky breath and quickly wiped away a stray tear that had managed to escape. “Just hurts to know I’m so replaceable, that’s all.”
The Master laughed lightly from beside you despite you not having told a joke, her body twisting to face you. She turned you also, holding your shoulders in her hands and forcing you to face her.
“Darling, look at me.”
You did as you were told once again, bringing your watery eyes up to meet hers, the hazel colouring of them appearing darker under the dim and almost useless lighting of the small room.
“First things first, you are not replaceable. And secondly, the man is an idiot.” She rolled her eyes, genuine disbelief on her face. “He brought someone new into his life so fast because he didn’t know what he had standing right in front of him. He doesn’t define your worth, no matter how you felt for him.”
“And you do?”
She smiled softly, moving a hand to rest on the side of your face to gently stroke your pink cheek. “No, my love. Only you do, no one else.”
A warmth came over you, a deep and genuine love for The Master filling your chest. It wasn’t lost on you that during your year together, she had become softer, kinder and more loving. It seemed as if she was a different person from who she was in your first attempt at this relationship, more willing to show vulnerability and voicing her feelings out loud.
Although this was only ever shown to you. To everyone else she was still the heartless monster who killed for fun, none of them understanding how she managed to find someone to love her despite her evil ways. You had to admit that you understood their point of view, but to you, she wasn’t those things.
The door suddenly swung open and in walked the redhead who had taken your spot in The Doctor’s life. She smiled politely and grabbed some tissue from the stall furthest away from you, using it to blot away a wet patch on her tshirt.
“My friend is such an idiot sometimes,” she began talking as if you’d known each other forever. Or at all.
At that The Master made a face at you that said see? He really is.
“Spilt his drink down me while he was distracted by something. Not sure what he was looking at or what he was drinking, but it will come out, right? Do alien drinks stain? I guess I could— I’m sorry, have I interrupted something?”
You hadn’t noticed that by now both you and The Master were staring at the girl with unwelcome looks, your eyes having since dried up and The Masters hand that had fallen to your arm tightening.
“Your friend, what’s his name?”
The redhead gave a look of confusion towards The Master, but remained polite. “The Doctor. Maybe you know him? He’s quite well known.”
Your lover sniggered, stepping away from you and moving towards the other woman. “Indeed.”
You prayed silently that she would be nice, it wasn’t your replacement’s fault you were in this situation. She seemed nice enough and knowing The Doctor as well as you did, he probably hadn’t even told her you existed, that you held her place before her, that he had just been left alone without so much as a word about it.
“Let me buy you a drink.”
The Master’s tone seemed genuine, kind even. You didn’t understand what her motive was, but you sent out yet another prayer that it wasn’t sinister given that your last prayer was seemingly heard and granted.
It took very little time to convince the other woman to allow The Master to buy her a drink, the excuse of let me make up for his mistake passed by your ears and you knew that although it was said directly to the redhead, it was also meant for you.
Your hand stayed firmly planted in The Master’s, a new drink held in your other. You sipped on it slowly, feeling tired at the wide range of emotions you had experienced in such a short amount of time and hearing The Master make small talk with the other woman who also had a new drink in hand.
From the corner of your eye you saw The Doctor standing on his own, just like he had been the first time he’d been left on the dance floor all that time ago, bewildered at what he was seeing.
It suddenly clicked in your mind what The Master was doing, why she had invited the redhead for a drink at the bar. She wanted The Doctor to see that she had yet again taken his friend from him, allowing him to see that they would rather spend time with her than with him and sending out a message that no matter how many times he replaced his companions, she would be there each time to steal them away and give them something better.
The Master was smart and carefully calculated, her plan working perfectly, The Doctor’s fists bunched up and his brows knitting together into a displeased frown.
The redhead eventually felt bad for leaving ‘her friend’ behind and said her goodbyes, making her way back over to the man who still looked lost and angered.
As you sipped on the neon green liquid in the glass you held, you turned your attention back to The Master. She was already looking at you, a brow raised as she waited for you to say something.
“That was painful.”
“I know,” she moved a strand of hair away from your face and behind your ear. “But I had to send a message. No one hurts my girl.”
Your breath hitched in your throat, a surge of emotions yet again came crashing down on you like a tsunami. Tears brimmed your eyes once more and had The Master not pulled you in for a loving kiss, your bottom lip would’ve begun to wobble.
“My good girl.” She kissed you over and over again, placing her drink on the bar so that she could wrap her arms around your waist and pull you onto her lap, making you straddle her on the bar stool that miraculously took your combined weight without a problem.
You continued to make out in front of everyone, your arms around her neck and her hands grabbing at your body in a desperate need to feel more of you. It wasn’t long before you unconsciously began to wiggle in her lap, grinding down on her thighs in search of a little friction.
“Take me home.”
The Master smiled against your lips, opening her eyes to search yours for confirmation that you actually meant what you said.
But of course you did. You wanted nothing more than to be in the comfort of your own home in the TARDIS and to spend the rest of the night in a blissfully heightened state with your lover on your anniversary.
——
“Bath?”
Stepping into the TARDIS, you shrugged off The Master’s jacket that she had placed over your shoulders to keep away the chill on the short walk from the club to the timeship that she had disguised as a house not even a few minutes away, insisting that it was too cold for you not to wear it because humans feel temperature differently to timelords and you’d freeze to death if you didn’t.
You hummed happily at the thought of soaking yourself in hot soapy water. “I’d love that.”
You both made your way to the bathroom and you began to strip down as The Master ran the water into the tub, joining you in removing her clothes once she had added the bubbles to the running water.
She reached out for you and held you in her arms, both of you naked and falling into a quiet moment where no words had to be spoken to know what each other were thinking and feeling.
Once the bathtub had filled up with enough water, you both slipped in, moaning in unison at the muscle relaxing temperature. You spent a while washing each other and unwinding in each other’s embrace, The Master’s hand slowly rubbing circles between your legs until you shook and came undone for the first time that night.
When the water began to turn cold, you stepped out and dried off, carefully rubbing each other down with soft fluffy towels until you were dry enough to make your way to the bedroom without creating a trail of water droplets behind you, the air drying you off completely by the time you got there.
You laid on the bed patiently, ready and waiting for The Master to join you.
She pulled a pretty patterned tie from the drawer and smiled at you when she came to meet you at the bed, your submissiveness never failing to bring her happiness.
She leaned down to kiss you softly, crawling on top of you in the process. “Arms up, love.”
You obeyed without question, lifting your arms above your head.The Master tied them up, looping the tie between the bars of the bed frame so that you couldn’t bring your arms back down.
“Is this okay?” She brought her kisses down to your neck, wet and warm, and torturously slow.
You moaned out a yes, your stomach twitching at her touch that was moving lower, your toes curling in anticipation.
She kissed down your body, making sure to hit all the sensitive spots that only she knew about, her hands skimming down the curves of your waist towards your legs.
She lifted a leg and rested it on her shoulder as she brought her head between them. She kissed lazily down from the inside of your knee to where you desperately needed her between your thighs, your hips raising on their own accord.
“I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as planned, but I’m going to make it up to you, darling.” The Master used a finger to slide into your wet heat, her tongue quickly following, earning a strangled moan in response. “I promise.”
It was rare for The Master to apologise for anything even for something that was her own fault, so for her to apologise for something out of her control was new territory for the both of you.
You wanted to tell her not to be so silly, not to apologise for something that wasn’t her fault, but whimpers and gasps filled your throat, not allowing any words to be spoken.
You also wanted to hold onto her, your hand tangled in her hair, keeping her where she was and encouraging her to keep going, but with your hands tied to the bed, the best you could do was tug desperately on the fabric restricting them and pray that it will eventually break and set your arms free.
The white hot coil in the pit of your stomach began to wind up tighter and tighter, and you knew that with The Master’s mouth working you so expertly to the edge, it wouldn’t be long at all before you fell apart.
And you were right, crying out at the blinding pleasure, setting a new record for yourself at how fast you had tipped over the edge.
The Master sat up and reached over to untie your hands, slipping the tie from between the bars and allowing your arms to flop down either side of you.
“Can you keep going?”
You nodded breathlessly, your eyes falling closed in an attempt to concentrate on bringing your breathing back to a normal rhythm.
“Keep your eyes closed.” The soft tie was placed over your eyes and tied behind your head after she had encouraged you to lift it up for a moment. “Good girl. Now tell if it gets too much and I’ll stop, alright?”
“Alright.” Your voice came as a whisper, raw and forced.
The sound of sparking hit your ears and your head turned in its direction, unable to make out what it was just by the sound of it.
The Master laughed softly, her arm smoothing over your arm reassuringly after seeing your reaction. “Relax, I just lit a candle.”
You took a deep breath and allowed your body to fall limp into the mattress beneath you, revelling in the feeling of The Master’s slow kisses that she was now placing along your stomach.
“Another deep breath, love.”
You drew in another and as soon as your lungs were filled with air, a sharp searing heat hit your sternum, right where The Master had placed a kiss seconds before.
You released the breath quickly with a whimper, your mouth agape in shock. “What was that?”
“Wax.” The Master spoke nonchalantly. “Want me to stop?”
You thought it over for a moment. Did you want her to stop? This was certainly new and sure you’d spoken about it previously, but you hadn’t been expecting it and no, you decided, you didn’t want her to stop.
This was akin to spanking, pain at first that fizzled into pleasure. The heat of the melted wax that was poured onto your skin lasted mere seconds before cooling into something warm and tingly, setting your nerves on edge and bringing a heightened sense of gratification.
“No, keep going.”
You knew that she was smiling, pleased with your willingness to experiment and the trust you had in her to keep going and not bring you any unnecessary pain.
And keep going she did, dripping hot wax across your body, watching how you reacted to the heat in more sensitive areas compared to the more desensitised parts of your body that saw the light of day more often.
Each time the wax settled onto your skin, it hurt less and less, stinging pleasantly and morphing into a heavenly warmth. The Master kept up the practice of kissing right where she planned to pour, giving you a heads up every time, something you were grateful for.
With your sense of sight taken away from you, your other senses intensified, making each touch, each whisper of encouragement all the more rewarding.
The Master eventually stopped despite your moans and begging for more, supposedly because the candle had burned down and run out of wax, but she continued to show you attention in other ways.
She remained close, her hands roaming your body lovingly, worshipping you with her kisses and her words. She allowed you to rut against her thigh, leaving a wet spot on her skin as she sucked on your neck below your ear, your arms encircled her shoulders and keeping her in place so that you didn’t lose your rhythm against her if she moved.
“So good for me, darling,” her whispered words in your ear felt like a song from an angel, supporting you on your journey to otherworldly bliss. “My good girl.”
After a little while longer and a few more orgasms, you were completely spent, your body aching deliciously, your eyes feeling heavy after a long evening.
The Master held you close as you drifted off to sleep, tracing sloppy figures of eight onto your exposed back and breathing in the subtle scent of lavender from the soap she had washed you with.
Taglist: @queerconfusionthings @another-doctor-who-blog @crazylittlereader2474
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flowerflamestars · 4 years ago
Note
PLEASE elaborate on cassian and azriel as teenagers PLEASE
 YES MY BOYS OKAY LETS GO
So the moment it all actually comes together and starts is in Starlight: that first blood smeared kiss with aching ribs, Cassian’s retrospectively enormous fuck you to authority, that searing absolution: he’s Illyrian. 
What Azriel hears: Illyrian like me, like me, the only one.
This is where Azriel understands all at once. That he might have nothing but an uncertain future, but he can belong with this one bloody, beautiful boy who is just as deadly. That this is why Rhysand- Rhysand who has known love every single day of his life- is jealous. 
It’s about recognition. That the High Lord chose Azriel and recognized his talent- even if Rhys is the one who really has a father, who gets letters and gifts, who has a father. 
That Rhys’ bleeding heart that both Cassian and Azriel find incomprehensible meant that he’d dragged Cassian to shelter- but the High Lady had looked at the strongest Illyrian born of his generation and said, yes, you can stay by my sons side. 
Rhys went: New? Brother? 
But Cassian understood exchange. Alliance. And proceeded to prove himself further to the Camp Lords who spit on him by thrashing Rhysand within an inch of his life, every single day. 
Enter, Azriel. Overpowered, out of control, almost executed because an Illyrian who can’t fly is worth less than a lame hunting dog. 
Rhys might have come to learn Illyrian techniques, but at the end of the day, his power is incompatible with siphons, isn’t Illyrian at all. 
Cassian has been alone his entire life. He could shake the mountains when he was eight- but it didn’t earn him anything but more fear, more anger, more people who’d called him a bastard, a monster. He doesn’t remember his mother’s name, he’s never had anyone and doesn’t count Rhys because he thinks the High Lady is trying to collect him because her precious Prince clearly needs a guard dog. 
(he’s not 100% right, but he’s not 100% wrong either. Alyssar and Rhain plan for Rhysand to rule the Steppes one day, befriending Cassian has great future value if they all survive to adulthood)
And then Azriel blows up the first few shitheads they throw him in the ring with. No control, so very much power.
There’s a timeline where they ended up sexy rivals, each other’s only benchmark- but what happens instead is someone pushes Az off a cliff in training and he just falls. 
Azriel can’t fly.
So Cassian teaches him. This weary, beautiful boy everyone is afraid of who the dark loves, who spends every spare moment staring at the heavens like he’s never even seen the sky before. 
The snows blow in early. Cassian looks at Azriel. They’re exactly the same height, which is to say, already enormous, but Az always makes himself smaller. Always. He’s deadly and graceful and so, so, afraid. Not that anyone notices but Cas- no one else ever gets close enough to this boy the Camp Lords call a devil hidden in Illyrian skin.
Cassian sneaks Azriel back to the cabin, to his gifted bedroom that he is abruptly nauseatingly both proud of and ashamed by. 
He’s so sad, Cassian can easily share, easily keep him from freezing to death.
(in the back of his mind, he knows he wouldn’t. Az is strong like him, he wouldn’t freeze. He’d live, but it would hurt. Pain is supposed to make them stronger, and they hurt each other all the time. Surely, surely, that’s enough.)
The thing is, they’re equals. They’re alike, the only people either of them has ever met who are. And, as we know from Daylight and Starlight, they get each other. As friends, as brothers, as everything, they understand one another. 
Az might not talk much, but Cassian always listens when he does. Laughs, the sound so vast and lovely Azriel never knows what to do in the face of it. 
Cassian is absolutely brutal, but he’s fair too. Kind. Bewilderingly willing to share whatever he has with Azriel, who has even less, for the easy price of fighting each other, watching each others backs. 
They go to sleep each night in a too-soft bed, warm for once. Confounded by so many things around them- Cassian is briefly, utterly vindicated at the look on Azriel’s face when Alyssar gives him a pillow. 
Flash forward through winter and spring, to that early summer day.
Rhys is jealous of Azriel- because he and Cassian belong together. That Cassian had looked at Azriel- so very wrong to behold, more shadow than teenage boy, scarred and scared, half blind in the sunlight- and seen an equal. In Azriel. Not Rhysand.
Rhys, much like the spoiled child that he was who’d never before had someone say no, never before considered that anyone could be better, is a little bitch about it. He spends their teenage years getting over it, slowly. 
But in the meantime, Azriel is having a revelation.
He can belong.
It’s about recognition. Love, but also so much more than love. It’s only with each other- as friends, as lovers, as some mix in between because they know better than to think this will last forever, better still than to imagine that something so inconsequential as Azriel someday finding a man a who could love him without secrecy, that Cassian does like the way Morrigan looks at him, could ever, ever tear them apart- that they learn they can have. 
They hurt each other all the time in training, they have to- Cassian learns what Azriel thinks, that Az says to himself so many times over, with every reach- Cassian would never hurt me for real. Azriel realizes that no matter how strange he is, how scared, Cassian has never been afraid of him.
They look at each and see only equals, all in the world that can really belong to each other, because no one else exists as they do.
It’s Cassian setting the bones in Azriel’s hands after he broke them, Azriel using the darkness to steal bandages and to wrap Cassian’s weeping fresh tattoos, even though they’ll heal fine untended. Sleeping in that too small bed, warmer, because now they can touch. 
Gentle because no one in their world is gentle, but they can learn to give that to each other.
It’s standing shoulder to shoulder under hateful eyes, stronger, the strongest, together. Earning the exact same number of siphons, undeniable. 
Cassian telling Azriel the little stories he made for the constellations he found in the summer sky as a child. Azriel reciting, carefully, the fairytales him mother told him in secret before she died, just an hour each week- of honor, of valor, of love, of Illyrians who were more than violent.
They’re family, they’re everything, and that doesn’t change when Azriel turns twenty, and the High Lord of Night calls him into service. 
One last night, the desperate strength of Cassian’s embrace, his hands shaking, always gentle. Cassian telling Az not to trust those fucking high fae, Azriel making Cas promise he’ll be here when he can come back. That he’ll live. That they’ll both live.
A year of madness, a year of learning, a year by side of a High Lord who knew every inch of his territory, feared, respected, loved across of the Court of Night and beyond.
Az takes his vows, becomes something even more fearsome. And then Rhain sends him back to Illyria, to guard the Morrigan, his personal choice for his sons future bride.
(The bidding war for Morrigan’s hand has already commenced. To send her to Autumn is, more than anything, a fuck you from one High House to the highest. Rhain is hoping his terribly romantic, dreaming young son, might just elope. Do something foolhardy and reckless that he can pretend to disapprove of, and still get what he wants.)
The Morrigan thing happens.
Azriel understands- Azriel isn’t mad at Cassian. They’ve made no promises, this cannot even begin to touch what they each other.
Azriel is mad at Morrigan.
Because she used Cassian, because she hurt Cassian, and she doesn’t care. Doesn’t begin to understand. Thinks it’s nothing because of course bright, laughing Cassian would go along, act as though being dismissed is nothing to a bastard born boy.
But it’s still his job to protect her, and he will. Azriel is resolute in his duty, the best, right up until the moment Morrigan’s father takes her home. 
The one relationship in which Azriel has no authority, that Rhain had ordered him specifically not to interfere in. 
Still, Azriel warns the High Lord.
Still, it isn’t enough, and it takes him days to find her.
He has nightmares about it for three hundred years. It changes all of them- Morrigan, a casual rebel, who’d now rather die than not escape. Azriel, from dutiful to duty incarnate, locked in ice. Cassian, to whom the world had proved that in the end, no matter how much better he was, kinder, he was still a weapon.
A few things happen in short, dangerous succession. Alyssar takes Morrigan to Sangravah to heal. Azriel disobeys several direct orders to stop Rhys from killing Cassian. 
The boys reunite, the boys mourn.
Rhys takes formal control of the Steppes.
It’s love, it’s recognition, it’s existing in the understand they will never let something like it happen again: Cassian kills Azriel’s half brothers. Azriel goes with Cassian, shrouds in unescapable and devouring darkness the camp where his Mother died. They rebury her bones.
Cassian and Azriel, shoulder to shoulder against the world. Cassian and Azriel, a promise bound if not spoken: to protect Morrigan, who they’d failed.
Cassian and Azriel, the whole sum of each others family, no matter what shape it took. 
A whole world, together, Illyrian as no one else ever was. 
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ragingbookdragon · 4 years ago
Text
Before You Go, Was I Someone You Loved? PT. 5
A Shay Cormac x Reader Story
Word Count: 1,800 Warnings: Explicit Language
Author’s Note: By God, I am going to conquer the trope of slow burn or else. Enjoy! -Thorne
For the first two weeks he was in port, he found that (Y/N) avoided him like he’d contracted the plague, and when she couldn’t get away from him, if looks could’ve killed, he’d have burst into flames each time she had to be in his presence. Still, he tried his best to get her attention, at least to apologize, but with her short and clipped answers, not that he could blame her, Shay knew he was going to have to try harder.
           He adjusted the hidden blades on his wrists as he entered the living room, glancing up when he saw the hem of a lilac dress in front of him. He smiled at (Y/N), though she wore a sour look.
           “Mornin’, lass.” He greeted. “Sleep well?” (Y/N) simply raised the heavy leather coat and he spun around, letting her help him into it. “I did. Thank you for leaving that extra blanket out last night. It got a bit cold.” When he had the coat on, he faced her once more, pulling lightly at the lapels to situate it fully. With a slightly concerned look, he asked, “I hope you stayed warm last night?” Again, she said nothing, simply turning to begin organizing the desk.
           Shay frowned at her silence, and as he turned to leave, he heard, “The fire you started last night kept my room warm enough.”
           It was short and barely audible, but an answer nonetheless and he felt a smile grow across his face as he walked over to her. “I’m glad it did.” His eyes flickered over the documents she was handling. “Thank you for keeping me organized.”
           “Someone ought to.” She retorted, causing him to snicker.
           “Aye, it’ll be my greatest downfall.” Shay caught sight of a small smile at the corner of her mouth and he lent back against the desk, gazing at her. “After I check on the crew, I have to go into town. Would you like to come with me?”
           For once in the two weeks, she willingly met his gaze, albeit her eyes were narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”
           Shay floundered for an answer, settling on, “I just wished your company for the afternoon.”
           “Don’t you have a mission to complete?”
           She might’ve never been an Assassin, but she’d been around them long enough to know their enemies. They’d yet to bring up the Templars in any of their conversations, and Shay knew it’d be awhile before they did. Hell, he had yet to ask why she wasn’t at the Homestead anymore. Still, he was impressed that she’d already gathered he’d become one of their top agents.
           He shook his head. “Not at the moment. My boss is awaiting more information before assigning me a job.” She grunted in response and he stood from the desk to his full height. “Tell you what, you think about your answer while I’m gone and if you’re not at the gate when I get back, then I’ll go on. Alright?”
           “Mhm.” Shay smiled and made his way to the door. “Be safe.” She called out to him as he exited.
***
           Despite the fact that Gist handled a majority of the Morrigan’s stock, Shay still made it his business to make sure that the basics were purchased. He went over the list in his head, continually repeating, bread, meat, beer, like it would help him remember. He briefly considered not buying alcohol because it turned his crew into drunken louts, especially when it was rum they were drinking. Something about a pirate’s life for them.
           “Finally. I was getting tired of waiting for you.” Shay’s head shot up at the sound of her voice, seeing her with her winter coat on, a basket ready in her hands.
           “You’re here.” He said.
           (Y/N) rolled her eyes. “Excellent observation skills, Shay.” She turned, unlatching the gate. “It’s no wonder you’ve lived this long.”
           He barked a laugh as he followed, closing the gate behind her. “You’re full of barbs today, aren’t you, lass?”
           “Oh, you’ve yet to see barbarous, Shay.” She countered, catching sight of him from the corner of her eye.
           He placed a hand to his chest in mock surprise. “Wait, you’re telling me that every sentence since we reunited hasn’t been a barb? Color me shocked.”
           (Y/N) glared at him. “Alright, the first part was funny, now you’re just being an ass.” Shay let out another chuckle, inconspicuously shifting himself until he was on her opposite side, closer to the road. She heaved a sigh, casting a glance towards the market. “What do you need to get?”
           He shrugged his shoulders, murmuring, “Gist will take care of the supplies. Do you need anything? It’s on me.”
           (Y/N) thought for a moment, then started off towards a stall, leaving him to catch up. They stood side by side, Shay watching her more than he was looking at the items. She’d changed so much in just two years—her attitude, her mannerisms, everything. She seemed more mature, like she’d lived a lifetime in such a short time. Kinder, but angrier and distrustful of unknown. Distrustful of him. Shay recognized the change—it’d been the one he’d made after he met Monro. He couldn’t help but see a part of himself in her, and again, he found himself wondering what had changed after his disappearance that made her leave the Homestead. Maybe she left on her own accord? Maybe they chased her off? Maybe they—
           “Shay.” A firm grip on his forearm snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked over. (Y/N) stood there, a slight look of concern on her face. “Are you alright?”
           He nodded. “Aye. Sorry, I was thinking about something.” He glanced down at the silk scarf in her hands, a rich maroon like the sails of the Morrigan. “Is that the one you want?” She nodded and he allowed himself to briefly believe that she chose it with him in mind. He took it from her and handed it to the merchant. “Wrap up this one and—” Shay glanced at the scarves and reached in, picking up a purple one. He raised it to (Y/N)’s cheek and smiled. “This one goes nice with your skin tone.”
           She swallowed thickly and cleared her throat, evidently embarrassed. “Thank you.”
           Shay grinned and raised it over and behind her head, tying it around her throat, tight enough to stay, but not loose enough to fall. Though he’d finished, he let his hands linger at her neck, bare fingers brushing against the soft skin. “Beautiful,” he murmured and (Y/N) held her breath.
           “Sir, the money…” He withdrew his hands from her and reached into his pocket before handing the man a few pounds.
           “Keep the change.” Shay quipped, gently placing a hand to (Y/N)’s lower back, directing her away from the stand.
           They walked for what seemed like an hour, neither speaking until they came to a park. They took a seat on one of the benches, watching the couples and families walking down the pathways.
           “It’s a beautiful day out.” (Y/N) remarked. “It’s chilly, but not freezing.” Her eyes drifted to the trees. “Not snowing a lot yet. A few flurries here and there.”
           Shay hummed, reclining back against the bench. “It was snowing in Sleepy Hollow the last time I was there.”
           She glanced at him. “Recently?”
           He nodded. “Had some business to take care of.”
           “For the Templars?” This time, her gaze was straight ahead, not anywhere near him.
           Shay took a deep breath and nodded. “Aye, for the Templars.” He watched her.
           Her lips pulled in a satisfied line. “I won’t say I’m not surprised you took this route…but it’s not unexpected.” Sighing, she added, “Besides, you seem a bit more comfortable amongst them then you did the assassins.”
           “And you seem more comfortable at Fort Arsenal than you did at the Homestead.” His words had no bite, nor hidden intentions and she looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he was actually seeing the real (Y/N) again. Not the carefully constructed wall she’d built around herself.
           She reached over and traced the Templar insignia at his chest. “I didn’t want to be around the men and women responsible for driving you to such an extreme.” Her voice lowered and she whispered, “And your ghost was everywhere. At my cottage, at the mansion, at the docks…at that stupid ledge.” (Y/N) met his gaze, tearfully huffing, “I couldn’t take it anymore and I just…left.”
           Shay reached up and held her hand to his chest, feeling her fingers splay beneath his. “How’d you end up at the Finnegan’s?”
           (Y/N) chuckled. “I’m sure because of how close I was with you, the Assassins blacklisted me. I jumped from job to job until I wound up in Cassidy’s front yard.”
           He smiled, thinking of the older couple. “And they took you in?”
           She nodded. “As they did for you.”
           “Aye. They’re good people. Missus Cassidy is a godsend.”
           “Mhm…and Mister Finnegan is someone you call when you need to be knocked down a peg or two.” (Y/N) glanced at him, eyes full of mirth as she quipped, “So I’ve been deigned the fool maid, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m beginning to think that you’re the village idiot.” At that, Shay’s head fell back as unbridled laughter fell from him; she couldn’t help but laugh with him.
           When they calmed, they were both wiping stray tears from their cheeks, and she leaned over, resting her head on his arm. She said nothing, but he didn’t need her to, silently taking one of her hands in his. His thumb brushed over the back of her hand and he murmured, “I’ve missed your company, (Y/N).”
           For a moment, she didn’t offer a response, then she said, “You have?”
           “I have…I’ve thought about it a lot.” He shifted slightly and she raised her head to look at him. “I’ve thought about you, a lot.”
           If those were the golden words she’d been waiting for, she didn’t show it in the way he expected. (Y/N) gently pulled away and rose. “It’s getting rather late, Shay. You really should get back to the fort in case you’re needed.”
           He couldn’t help but feel disappointed, though it wasn’t unexpected. He stood, brushing off his pants. “I’ll walk back with you.”
           “Don’t bother,” she rejected. “I’ve a few more errands to run before I have to return. You should go on ahead without me.”
           “(Y/N)—” he started, but she was already walking off in the opposite direction, and Shay sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Blast.” He muttered, before calling, “Will you be back soon?”
           She didn’t turn around, simply waved a hand in return, offering, “Be safe, Shay.”
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wlovat · 5 years ago
Text
surprising return : chapter 2, part 2
here’s the second part of chapter 2! it may have some small spelling errors.
_____
“What did you say?" he asked and sneered as he sucked the blood on his fingers and walked to the stands, the sacks of flesh moving as far away from him as possible and clearing the way for him to pass. 
He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and tilted his head, waiting for an answer, which to the damn luck of all humans here, Sam gave him "I said you can take him. No one will stop you" she explained and he climbed the steps to the top, taking a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe some of the blood on his mouth and hands while Mona moved to stand protectively in front of Sam. As if that would stop him if he decided to kill her. Humans, he thought and rolled his eyes.
Ignoring everyone around him, he walked over to Josh and crouched beside him, listening to his heartbeat and the roar of his blood rushing through his veins and out the wound behind his head. He would surely be a delicious meal but unfortunately this one he couldn't eat, Eli was coming back.
Feeling like himself again, Eli didn't give a fuck to the fact that he was covered in blood or that he had just eaten human flesh, flexible morals. He just analyzed Josh's bruises and turned his head to check the concussion, being kinder than anyone who became what he was now should be possible when he bended the steel from the restraints and pulled them out of Josh's arms, tearing off the collar too since this was probably one of the things that annoyed him most in his friend's current view. Josh belonged to Eli as well as the mall, no one was allowed to do that to him just as no one could destroy his mall.
Slipping one arm behind his back and the other behind Josh's knees, he easily lifted and settled him in his arms, because of his height, his forehead resting on the back of Eli's neck and his arms stopping on his chest. Rising, Eli turned his back on Sam and was about to start down when he heard her voice "What are you?" she questioned and he didn't even bother to look at her when he answered.
"I'm Eli fucking Cardashyan, Sammy, but better than ever" he walked down the stairs and sincerely loved to see the effect his gaze had on the same idiots who fucked with him and his things before, shitting their pants in sheer terror. How fucking awesome it was to have power.
As he passed the American Ninja Idol stage and distanced himself from the structure, the ghoulies resumed acting as themselves and writhed over the fence desperately to escape and eat the bodies of the two dead jocks as Eli walked toward his motorcycle and their meeting point where his favorite gay samurai and his dog should be waiting for him. But as he walked, Eli noticed Josh struggle to wake up and fidget in his arms, probably thinking that he was a fucking teddy bear because he soon felt long arms wrapping around his neck as his friend settled into his chest, what could have made Eli smile. But when he smelled the effects of the concussion on Josh's body and brain, Eli moved faster in the moment that his friend passed out again.
Approaching the tree on which his motorcycle was leaning, he saw Wesley and Turbo step out of the shadows and run toward him, Wes immediately hovering over Josh as soon as he stopped. "Why are you soaked with fucking blood, man?" he looked a little scared but certainly more concerned about Josh. 
"It's not mine, loser" that was the only thing he could say, after all, he didn't want Wesley to freak out and it wasn't as if he could just say something like this to him, Hey, I just devoured a few pieces of two people and drank their blood, what was one of the best experiences of my fucking life. Please don't lose your shit and try to kill me.
When he looked at him, he could see that these words wasn't enough for him and Wes wanted to ask more questions, but he seemed too worried to give a fuck about it so he got close to Eli to take his friend "Okay, whatever, we have to go. Let me carry him" but the moment he tried to touch Josh, Eli pulled away and soon saw Wesley's confused and angry look as he did so.
"So besides being an idiot, are you stupid too? He has a concussion, asshole, which means he has to get to the mall as soon as possible before the ghoulies come to devour his pretty little head and the only person who has a fucking motorcycle here is me. And I'm not lending it to you so I'm your best option to take Josh safely" he explained and tightened his arms around Josh, feeling Wesley's anger and how Turbo reacted to it starting to be nervous too but the smarter of the duo knew he was right. And he couldn't do shit about it.
"Fuck! Okay, Eli, but I think it's good for you that he's fucking the same as when he left here in the moment we get there to see him or I swear that I'll…" he threatened and pointed a finger at Eli, who interrupted him before he had to hear the same shit twice. "I know I know. You will finish me, completely. Now can I get on my bike and get your dear friend out of here or not?" he asked sarcastically and passed them without waiting for an answer. 
Sitting on his baby's rump, he manipulated Josh's limbs and sat him in front of him with his back against his chest, while his head hung back on his shoulder. Which could have been a mistake since the scent of blood was stronger but Eli knew he could control himself even being so tempted. 
Unfair. He looks delicious.
Well, we don't always get everything we want. I've eaten two people to you so stop being greedy.
Turning on his motorcycle, Eli drove quickly to the mall, taking some minutes to get there and parking in front of one of the few entrances only he knew, but if Wesley and Turbo came running and managed to avoid the ghoulies, he wouldn't have too much time to realize his plan.
But now it was the time.
Eli walked through the mall's main revolving door and soon saw Angelica and Mr Crumble waiting for him, the dwarf having a murderer look on her face as she approached him already screaming "Where's Josh? Where's Wesley and Turbo and why is there blood on your clothes? This is their blood, right?! You betrayed them, asshole. I knew we couldn't trust you. I knew, you son of a bitch" she tried to hit him and then pick up her flamethrower but Eli grabbed her arm at the same time as Mr Crumble growled.
"Hey, calm down, dwarf. This blood is not theirs and as for Wesley and Turbo, they are coming with Josh and" he stopped and looked at his Patek wristwatch "will probably be here in ten minutes. So, relax girl!" he grinned and patted her head before releasing her arm and backing a little as Mr Crumble put her hands on her shoulder. 
"Do you really think I'm gonna believe in any fucking word you said? I'm not stupid, prick, so I think you better start telling the truth or I'll fucking fry you" she accused and threatened before shooting Eli with her murderous look again, and honestly it wasn't good that he was getting used to it. 
"Well, I'm sorry if you don't believe me but it's the truth! Josh has a concussion and to distract the ghoulies, I came first and diverted them from the path here. And why would I be a fucking bait? Because Wesley doesn't trust me with Josh and Turbo is a supportive boyfriend but not a patient one, so I came here risking my beautiful little neck to tell you to arrange the things to receive your idiot friend, so he won't get worse and you losers will accomplish your part of the deal" the lie came out of his mouth easily, and Eli certainly deserved a fucking Oscar for being able to keep his serious face while Angelica analyzed him with those judgmental eyes.
"You are a megalomaniacal liar, narcissistic and selfish dick that only cares about yourself! So, yes! It's hard to believe in anything that you just said" she cursed him and he rolled his eyes at that, of course he didn't expect her to trust him. 
"I can be everything you said and I'm proud of it, shorty, but if you don't believe my words, then let's wait for them" he shrugged and grinned, walking over to what was once a coffee shop chair and sitting on it before patting the seat next to him. 
"I have all the time in the world since this area is part of my section and to prove to you the shit of being a bait just to help your stupid friends, we'll wait for them here. Or are you afraid of being wrong?" he challenged as he leaned back in his chair, his lips curving upward as he caught a glimpse of Angelica sitting along with Mr Crumble in two seats a few feet away from him. "Okay, you degenerate motherfucker, but if this is a lie I'll turn you to ashes" she threatened one last time before turning to the witch and starting talking to her.
Crossing his arms, now all Eli had to do was wait and expect that the suckers for once would act like fucking normal people act. Soon, he would have Josh only for him and they wouldn't be able to stop him.
They spent a few minutes sitting and waiting, meanwhile the blood on Eli's clothes was becoming sticky and fucking gross. He had realized that the blood of the assholes he ate had a horrible smell, like rotten food, and all he wanted now was to take a shower and get it off his beautiful body. But why was it that when two of the best jocks in school had to run fast, they decided to act like fucking slugs?
Finally, he heard the mall alarm and smiled with it, watching Angelica and the witch run toward their section of the mall, where the alarm sound came from. He put his hands in his pocket, and began whistling as he walked and followed the losers, leaning back against the pillar of a store right on the boundary between his section and theirs, he waited to see what would happen the moment Angelica let Mr Crumble behind and standed in front of the store where they had installed Josh's room a few feet away from him, soon seeing Wesley and Turbo that he could smell besides the corner. 
They approached and Eli could hear everything from where he was, as if he were sitting in the front row of the theater watching the final stretch of a good movie "Where's Josh? Weren't you guys with him?" Angelica screamed more than asked, concerning clear in her voice as her words caused his favorite gay to frown.
"What the hell are you talking about, Angelica? No, Eli brought him here on his motorcycle. Is he not already with you?" he questioned as it was obvious he was trying to stay calm, running his hand over his hair in momentaneous confusion.
And it was at that moment when they looked at each other and turned to face Eli with anger shining in their eyes, that he saw that they had finally realized the trap they had fallen into. But it was too late because all he had to do as they ran toward him, was take the control of his pocket and push the button to finally divide his sections from theirs, waving and smiling as they slammed their bodies against the metal gate already closed.
"Eli! You liar son of a bitch, bastard motherfucker! I knew you were lying. We shouldn't have gave you a chance…"
"Eli! I warned you what would happen if you fooled us. I trusted you…"
They both cursed and banged their fists on the gate at the same time, causing his eyes to roll as he said. "Hey, hey, hey! One at a time, suckers, I can't hear your crying and appreciate it if you whine together" he mocked.
"Ahhh!! I will kill you! I'll toast you, Eli, and no one will miss your asshole face!" Angelica clung to the metal gate grate and Eli moved closer to her, keeping a little distance. 
"Would you risk it now that I have Josh, dwarf?!" he asked sarcastically and watched the effect it had on them. Their expressions became immediately scared and worried as he had fun with it. The good old bluff would always be useful, but today he wasn't in the mood for that.
"Where is he, Eli?" Wesley asked in his quiet voice, obviously calmer but not so much as Eli could see a drop of sweat running down his face.
"Josh is alive" he said with a shrug and turned to face him "Don't worry about him" he winked at him before he started backing away.
"No, c'mon man, you already got what you wanted, okay? You don't need Josh. If you want we'll even leave the malls as long as you give him back to us" Wesley tried to negotiate, his tone almost begging and Eli knew how humiliating it must be for him but there was no shit as going back now.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said and shook his head, Eli looked into Wesley's eyes as he continued "Now, and only now not when you gave me back part of my own mall, I got what I fucking wanted since the beginning" 
Smiling satisfactorily and walking away, Eli turned his back on them, ignoring the curses and calls to his name before saying goodbye "Bye, bye, suckers. I have something to take care of" he waved at them and went his way.
Eli calmly crossed his sections until he reached the safest spot in that mall, where by his abilities to perform, Hollywood lost him if it was still there, all his and Josh's things were there as well as everything he would probably need. He stepped into what should have been a major security office company before, the idiots who worked here would lose their shit if they were still alive and saw that someone like him would have the whole place to himself as well as the mall, he thought as he passed the chairs and tables around him to reach the elevator.
Climbing to the second floor, Eli stepped out of the elevator and passed through the smaller offices until he reached the largest one, which had the size of a store in his mall. The boss of this place should be one of those white, slack, capitalist whores who did what they wanted before, summing it up, like a certain president. Eli opened the large door and passed it, closing it as he walked into his office and watched his surroundings. The windows were open but the curtains prevented the view from outside, on either side of the door had sofas while in front of them were small tables, one with food, blankets, pillows and clothes on top and the other with medical supplies and medicines that didn't need temperature control.
Where once there was a table, now had a large bed in the middle of the room with a massage chair on either side and two mini-fridges in the opposite corners. Inside the left one were some drinks and water bottles while on the right one were needles, medicines that needed refrigeration and blood bags that had no effect on Eli. 
Taking off his clothes, Eli put them near the door and planned to burn them afterwards since the smell of rotten blood had already permeated. He put on a dark green shirt and black jeans, his attention quickly shifting to the person lying in bed when he heard a voice from there. "Eli? Is that you?" Josh had a medical bandage around his head since Eli had already cleaned his wound, his head was propped against two pillows as his clothes were changed to a sweatshirt and sweatpants with a blanket covering his body until above his waist. 
"Hey, sleeping beauty" he said without malice as he approached the right side of the bed, sitting in the massage chair.
"I don't get it. I don't get it, Eli"  he said in a heavy, sleepy voice as he moved his arms wildly and tried to get up, the concussion clearly leaving him unable to do so. 
"Shhh! It's alright, Josh. I'm here, you can sleep" he grinned and put his hand on his friend's chest to keep him from moving and to calm him down. Which seemed to have an effect as he leaned back against the pillows again.
"No, I can't. You won't be here" he said even more tired, trying to keep his eyes open. "I said I was going back. I'm not going away again" he stated and saw that Josh wanted to say something else but his eyes were already closing. The only thing he could do before his breath slowed was to hold Eli's hand as Eli whispered next to his ear, his mind too far away to understand what he said.
"I will always be here, Josh, and you will always be mine"
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worryinglyinnocent · 5 years ago
Text
Fic: Devil’s Due
Summary: Years ago, Lacey made a deal. Now, at the height of her fame, he comes to collect. Lacey, though, is canny, and she’s ready for whatever he might ask of her in return for his magic.
Written for the @a-monthly-rumbelling moodboard prompt, available here.
Rated: T
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Devil’s Due
Lacey’s expecting him when he arrives at the same time as her breakfast. She’s been counting the days, because it would never do to be caught unawares when dealing with the likes of him. Despite everything that’s happened in her favour over the last five years, Lacey is genre-savvy enough not to be complacent.
So, he doesn’t catch her unawares when he slips into her bedroom behind the maid bringing coffee and croissants. She gives him a nod of acknowledgement. Calm and collected; although there’s that same frisson of fear that she felt the first time they met, it’s more a knee-jerk reaction to what he is than to what he may ask of her.
The maid leaves, not registering the appearance of another person in the room. She wouldn’t, of course. He made it clear last time that only Lacey would be able to see him.
“You’re not surprised.” He sounds surprised himself. Surprised, and something else. Lacey would say something along the lines of elation. He’s actually happy that she’s not surprised.
“Naturally. It’s five years to the day. I knew that you’d come to collect.”
He smiles, and it’s such a dangerous smile, but such a thrilling one too. He looks different to the first time they met. He’s wearing a sharp suit, exquisitely fitted around his slim frame. The crutch from last time has been replaced by an elegant cane, and the missing tooth now glitters gold. As her fortunes have increased, so have his, it seems. Or maybe this is just his way, altering his appearance to suit the circumstances. Back when she’d been undiscovered, singing in clubs for a pittance and sleeping in a different bed every night, no fixed abode, he had mirrored her hunger. Now she is sated and successful and he mirrors her comfort.
Lacey remembers their first meeting, in the alley outside the club. It is three o’clock in the morning, and Lacey is lighting her first cigarette of the night. The tips have been poor lately and she’ll have to make this pack last. He comes out of nowhere, offering her a match when her lighter doesn’t work. She’s certain she checked the alley for lurkers when she first came out. It’s as if he’s stepped out of the darkness itself. She just stares at him, both of them watching the match flame burn down to his fingers. He doesn’t throw it down until it goes out completely, and when he lights the next, his skin, although grubby, is unburned. That’s when Lacey knows what he is.
“I can make you famous,”, he whispers, breath smelling faintly of sulphur, or does she imagine that? From any other hobo on the streets it would be a pathetic line, but when the third match has burned down and Lacey has finally lit her cigarette and taken a long, calming drag, she knows that he could and would make good on his words.
“Can you, now?” She tries to play it cool and uninterested, but that hunger for success has already burst into life again and is champing at the bit to be let out to play and to devour whatever he might offer. “And what would be the price?”
She knows the story. A classic tale reworked so many times over that it’s become part of the collective psyche. At the end of your rope, someone offers your hopes and dreams on a plate. But no-one gets something for nothing; soon you’ll get your backside bitten if you don’t follow the rules.
“Just say the word, dearie, and fame and fortune could be yours.”
“And what would be the price?” Lacey repeats. “My soul?”
He laughs, a high-pitched, twittering giggle. “Oh no. That’s just crass. Souls fell out of fashion years ago. We live in a materialistic world, after all. Everyone needs things.”
“In that case, first-born child is traditional, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head. “Far too risky an investment. What if you never reproduce? Immaculate conception is the other side’s domain.”
“So, what then? There’s no such thing as a free lunch, or a free foot in the door. Especially not in Hollywood.”
“Let’s just say that you’ll owe me a favour.”
Lacey’s savvy. She knows that she’s better off walking away. But savvy won’t keep her alive if she can’t buy bread and the hunger for food, fame and fortune is gnawing at her insides.
“Then let’s make a deal.”
The terms are agreed, and he says he’ll return in five years. Lacey begins her countdown. She may have given in to temptation, but she can still be sharp.
And here he is, five years later, calmly standing in her bedroom doorway. She beckons him closer and offers a croissant, as if she has any power in this exchange. Still, he accepts, perching on the edge of her bed and taking a bite of flaky pastry.
“Time’s been kind to you,” she says.
“Even kinder to you. Breakfast in bed. It’s a far cry from singing for your supper, isn’t it?”
“I can’t complain. So, your favour.”
He tuts. “All business and no small talk. Such a shame. I wanted to hear all about your next role. And all the gossip from the Oscars, of course. You looked truly ravishing, my dear.”
“Thank you.” She’s determined not to be lulled into a false sense of security. He would not be here unless he wanted something. She must keep that in the forefront of her mind. She’s known it for five years, so she can’t afford to let her guard down now at this final moment.
“You’re right though.” He’s changed tack again, making Lacey’s head spin with all his different directions, determined to follow him to the bitter end and never lose her way. “You’ve never once complained about the pressures of fame, about its burdens. That’s what I like about you, Lacey. You’ve never taken my gifts for granted.”
“God giveth, and God taketh away.” She smirks at his raised eyebrow. “Or the other side, of course.”
“That’s more like it, dearie.” He leans in a little closer now that he’s finished eating. “There’s something else I’ve noticed.”
“Oh yes? And what might that be?” Although Lacey is enjoying their banter, a small part of her wants to cut to the chase. She’s been anticipating this day for the last five years and the suspense is killing her.
“You’ve never been linked with another name. A beautiful young talent like you, I would have thought that every red top journalist under the sun would have given their right arm for the hot gossip on Lacey French’s latest beau. Or belle, if you’re that way inclined.”
It’s true. She hasn’t been in any kind of relationship since the day she made the deal, not that the ones she’d been in before had anything close to meaning in them. She tells herself again that this is the result of being prepared. The fewer people she has attached to her, the less chance there is of someone she loves being caught in the crossfire when he comes to collect.
Deep down, though, she knows that the real reason is far darker, far less noble than the one she would choose to give him. She knows that he knows it too, and that there would be little point to her sanctimonious lie.
For all that he has changed in appearance since the last time they met, one thing remains the same. His eyes are unchanged. They’re still the dark and deceptively dangerous eyes he had before. One might call them soulless in their depths: indeed, Lacey wrote him off as soulless five years ago.
Today though, the light is better, mid-morning compared to the small hours of the night. Lacey can see that those dark, dark eyes are far from soulless. They’re so deep that they’re eternal, full of secrets as old as time itself, and older than that again. There’s history in his eyes, the full spectrum of human emotion on a worldwide scale that Lacey could never hope to emulate. He’s not unfeeling. He is feeling, in the most literal sense of the word, all those base, animalistic feelings deemed sinful brought into one embodiment. As that realisation sinks in, Lacey knows and fully accepts the reason for her five years’ detachment from others of her human race. The only man, if he can be called such, who has ever sparked her interest, is sitting in front of her now.
“My price,” he says presently, bringing her back to reality.
“Of course.”
“A kiss.”
“What?” At first she thinks she hasn’t heard him correctly. After all, he was the one who stressed the importance of things at their last meeting.
“Do you disagree to my terms?” There’s ice in his smooth voice. Just a little, but it still chills her through, nonetheless.
“Not at all.” She hastens to correct the misunderstanding. “It just seems something so small and insignificant in comparison to the gift given.”
“Ah, dearie, it’s for me to decide what is and isn’t worth the price. A kiss from you would be very precious indeed.”
Lacey wonders, because there’s got to be more to it than that. If that was his price, why not take it there and then in the alley? She’s certainly done worse in alleys in her time. Just what will she be giving away if she gives him this simple thing? A kiss in exchange for all that he has given her – fame, fortune, wealth, comfort, security…
Lacey brings her hand to his face, her fingers cupping his cheek gently. He’s warm to the touch, unnaturally so. If he were a normal man, she’d say he had a fever, but she knows better. His eyes never falter from her face, but he remains silent and his hands stay clasped in his lap, neither encouraging nor dissuading, leaving her to settle the score on her own terms.
His lips are scalding as Lacey presses her mouth against his. It’s not a chaste, Hollywood kiss. If Lacey’s going for this, then she’s going for it wholeheartedly. She won’t be accused of not making an effort.
He’s surprisingly soft and pliant and his lips part eagerly under the pressure from her tongue. His hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, but his touch is light; she feels no urge to fight it.
She expected him to taste sulphurous, like the vague scent that she can sometimes pick up in his vicinity, or maybe it’s just her imagination. He doesn’t. He tastes of apples, pomegranates, the forbidden fruits that lead to darker depths.
Lacey knows then, as she closes her eyes and sinks down into his embrace. Oh, he was clever when he said that he did not want her soul. Even if it was not his prize, he has ensnared her, nonetheless. She thinks of her next project, Pride and Prejudice, filming to start in two weeks.
You have bewitched me; body and soul.
Her soul is his now, whether he wants it or not. With this single kiss, the culmination of five years of intrigue and wondering, he’s ruined her for any other man who might cross her path. He was the only one she wanted before, and now she knows that she will never want another.
There’s lust and passion and excitement and desire in his eyes when they break away, a perfect mirror for her own thoughts and emotions. He smiles his dangerous smile, sated, his price collected, and he gets up to leave. Lacey knows that he would always leave her wanting more, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know it. He already knows it. He already knows everything.
“Will I be seeing you again?” she asks, affecting an unconcerned tone.
His grin is wicked as he pauses by the door.
“As you wish, Miss French.”
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eternityunicorn · 5 years ago
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At My Mercy: Part One
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Author: eternityunicorn 
Genre: Romance/Drama/AU
Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x OC, Klaus Mikaelson x OC
Warnings: Violence, Smut (*Smut chapters marked +18)
Summary: Elijah and Klaus Mikaelson are joint business partners of the seedy variety. They run an organization that indulges in slavery, particularly enslaving and selling their captured enemies to the highest bidder at special monthly auction. However, when the ethereal beauty, Eternity, ends up in their possession, the Original brothers decide she’s too rare a creature to hand over to anyone else. Therefore, they keep her for themselves, subjecting her to all kinds of indulgences. With time, one brother makes the mistake of falling in love with the rare beauty. But what happens when new slaves to be auctioned go missing? Is Eternity involved?
NOTE: OC and original elements are from my up and coming novel series!
AUTHOR’S COMMENTARY: This fic a replacement of sorts for my previous fic ‘Brothers’. Therefore, I  hope that anyone who was reading that fic will like this incarnation just as much! 
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There were no two brothers whom were closer than Elijah Mikaelson and his young brother Niklaus Mikaelson. They had the strongest sibling bond out of all the Mikaelson children. 
Together, they took command of the supernatural community, ruling it with an iron fist from their chosen headquarters of Mystic Falls. To those loyal, they received much benevolence and privilege. However, to those who dared to oppose them, if they were captured - and they always were by the bounty hunters they employed - they were subjected to a life of servitude, as part of the two brothers’ business venture. 
They ran an organization called Slave Row. Here, they auctioned off their captives to the highest bidder to live as their new master’s slave, forcing their captives to submit to the wills of their owners. To say that business was booming was an understatement. People came from all over to bid on the newest captives, making Elijah and his little brother very rich men, on top of being powerful ones.
Once a month, there was an auction, where their captives were paraded around naked and in chains to further humiliate them, before they were sold off to their new masters. Niklaus typically ran the show, while the older Original watched from the shadows. He didn’t take the level of enjoyment from selling their enemies into slavery as his little brother seemed to. No, he simply stood on the sidelines to ensure everything went smoothly, while his brother took on hosting duties.
Yes, everything was perfect, or at least, that was what Niklaus would say. 
Truth be told, Elijah was only involved in this cruel and tyrannical business, because he wanted to protect his family from their enemies and in his opinion, subjecting their captured foes to slavery was still kinder than simply killing them. Though personally, the older Original hadn’t the taste for either. However, he tolerated it so long as it sent the correct message to others who dared to oppose them as the ruling family.
Then one day, there came a most usual request for a private audience with the Kings of the Supernaturals. Elijah and Niklaus permitted it, meeting in dinning hall of their family manor with a mysterious, hooded stranger, who came with a rare treasure indeed. They didn’t ask for the name of the hidden bounty hunter, as it didn’t matter to them, despite the fact that neither of them having employed the man. Instead, they focused on the deal the shadowy figure was wanting to make with them.
While Niklaus talked price with the mystery hunter, the older Original was transfixed by the beautiful creature he had bound and chained beside him. 
Sitting on the floor at the hunter’s feet was a pale woman with obscenely long white hair and large, almond shaped sapphire eyes. She sat there tensely, looking around at each of the men without an ounce of submission, only a great and fiery defiance, despite being completely naked. She did not fear.
Elijah had heard of this rare creature from rumors that had spread far and wide across the supernatural community. She was a fierce warrior, if he recalled correctly, taking on those who dared to harm the innocent, particularly the unaware human race. She had left quite the trail of bodies and a great sense of fear in the supernaturals, specifically the vampires, who needed to drink human blood to survive. At first, he had thought she was only a myth, a story to protect humanity, but it seemed she was, in fact, quite real.
When their eyes met, the older Mikaelson felt as though his breath had been stolen away. The connection was immediate and profound. At least, it was for him...and there was a hint of familiarity in it too. A curious thing, as he was certain he had never met this woman before. How strange.
“My brother and I are very interested in the ‘White Goddess’, who has been terrorizing the supernatural community for quite some time,” Niklaus was saying to the bounty hunter. “We shall reward you handsomely for bringing her to us, good sir, and with our deep gratitude.”
“Thank you, my lord,” the bounty hunter replied. “I do hope you enjoy her well.”
The younger Mikaelson grinned widely, while gazing at the ethereal beauty, “Oh, we shall enjoy her greatly. Won’t we, Brother?”
Elijah turned his attention to the two other men, pretending that he hadn’t been completely captivated flawlessly. He smirked, “Yes, I do believe we shall.”
“Excellent,” the hunter replied. “A word of warning, before I go: do not remove the gold bracelets upon your newest acquisition’s wrists, as they are the only things that will keep her from tearing you both apart.” 
“Duly noted, my good man,” Niklaus said. “We will be sure to heed your warning. Here is your payment.”
The hybrid snapped his fingers and a servant approached with a chest of money to give to the bounty hunter, which the mystery man took without hesitation. The hunter rose from his seat with his payment. With a final nod, he made his exit, leaving behind the exquisite beauty for the Original brothers to do with as they pleased.
“So, Elijah, what do you think we should do with her?” Niklaus asked, gazing hotly at the pale woman. “Do you think we should sell her as we have most of our other captives? Or do you think we should keep her for ourselves? It has been a while since we have had slave of our own, and never have we had one so rare as this exotic creature. What say you, Brother?”
The older Original thought about it, but he didn’t have to think on it long. There wasn’t any way in hell he was going to give this strange and fierce woman away. He was already possessive of her, to a frightening degree. No, she belonged to them - to him, he decided.
“I say we keep her as our own,” answered Elijah with a devious smile. “It has been a while since we have kept a slave for our own amusement and as you’ve said, she is too rare to simply give away. Yes, she should be ours and ours alone.”
Niklaus grinned pleasantly, getting up from the table and going over to where their new plaything sat. He quickly fisted her hair and yanked the woman’s head back sharply. “Do you hear that, pet? You belong to the Mikaelson brothers now,” he chuckles down at her. “We shall enjoy all your splendors immensely, I’m sure.”
“Yes, and why not begin right away, Brother?” Elijah stood gracefully, buttoning his suit jacket deftly as he did. “I don’t know about you, Niklaus, but I should like to sample her wonders immediately.”
His little brother agreed, “I had the very same thought. On your feet, love.”
The ethereal beauty allowed the hybrid to help her rise to her feet, but neither Original was prepared for what came next. The second she was at her full height, the feisty little woman attacked. First, by grabbing hold and twisting Niklaus’s hand that held her until he was forced to let go and then gave him a strong kick to the stomach, sending him sailing across the room. Then she went at Elijah himself, throwing a series of punches and kicks at him, all of which he barely was able to maneuver away from or block. However, he did manage to evade her. 
They were equally matched, something that the older Original knew wouldn’t be so, if those golden trinkets weren’t holding her back. She was fierce indeed, even with them keeping her subdued, and it was that fire in her, that defiance that made him hard. It called to his baser self that demanded he make her submit, giving him a burst of strength to eventually overtake her. 
With one swift move, Elijah had the fighting woman pinned to the table with her throat in one hand and with her wrists in the other, as he pulled her arms over her head, subduing her. He stared down at her with a look of dark desire. “Oh, I am going to enjoy breaking you, Sweetheart,” he told her, his face close to hers. 
“We will see about that,” she spat in return, defiant to the end.
“You will be made to submit, by my hand, one way or another,” he murmured. “There isn’t another out there that I haven’t been able to break. You will be no different.”
Then Elijah acted on impulse and kissed the rare woman passionately, prying her mouth open with his tongue and diving inside to taste her throughly. She tasted sweet and he could see himself becoming addicted to her very quickly.
“Easy, Brother,” chuckled Niklaus as he rejoined him.
Immediately, the older Original pulled his mouth away from the ethereal beauty’s, collecting himself swiftly before his baby brother could notice the effect she was having on him - and he didn’t just mean that in a sexual way either. If he were perfectly honest with himself, he was intrigued by this rare jewel in every way.
“Forgive me, I might have gotten a little carried away,” Elijah replied with a small smirk, while he still held the woman in subjugation. “Shall we get started?”
The hybrid nodded eagerly, “Yes, but I believe a change of plans in in order. I want the first crack at her. I owe her for sending me flying across the room.”
The older Mikaelson laughed lightly, agreeing to his brother’s terms, before shouting a request to one of the servants to bring him a collar and leash, along with a pair of shackles. Once he had the items in hand, he asked Niklaus to do the honors, while he continued to hold their new acquisition down. She struggled a bit, but it wasn’t as heartfelt as before, leaving Elijah to wonder why that was.
Once the shackles were in place and the collar was secured around her neck, the older Original released his hold on her. He stepped away while grabbing onto the leash that had been attached to the collar and tugging her up off the table. 
“I’m going to enjoy tearing you both apart,” the resilient and bold woman grinned wolfishly, as she stood upright. 
Elijah looked at her, then his brother, whom had done the same at her audacity. They both smiled at each other, liking her boldness. The bolder the captive, the more fun it was to break the captive. Yes, she was going to be quite the treat, especially with how she started at them directly in the eye without any sense of fear or submission. 
“I wouldn’t threaten those who hold you at their mercy, love,” Niklaus replied. “That isn’t a very wise thing to do.”
“No, it is not...Miss?” Agreed Elijah. “What is your name, Sweetheart?”
The ethereal beauty looked at him and replied readily, “Eternity.”
Niklaus reached over then and grabbed hold of her chin, pulling her face to look at him instead. “A lovely name, for a lovely woman,” he complimented her, before he kissed her with the same forceful passion Elijah had shown her. 
Eternity was more tense with the hybrid, but she didn’t put up much of a fight. The older Original looked on, feeling his blood heat at the sight, from both lust and an intense jealousy. The latter he knew he had no business to feel, but couldn’t help it. Yet, he kept it hidden away masterfully, as to not let his brother know just how under his skin this rare creature was. 
When Niklaus pulled away, he licked his lips and looked at his brother. “I can definitely see why you couldn’t wait to have a taste,” he said to him with a chuckle. “Come. Let us begin.”
To Be Continued....
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Tag List: @elejah-wonderland @dendrite-lover @xanderling @inmylifeilovedthemall @x-memi12 @lalabluues @missnmikealson @esclisa @elizamonet @hawaiianohana31 @freshsuitcasewinnereagle @lolelijahishot @loulouisa @teekillerin @elejahforever
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mageofpuns · 6 years ago
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The first sermon?
Signless, restless and disturbed, tossed and turned in his small and empty recuperacoon, something not unusual for the preacher. Sadly, he was known to have many sleepless nights leading up to a sermon or while traveling to different areas, but this was not the case tonight. He had been out all day for a sermon, a large one at that. More trolls showed up than ever before, leading him to gain passion and determination the more faces he saw. He saw new faces, old faces, and trolls of all ages, the youngest seeming to be a four sweep old child and the oldest was nearly 11 sweeps. He was energetic the entire time this sermon went by, answering questions and promising things achievable if the rebellion won peacefully. Nights so grand as this would typically help the male sleep peacefully, without a second thought or a hint of a nightmare. However, not this time. No, something filled his thinkpan as he laid in the soft material, something he would rather forget. His first sermon, if you could have called it that at all. But, if the mutant hated that day so, why was he stuck on it so many sweeps later? Why even bring it up? Why not leave it in the dark memories he would often push back to keep his strong and confident composure? Simple: he was asked about it.
Signless often made a point to stay after sermons to try and speak with as many trolls as he could, of any age, blood, or state of mind. A troll could request to speak just to spurt hatred and poorly composed insults at him, and the male would still hold strong and say he cared for them and wished them well. In those cases, his sarcastic tone isn’t the most appropriate, however, that was when it was most evident. Many knew the candy red troll could be quite the sassy fella when need be, but tame otherwise beyond a few jokes here and there. From what a select few followers had told him, that was a charming quality about him. That he never truly fought back, but killed with kindness and sarcasm. This time, however, he did not have to face negativity from another troll. Rather, the last one to come to him was a small rust blood, no older than 3 sweeps old surely, with her small mouse-like lusus on her shoulder. She was scared of him, yet sure that she would not be harmed as she asked if even she could be loved like he speaks. He remembers that question lead the male to kneel down and comfort her, but her next question was what brought the preacher to now be restless. “What was your first sermon like?” If it hadn’t been for the sun threatening them all, he would have answered there. However, it was beginning to rise and lead the mutant blood to promise to visit her the next day to tell the story. Who was he to deny his past?
Sadly, sarcasm didn’t always get the man out of trouble. Far from it honestly. The thought of his first sermon brought light to that all too well. As did many others, however the first was the one that scared him the most. The day he was carried home by a stranger because he was barely conscious and bloodied beyond what a four sweep old should ever know. It was enough for his dear mother to become murderous and prepared to hunt down who hurt her young boy, while disappointed as he didn’t obey her. The memories burned into his thinkpan were enough of a punishment in her mind, of course, as she couldn’t yell at her boy in this state. With that in his mind, Signless began to think of the best way to explain it to the young gal that had asked about it just a little while earlier. Quickly grabbing some paper and a nearly empty pen, he was quick to write down this story;
“It was a beautiful day, I had spent it with my two closest friends and my mother in the wooded area behind our cave, practicing a sermon with dummies my mother had made out of rocks and hay once the dreams began. By now, I had been begging her to go out and get the chance to begin sharing with strangers in the small village, but to my constant confidence, she repeatedly told me no. It was ‘far too dangerous for a 4 sweep old that barely stood hip high’ according to my dear mother. She warned me that the world was cruel to those as low as I am considered, but I didn’t want to believe her. Sure, I had been threatened before, had rocks thrown at me, and shoved down so hard my lip busted open, but I wanted to trust that what I had to say was important enough that someone would listen and keep me safe. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Disciple agreed to keep my mother distracted as Psiioniic and I snuck away, helping her reorganize her fabrics and other supplies, as well as clean up after the storm had blown quite the large amount of leaves and twigs into the opening of our cave. I knew I could trust her to cover for us as it wasn’t uncommon for Psii and I to go wandering off to the nearby beach on the other side of the woods. As long as we were together, she wouldn’t even go searching for us out there. That being said, we took the first chance we could to slip away towards the village only two miles from our home, the one we saw Psiioniic in the first time. Once there, we realized just how busy it was. Grown trolls all walking with their heads high, anywhere from rust blood to teal, it was to be expected as the village’s market was known to be busy by noon. It was when all were awake or had a decent break from their designated jobs, long enough to get some shopping done for the next few days. It frightened my friend more than it did me, as he was sure to stay very close and watch every grown man and woman to pass us until we found an area with a fountain and a few benches that I could stand on. I picked a more central bench and stood on the very top with my head held high. It still barely made me the height of many adults around me. None looked over until I began to speak.
The moment I started to mention high-bloods taking care of those viewed as lower, and that word I called love, many stopped in their tracks. Only one stayed at first, listening to me. An older mustard-blood man, who when I would speak, would clearly focus on my words. He even offered me the kindest smile. It didn’t take long for me to gain the attention of someone else however. Someone much angrier and much colder than the kind old troll. This was an olive-blood woman. She shot such horrid gazes at me as I tried so hard to keep calm, but my voice gradually began to shake. I knew the look in her eyes. I knew that I would be in trouble if I continued, but the kinder troll moved to distract me from her, encouraging me to continue with what I was trying to share. He even yelled over the woman, screaming profanities and horrid things about my blood, keeping it so I couldn’t understand it all. But, this brought more attention to me, not in a good way. More trolls joined in to scream about how they wanted to see my mutant blood spread among the rock and coloring the water within the fountain. One even saying they wanted to see my face change color as I drowned under their force. That made Psiioniic stand with me, threatening to hurt them with his powers if they weren’t careful..
That’s when the first attack happened, that’s when the first woman went up and shoved him off of the bench. I heard my friend cry out, and my entire body froze and everything went numb. Before I knew it, I was standing in front of him to shield him from the next smack, landing right on my left cheek with a painful sound that echoed. I wanted to cry, but I had to stay strong. Instead, I told her how she clearly never knew love, that someone so unkind as her was that way because she was alone. It didn’t go over well. That’s when another troll punched me in the gut, leading me to hunch over, and before I knew what happened, the olive-blood kicked me in the nose and knocked me back on top of Psiioniic. I just kept trying to preach, but by then I was crying so hard. My mother was right, and there I was, so young and so sure that was the day I would die. The sight of gushing blood from my nose seemed to flip something in the two attackers minds as they pulled hair out of my head, scratched my limbs and tore my clothes by any mean, saying a mutant didn’t deserve such luxuries. That I didn’t deserve life. By the time they were done with me, my dear friend that never moved far looked as though he rolled in mutant blood mixed with some of his own. I couldn’t stand, speak, not even see from my left eye as the sky above me swirled like a hypnosyst’s tool to take over my thinkpan. On my mind wasn’t Psii, wasn’t if my words reached anyone. Every thought was about my mother, will I see again or will she find me dead?
In a painful squeak, I called for help. Psiioniic yelled for it, but everyone ignored us. The kind mustard-blood from before had been beaten as well. Not near as bad, but his nose was quite clearly broken now and his lip busted. I passed out after seeing Psii run off to speak with him, and the next thing I knew, I was home in my hallowed out recuperacoon. My mother above me, tears streaming down her cheeks as she was clearly bandaging my legs and looking over every bruise, mark, and cut. I could hear Disciple crying as Psii told her what happened, the last including that the kind old mustard-blood died from blood loss, being attacked again once he picked me up. He used his last bit of life to bring me home. His last words were to my mother that he believed that I could change the world, and that for him I did in his last hours. That saving me was the best thing he did, and after death he would continue to serve my cause.”
That was where Signless had to end his writing, the ink had run out and his eyes were too clouded with tears as he thought of the kindness shown to him by one man. If it weren’t for that act, he’d be dead. It didn’t take long for Psiioniic to come in, as Signless wasn’t the quietest crier, hugging him and reminding him that it was necessary. That it was why the sermons continued back then. For that mustard-blood, he was who brought them all that starting hope. The preacher agreed as he slowly calmed down, falling to sleep as his friend too returned to his own bed for the night.
Both woke early the next day to make the trip to see the young girl and her mouse mom, but upon arriving, they saw a destroyed hive. It was small and fairly kept when it came to the area around it, but broken into. The door kicked in and windows shattered, proving whatever had happened was intentional. As Signless walked in silently, he was afraid for the worst outcome possible, but a small cry could be heard from one of the blocks. The young girl was left curled up in her toy pile, the blood of, what he assumed to be, her lusus on her hands as she cried. At first the young troll didn’t notice the male, but ran to the preacher the moment she saw him. It took some time to calm her down, but when he did, she told him what had happened. Her lusus was shot down when they were coming back from the village. A large man that towered over her picked up the guardian without another thought of the girl until she screamed at him, causing the troll to turn and sneer at her. He had forced her home, kicking the door in when she refused to wait here without her guardian “He had two long scars on his face and a cold, blank eye.” The girl cried. .
Of course it was him. It was always him. Why couldn’t that stubborn old troll use other ways for the mutant to know he was back in town? Damn Dualscar, that old friend of Signless’ against what anyone outside of his closest group. He knew who he needed to go find today once she felt safe once again, and knew the preacher would do what he could to ensure she would grow up to be a strong young troll. He told her the story she asked for and ensured her all will be well. With a blank look in his eye, he headed to the shore after, close to sunrise, alone of course. He wasn’t going to risk being seen by someone he didn't want to run into. Instead, he went to the cabin on board the so horrifying Orphaner’s ship, opening it to see his old friend hunched over the desk, working away. It wasn’t shocking. 
|hah,, I can’t type for Dualscar so here it is. I really hope someone enjoys this.|
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a-boros-named-seamus · 7 years ago
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Under The Darkened Moon
WARNING, MENTIONS OF CHILD DEATH, VIVID, GORY DESCRIPTIONS
As the howls died down, I saw her cock her head, as if listening to someone speak.
"Before we can begin our work, I must return to Thraben, leaving tomorrow morning. I will return with help to create a new order and to restore your farmland," she declared, sounding... unsure, "But those of you that wish to accompany me, to ensure that I do not lie, that I speak truth, may."
After that, she lowered to the ground, taking off her cloak and setting aside her spear, and began to help. With caring for the wounded, with cleaning up, with cooking.
It was a beautiful sight. Inspiring.
Where Avacyn had been like moon, brilliant and bright, but austere, Elspeth, her Heiress, was like a hearth flame, warm and bright and, welcoming.
As I helped dig a ditch for... wastes, covered in dirt and sweat, three people approached me, two ladies and a man.
They looked at me like I, personally, was responsible for the sun rising this morning, for their lives continuing.
They were wrong. This victory was all theirs, their faith, their sheer bloody-mindedness, their hard work is what saved them.
"We are going to take The Lady up on her offer, Sir Knight," said the person in the lead, a tall, curvy, and solidly built lady with dark skin. Her hair was frizzy and black, bound back into a tight bun to prevent the dead from grabbing it, like most of the other ladies around whose hair wasn't cut short. Her eyes displayed only respect and curiosity.
Her bearing was kind, friendly, and more than a bit stern, like that of a parent, or a teacher, or a nurse.
She was also covered in blood, her clothes torn up, chestplate scratched, wounds already healing, and the claw-severed head of a Skaab hanging at her hip.
More like a particularly matronly general, then.
I kept working, doing the work of two people, as I spoke.
"Alright, milady. You'll have to speak with Lady Elspeth, though. I'm the one in the lead," I told her, "But me, personally? I've got no problem with it. Also, stop the sir talk. Call me Seamus. Seamus Faodlah."
"Alright! Call me Engel. Engel Kinder," she said, thumping her, breast plate, thankfully free of that boob-cupping bullshite. Her two companions moved to stand beside her.
"I'm Brighid Wulver! Nice to meet you!" Exclaimed the other lady.
She was of average height, but she was built like a brick shithouse, covered in muscle and scars. Her hair was cut short, in an odd style that I'd never seen before. She was obviously the brawler type. As she stepped forwards, she stood close to Engel, looking comically short next to the other woman, and I noticed matching rings on their fingers.
"You two married?" I asked, tone exactly the same as if I were asking about the weather or the price of food. IE neutral. "Yes," they answered, almost at once. "Aaaaanyways," said Brighid.
"I'm Owen," said the man, almost sounding embarrassed at the sound of his own voice.
He was tall, with strong, lean muscles. His hair was dirty blonde, eyes green, and jaw strong. He also wore glasses, and a sweater emblazoned with the multiversal symbol for medic, a red cross, on his shoulders. On his shoulder hung a bag with the same symbol on it. It looked heavy, and the blood spattered on it showed that it had been used as a bludgeon.
"Well, nice to meet you all, but I should get back to work. Lady Elspeth is that way," I said, pointing.
They walked off, chattering to each other, mostly about how... unusual I was. I smiled and waved.
---
It was noon the next day dofore the villagers would let the five of us leave.
On the upside, one of the gifts bestowed upon me as they showered lady Elspeth and I with such things was a nice big pack, meant to withstand the change.
At the gates, the four of us lacking wings stripped, putting our clothes in our packs.
Then we shifted. We were going to run to Thraben. Lady Elspeth would keep watch above, providing direction.
We ran well into the night, through the ancient forest, the new moon casting no light. It was beautiful, and due to the power of Avacyn, we never flagged, having tome to drink in the sights and smells and sounds.
It was among those that we heard them hunt.
The Leeraug...
I let loose a howl of pure fury, feeling mana fill my being, ready to shape into magic.
The other three cowered
Lady Elspeth looked confused. "Ask the frrrrragmmment of Aveacyn.abount the Leeraug," I told her, barely able to form words.
I let loose another howl, full of magic.
From the woods emerged more of my wolven brethren, werewolf, wolf, and nature spirit alike, all of them recognising my strength and that it was MY call that they obeyed. Strange, fey magic linked us all.
I didn't even speak, just set off toward the things that took the shaper of werewolf.
I could feel silver fire flood my veins and those of my howlpack. Avacyn and Elspelth both approved of what I was about to do.
We encountered an orphanage.
We were too late to save the children.
Lady Elspeth entered, and I felt a wave of rage explode out before the orphanage exploded in bloody light.
Out stepped Elspeth, The Purifier, wings still soaked in blood and white streak dyed crimson, gaze still blank and pitiless, but now a being of vengeance, of penance for failing her duty, and she was holding in her arms a little girl.
Her legs were torn away at the knee, one arm simply gone, her face hanging open, and guts spilling out.
She was still dying.
Lady Elspeth spoke kind words to her, assuring that a better place was her destination, that she'd been good, that she would be loved and happy and she could be whatever she wanted, like a knight or a princess or an angel. The little girl laughed, and smiled weakly.
"Thank you miss. I should like to see this place. Will you come with me?"
Lady Elspeth smiled at her. "Of course, little one. Of course."
"Thank you miss. But I should like to take a nap first. I'm really tired," she said, smiling and closing her eyes.
Her life left her as she slipped into dreams of paradise, of heaven.
I knelt down, and started using my claws to dig. The rest of the pack joined in following my lead, and soon, we had a grave.
Lady Elspeth set the little one in the grave, and said a prayer in a language I didn't know.
I filled it back in, and stuck a broken piece of the stone heath of the fireplace in the ground at her head.
There was a flash as Elspeth pointed her spear-sword, now dart onyx shot through with crimson, at the stone, and an inscription appeared. "Here lies an innocent soul, Alice. May she find peace."
Elspeth stood, tears flowing down her now pale, rage painted face.
"My knights, let us scrub clean this corruption," she said, all warmth replaced by rage.
We howled our furious agreement.
I charged, my pack surrounding the town and doing the same.
I came upon a thing, a twisted mass of fur and latticed flesh. A thing that had embraced corruption. It was long, thin, bony, and contorted. A creature of shadow and ambush.
I fell upon it, full of rage. I did to it what had been done to the girl.
It didn't die.
Good.
I made it suffer more.
I stalked through the town, streaked with blood and pus and ichor, killing Leeraug as I went. I also granted the blessed sleep to the dying, my heart breaking with each mutilated child that I had to comfort. To kill. Letting them die slow would be cruel.
Images of my little Sean, mutilated like that little girl, of my gentle Aspen bent and broken and dismembered and defiled and eaten, of my gentle Mathias, mind broken and form twisted into another dark thing, all of these flashing through my mind, filling me with fear and rage and determination.
Two long, lithe, and strong weres crossed my path often. Engel and Brighid worked as a team, making up for each other's weaknesses. They left a trail of death as they went. They were wreathed in stone and silver fire respectively, nature's fury incarnate.
Owen was a massive wolf, like someone had twisted tree trunks into the shape of a werewolf and covered the whole thing with fur. He was wreathed in holy golden light, protecting all the children he could round up, his touch healing, reassuring, reinvigorating. His holy might was like an silver wall around the children, impassable, burning and maiming the Leeraug.
As I fought, I saw people, villagers, elders, teenagers, protecting their families, savage snarls slowly becoming snouts, fingers curling into claws. These wolves joined our hunt, driving out the black hearted invaders killing them, unraveling lattices of flesh, dismembering the rest.
Still, many of my pack died to the Leeraug, ambushed and torn apart.
They were avenged.
Lady Elspeth fought with absolute fury, her light harsh and burning, her words inspiring divine fury in the defenders. Truly an Avenging Angel, extracting a price of blood.
The light we shone burned away their shadows, exposing them, and destroying their powers of fear and stealth. They were all eradicated.
Three escaped, only for a strong, cunning werewolf to shred them. He gave me a nod of respect, and left. I had the respect of Ulrich. I was awed.
Eventually, the dawn broke over a nightmare ended, and a people saved, and with it, the end of the hunt.
I strode up to Engel. "Hey, could you talk to these people? Explain our purpose, and the situation? I'm going to find Our Lady," I told her. Elspeth had touched down somewhere in the woods, but she hadn't stopped powering our holy magic.
"Of course. You better speak to her. She looked rattled," she said, smiling and giving me a nod.
I followed Elspeth's scent to a large stream.
She was scrubbing at the blood, sometimes dislodging feathers and hair.
She was sobbing, so I sat down next to her. "My lady, what is wrong? Please, tell me," I said to her, recognizing that her mind was drowning in the past as I spoke.
It was... jarring to see such a person, an unstoppable force, so... frail, so broken, when she inspired such hope.
She jerked out of it and looked at me. She looked so... helpless, full of despair, so I hugged her, until she broke away.
She wiped her eyes, calmed herself, and began to speak. "This plane, the Leeraug, they remind me of the plane I was born on, and many others. It was overrun with phyresis, and each day was a fresh horror. I did horrible things, helped the phyrexians just to... just to survive..." Her face was contorted in pain.
Phyrexians. Some, like Ezurad, weren't half bad, but most of their strains were evil. Pure, undiluted evil. I'd heard the whispered horror-stories of Mirrodin, personal accounts of Dominaria during the war from oldwalkers. The utterly chilling stories Maris and even other Phyrexians have of Elesh Norn.
I tried to help "You don't have to tell me if it hurts too much, we all have our secret pains,"
She looked in my face, steeling herself. "No, I need to let this out, to say it, or I never will," she said, before diving headlong into the rest of it, "On Alara, after Conflux, the liches of Grixis assaulted Bant."
She put a hand on my shoulder when she noticed my grimace at my memories of them. My quest to kill a lich. My phyrric victory. I chuckled softly. I was trying to comfort her, and here she was, comforting me.
"I faced the Phyrexians again on Mirrodin, alongside Venser and Koth to save Karn," she said, as I nodded. I'd heard the stories.
"I went to Theros, defended the people there, championed Heliod," she spat his name in the same way I did Emrakul, "journeyed into Nyx, Ajani at my side, to kill a god of a strength not seen in the multiverse since the Mending*, facing untold monsters along the way," tearing up, beginning to shake, her pain apparent.
I embraced her, one person wracked by trauma to another.
"My lady, you don't have to tell of this part. I've been to Theros, heard how the people speak of you, with more reverence than even that thrice blasted traitor, with love and respect," And it was true. They practically worshipped her as the platonic ideal of a Hero. I'd heard her story told, many different ways in different regions, but all full of respect.
"I... Alright. You can quite obviously tell that I finished my mask. When I left Theros, it slipped off," she said.
"But never have I seen such... utter, disgusting, wanton cruelty as I have seen here. The Phyrexians always had purpose, cold reason, their cruelty a byproduct, not the purpose," she twinged at the memories "The Liches simply killed, trying to swell their armies, killing inventively, but not caring about cruelty cruelty," That, I knew, from personal experience, "On Theros, hordes of monsters killed, but never went out of their way to make their deaths worse. They just killed," I believed her on that. "Here, the things in the dark, the monsters and beasts, they kill for sport. When I joined with Avacyn, I knew about it all, but the true horror..." She looked distant, disconnected.
"In all those places, people fought back, resisted, were able to save themselves. Here, their weapons do nothing. The simply prolong doom," She had begun to weep again, trembling.
"Look at me. Look me in the eyes," I said, stern, determined. She looked up. "That is what you and the other angels are for. To protect. To give us strength to defend our own," dragging her to her feet as I spoke, the blood and the bone paleness running off of her like water.
"You saw Owen, using your holy light to protect, to heal those children, Brighid using the very fury of the sun, Engel crtushing the beasts with the bones of the earth," I slapped her spear, already lightening back to ggold-streaked silver, into her hand.
"You give us power and hope. You are Elspeth. You are Avacyn. It is your duty, your task, to help us, to inspire us, to show us that we can fight!" I bellowed, encouraging her.
As the last of The Purifier cleared away, returning to the dark corners of her soul, she nodded. "Thank you," she said, hugging me. Her light shone, radiant as she returned to the village, the dawn at her back.
She was both the Archangel, and The Purifier. She was hope. She was vengeance. She was Elspeth.
*=I saw in a Q&A on the Wizards Website somewhere that said that Xenagos DID retain his spark
@actualborossoldier @gardianforce @leonin-pal-adin @leonsgirl @selesnyapokemonprofessor @aspenvald @ezurad @ezurad-radomancer @lasav-the-sneakster @asmund-scion-of-ice @nicool--brolas @leagueofbantcraft @kopala-warden-of-tumbr @chandra-pyromaster @ruzena-of-ravnica @holypupper @burning-angrath @innistrad-historian @sorin-investigations @avacynthepurifier @avacyntheangelofhope @avacyn-angel-of-nope @avacyn-jr @milolikesthings @werewarlock @wearepaladin @probablywerewolfrpgideas @userwordandpassname @wearepaladin @ormos-demon-born @chelsea-beleren-vess @poison-stripes @golgaristorm @lucianofsamosata @wearepaladin
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feynites · 7 years ago
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I... wrote Game of Thrones fanfic? Which is weird because I’ve only watched like two episodes of the show and read like none of the books. But I know a lot about it anyway and I couldn’t stop thinking about Elia, especially with all the awesome Rhaenys stuff that Cinn has been doing. Sooooo... yeah. This is my take on one of the most tragic characters in the series. Please excuse any continuity errors in light of the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing.
Elia Martell knew that having children might kill her.
It was something warned of for nearly her entire life. She was frail; she was sickly. She had a heart that fluttered and breaths that stuttered, blood that flowed too freely, narrow hips and frequent headaches and irregular moons. Her parents had hesitated in marrying her off. Even to a match most nobles would gladly throw any child into, even with the threat of a mad king’s displeasure should they do him the insult of refusing.
Elia’s parents loved her. But she was still a noble born girl, in the end. Still expected to produce heirs, or face unrelenting shame.
The world had always underestimated her. Even her family had, at times, though in their case, Elia knew it was from love and worry. Poor, sickly Elia. Her first pregnancy had been a nightmare. Much of it she spent bedridden, and she had felt for months upon months as if she was dying. As if they were both dying; herself and the little flicker of life building within her.
Rhaegar had been attentive. She had been glad for him, in many ways. His father was a nightmare, and her heart wrenched for Queen Rhaella, and all that she endured. But she could ask for far worse husbands than one who came and played soft music for her when she was ill, and sat often at her bedside, and spoke of books and songs and poets. Histories, quite often. Rhaegar was a scholarly prince, and an artistic one. He was handsome – though, privately, Elia thought that his looks had been over-sold. It was comparative, she reasoned. Any decent looking man born a prince would become the height of desirability.
Rhaegar always looked just a little too pale to her eyes, though. He was tall and fit, but his smile rarely reached his eyes, and his sharp features had a waxy quality to them at times, which made her think of masks and carvings more than any face. He was courteous and thoughtful. He brought her flowers and played her songs, but at times he also spoke of strange things.
Mad, she deduced, in fairly short order. He was mad, like most Targaryens, but at least his madness had no fire. It was more like the moon. Fickle and fey and driven to odd preoccupations. But harmless, she had thought.
A foolish thought.
Elia could scarcely recall Rhaenys’ birth. There was pain and blood and most of her recollections are of that, but she could remember afterwards. The startled feeling inside of her when she woke, and realized that she had not died. The warm weight of her daughter, being placed in her arms, and oh. Oh. She had thought she might despair if the baby was a girl, if only because it would mean that she would have to try again. To endure more months of torture and pain and probable death. And some part of her, later, did quail.
But Rhaenys was perfect. A little squalling bundle of a babe, round and healthy, with Elia’s brown skin and hair and the most beautiful eyes. She was a daughter, and she did not look a thing like Rhaegar. She looked like a Dornish girl, like home. Elia’s precious child. It did not matter, in the end, that she would have to make another attempt to give Rhaegar a son. Rhaenys was hers. Her girl. The best thing she had ever managed to achieve, through blood and pain and fear, and the sheer stubbornness that had kept her running past it all.
She had to work not to fight anyone who tried to take her daughter from her arms. When she discovered that she could not make enough milk to feed her, she wept like the fragile woman everyone always took her for, and was inconsolable on the subject despite all her best efforts to be practical.
Of course, the rest of the world was not always inclined to share her sentiments. Rhaegar seemed pleased – he held Rhaenys and cooed at her, and smiled his softest smiles for her – and there were celebrations in King’s Landing. Many happy congratulations on ‘the little princess’. But King Aerys did not share any good sentiments. He disliked that Rhaenys looked Dornish; he accused Elia of all manner of infidelity, and his son of weakness, and called his own granddaughter snake spawn and sand rat.
But he was mad, and that was known.
So it was not until he threatened to burn Rhaenys, should he discover who her ‘whore mother’ had actually permitted to sire her, that Elia felt something click in her. Something much colder than a mad king’s fire. It made her canine teeth itch like fangs, and the back of her throat taste like poison. It made her feel calm, and ready, and though she did not recall explicitly contemplating the matter before – that was the day she decided that if she ever got the chance, she would kill King Aerys.
Of course, Aerys was fire and power and madness, and paranoia in spades. So Elia did not suppose she would have very many opportunities. And she was still recovering from the ordeal of pregnancy, on strict orders from the Maesters not to over-tax herself. She spent more time in Queen Rhaella’s company, and that of the septas assigned to guard the queen’s honour. Court was sparsely populated ever since the king began to lean too heavily on his hobby of live immolation. The humiliation of Rhaella being forced to share her bed with the older women, to prevent adultery, struck Elia as a terrible and unworthy insult. But the queen herself seemed much happier to spend time with the septas, and her young son, than with her husband.
There wasn’t much for it, either way.
“Rhaenys may well end up marrying Viserys,” Rhaella mused, one afternoon, while the two of them had tea in Elia’s chambers. Rhaenys was down for her nap, but Viserys was with them. Playing with his toys as the two of them spoke.
Over my dead body, the cold venom in Elia hissed.
“May well,” she agreed, aloud.
“Dornish whore!” Viserys exclaimed, laughing. “Dornish whore, whore, whore!”
Rhaella sighed, and tsk’d. It made Elia think of her own mother, who had taken Oberyn’s chin in her hand the first time she heard him repeating that kind of language, and made him look her in the eye and repeat it. She had shamed him so neatly and concisely that Oberyn had nearly swallowed his tongue, hadn’t dared repeat such words again where she could hear them.
Somehow, Elia doubted that the same technique would work on Viserys.
“He has no idea what it even means,” Rhaella offered, apologetically.
“Of course not,” she agreed, and took a further sip of her tea.
When Rhaenys was old enough, she decided, then, she would send her to Dorne. She would convince Rhaegar to allow it, however she had to. She would foster her daughter out in her homeland. Send her to her family, get her away from the dragons and their ilk. She would not marry Viserys. Elia would find her a Dornish husband. 
But... Rhaegar had assured her, when they had first married, that they would be able to leave King’s Landing before long. That they would be free to go to Dragonstone, and avoid the mad king’s court for a time. The promise had proven hollow. Aerys was convinced, at times, that Rhaegar was plotting against him. That any mobility he granted his son would be used to organize a strike.
Elia had no idea if it was true or not. The crown prince did not confide in her. More importantly, she had learned the lesson of a broken promise, and learned it more firmly with each day that passed in King’s Landing. Getting Rhaenys away would be a challenge.
Recovering from her first pregnancy took time, and King Aerys railed and raged, at turns deriding both his son and Elia for failing to produce a suitable Targaryen heir; and at others gloating that he had a second son, that he had Viserys, now, and Viserys would surely prove to be everything that Rhaegar was not. Loyal and gifted and virile. He would shriek at Elia that Rhaenys would never marry Viserys; as if that was meant to wound her pride.
As if she wanted such things for her daughter’s future. Sitting in this stinking cesspool of a city, caught in the deluded ravings of this farce of a court.
The Dornish court had its dangers, and treachery, and ugliness. Elia had known that well enough. But it still functioned. More and more, she longed for home. The thought that she might be trapped here indeterminately was almost unbearable. Aerys was not so old, for all that poor hygiene and terrible habits and past suffering had weathered him. And Rhaegar was a disjointed mess; far kinder and better, but who knew if that would last? People had said that King Aerys was dashing and likable in his youth, too.
What if Rhaegar ended up the same as his father?
Elia passed several weeks nearly unable to look at the queen for long, for fear that she was looking into her own future. Rhaella’s wrists were bruised, and her eyes were tired. Another miscarriage. Aerys had raved of her infidelity, impossible though it was.
And then Elia’s second pregnancy took hold.
As bad as the first had been, the second was many times worse. It likely did not help, Elia supposed, that she felt so trapped. Rhaenys had discovered the wonders of toddling around on her own two legs, and raced around with happy abandon; but her increased mobility meant that the septas could watch her more, and Elia’s own seclusion gave her protests little weight. She felt almost entombed; trapped in her rooms, forced to avoid ‘excitements’, and with few visitors to speak of. The nobles who were both invited to attend court, and willing to tempt the fickle ire of the king, were few and far between. And maids and servants all kept as quiet as possible. Servants were often the first to be targeted by Aerys’ paranoia. None would risk immolation for the sake of smalltalk, and Elia could not even blame them.
She wrote letters home. More than once she thought of asking her family to send someone, some of her cousins or friends or maids, to come and attend her. Most of all she wished she could ask for her brother to come, but always, she would remember King Aerys, and her hand would still. Her mind filling with visions of some innocuous incident setting him off, and him exploding into tirades on Dornish assassins or intrigues, and burning them.
He would do it, too, she was certain. He believed everyone was already plotting against him, that they were all his enemies, or willing to be. A paranoid certainty in him that meant he was not afraid of making enemies. There was no point in trying to prevent something that had already come to pass, after all.
She began to wish, instead, that she could ask to come home. Dornish weather, she thought. She could claim that the Dornish weather would suit her better. She could take Rhaenys with her. Dorne had never been conquered by the Targaryens. It was by agreement that they had joined the seven kingdoms, not force. Her people had resisted conquest even when the dragons actually had dragons by their side. If she could go home, her family would protect her, they would have royal Targaryen children in their hands, they could go to war and finally rid the kingdoms of Aerys…
…And that was why she would never be allowed to leave. No matter what entreaties she made. Dragonstone, she remembered. The king would not even permit her to go that far, and Rhaegar had not brought it up again, despite several efforts on her part to suggest it once more. The subject would be changed. Apologies lurking in her husband’s gentle voice.
Sometimes, she thought about plucking the strings off of Rhaegar’s harp, one by one, and then smashing it against a wall.
She wrote to her family that she was expecting another child. That she missed and loved them dearly, but that they must not worry. She was strong. It would be a son this time, she was certain, and she would manage well enough.
Her family sent kinsmen to her anyway. Chief among them Ashara Dayne, whom Elia had known since childhood, and who kept her company in the infirmity of her condition. Laughing and joking and remarking upon things with the Dornish perspective that she had missed so fiercely.
It eased her mind; though not much could be done for her body, save hope.
As little as she recollected her daughter’s birth, her son’s would prove vivid in her memory, in all of its excruciating details. She felt certain that she would die, and the certainty was all the more terrifying when she knew what she would be leaving her first child to, if she did. Alone and motherless in this court of rot and ash, with a grandfather who hated her, who would never let her see Dorne, who would marry her off to her uncle, while her spineless fucking father played the harp and read books and broke his promises…
It was a miracle that she did not say anything treasonous in the throes of her worst pain. Pain that became so all-consuming that it circled around to a queer sort of place, where Elia could not process anything else. In labour it felt as if she lived in that pain, as if she spent a decade trapped in it, trying to fight something that could not be fought.
When it was over, she was so startled to find herself alive that she almost could not reconcile the shock of it.
Aegon, she was ashamed to say, did not win her heart as swiftly as Rhaenys had.
His father loved him with great preoccupation, spoke of stars and portents and old stories, and believed he had a destiny. He had the Targaryen look. Fair hair and violet eyes, and when Elia held him, and went through familiar motions of rocking and soothing him, she felt as though she was holding someone else’s child. A dragon child. Not hers, not really; he was for Rhaegar, for mad Aerys and for the cold Iron Throne.
It filled her with guilt. What an awful thing, to leave a poor baby motherless in this place. But she was exhausted and still in great amounts of pain, bleeding and weak, and Aegon… Aegon looked like a ghost. It made her feel dead, to hold him.
She tried to, anyway. Yet she did not fight the nurses when they came for him, did not wish to hold him longer than she had to. Rhaenys was brought to her in the afternoons, when she was often feeling strong enough to not frighten her daughter with lethargy or fainting or bleeding. Recovery was actually swifter than the first time, for all that the pregnancy and labour had been worse. Swifter, and yet, less complete. Her body was ruined. She could not have another child, but she had done her duty and given Rhaegar an heir, and survived the process.
And as the weeks passed, the alarming indifference towards her son began to ease, bit by bit. He had her skin, and her nose, she thought. He had Rhaegar’s eyes and hair, but he was darker, and there was nothing unnerving in his gaze. He was just a little baby, like the Lannisters’ so-called ‘imp’ had been. Not a monster or a horror or anything deserving neglect. If, perhaps, she still did not feel as though he was her baby, she did not see fit to mention it to anyone. Her heart was trying to shield itself, she thought. The gods had given her the Targaryen son she needed, and in so doing, the son that would never wholly belong to her.
He was Rhaegar’s perfect, healthy, unquestionable heir.
Aerys hated him anyway.
Called him ‘reedy’ and ‘weak’ and insisted he had the look of some ancestor who had gotten fat and disreputable in his old age. Elia had stood and taken the insults, had stared at Aerys, pale and thin-lipped and still aching in so many places. She knew some of them would likely always ache, forever on into the rest of her life.
However long that managed to be.
After that, she loved Aegon almost defiantly. Fervently as she loved his sister, though it was still different, too.
She had nearly died to give the dragons their accursed due – if Aerys did not want him, she thought, acid building on her tongue, then she would gladly take him home with her, too. Hair could be dyed, to look less Targaryen. And much of him did seem Dornish. When he smiled, she did not see Rhaegar’s own soft, sad expression; she saw Oberyn, the first time she had peered into his cradle, and he had grinned back at her.
It was a sweet, foggy memory.
We will be alright, she told herself. Aerys not favouring his grandson was not the worst of fates. He would still be more focused on Viserys, then, and if nothing else, they could avoid him as often as not. Perhaps, finally, he would let them go to Dragonstone, if they left without Rhaegar. There was no more need for Elia to remain close to her husband, now that she was barren, and whatever insults Aerys had levelled against them, he at least did not seem to credit her with being strong enough to pose a threat.
Not on her own, anyway.
Rhaegar, though…
After Aegon’s birth, Rhaegar himself became more of a worry.
“There is no chance whatsoever?” he asked, for what felt like the hundredth time, after Elia and the Maester and everyone, it seemed, had explained that she simply could not have another child. It made her glad all over again that the possibility itself was extinguished; because she knew, then, that for all his politeness and consideration and gentility, for all that he had never struck her or touched her harshly, or even raised his voice at her, that he would let her die trying for another child.
A child he did not even need.
“None,” she said, with more finality than she generally employed. She could grant that it was not the most secure of arrangements, to only have one daughter and one son. But Aerys himself had only been able to produce two viable children after decades of attempts, and Rhaenys and Aegon were both healthy. And if it came to it, Elia supposed, they could discuss the prospect of divorce. But not until the children were older. Rhaenys she might have been able to keep with her, but Aegon would be swept up by the court, and in constant danger. Not only from the existing threats, either – if Rhaegar’s second bride should prove scheming or ambitious, Aegon would stand in the way of her own heirs inheriting the throne.
And who would protect him? His grandfather, who hated him? His grandmother, who was abused and locked away? His father, who was sitting before her with that damning moonlit fire in his gaze?
Even Elia was not sure what she would be able to do for him. For any of them.
“You must understand. It has to be three,” Rhaegar said, all woe and tragedy in his countenance. “The dragon has three heads.”
She could have hit him. She wanted to slap her husband clean across the face, in fact. She wished that she believed it could work; that one single, stinging smack could shake the clouds from his eyes and drag his mind back up to reality, but it would only make him look woeful again, she suspected. And hurt her hand.
“I cannot give you three,” she said, at last. Her throat felt tight, to her own surprise. Her voice wavered, as she could not help but ask. “Are Rhaenys and Aegon not enough for you?”
What a terrible thing, for her children to have a father who loved them so little.
Rhaegar only looked still sorrowful, though.
“For me?” he asked. “For me, they are more than enough. But there must be more. All the signs… Elia, I don’t know how to explain it all to you. I have spent my entire life learning everything that I need to know, in order to understand what I do.”
Her father had told her, once, to never trust anyone who claimed that what they did was too complicated to explain. Either they were a swindling liar, or they thought too little of everyone else’s intelligence.
“You want three children because you believe that a prophecy has foretold the coming of a great hero, who will be needed in the days hence,” she summarized. “You named our son Aegon because the great hero of your line was a man who rode the back of a dragon alongside his two sisters, whom he married. You want a second sister for your son, so that when the time comes, the three of them can awaken the dragons of your dreams and restore your family’s dying legacy by beginning the cycle of history anew.”
Rhaegar stared at her for a long moment. Less sad, and more reserved.
“You think I’m mad,” he guessed. Elia thinks she might have appreciated it if he had sounded at least a little accusing, rather than pitying.
Has the possibility never crossed your own mind?
“Of course not, my lord,” she said, aloud.
He stood up. Put his back to her.
“This was a mistake,” he said. “I… I am sorry for it. But you were never the one who could have given me what I needed. I see that now.”
A cold, hard knot of ill-defined fear settled in the pit of Elia’s stomach. A warning bell rang in her mind. She could guess how a sensible man, in Rhaegar’s position, might react to all of this. But that was the thing about madness, she supposed. If it was sensible, it would not be mad.
Her husband left her chambers. Apologies scattered in his wake. Steps quick and stiff, shoulders tensed. Unhappy.
When he was gone, Elia found herself moving to the window, and looking out towards the grounds. If she was a fit woman, she thought, she would go into the nursery. She would take the children, and bundle them up, and carry them out. In the dead of night, when none were expecting such a move. And she would go… where?
Where could she go that would not result in either death or betrayal? Dorne was too far away.
And it did not matter. Elia was not a fit woman, and never had been. She put the thought aside, but went to the nursery, all the same. She was tired. Yet she felt much more at ease when she saw them both sleeping, safe and sound. For a long moment she watched Rhaenys’ eyelashes flutter in her sleep. Smoothing back some of the curls that had gotten into her face. Then she went, and peered down at Aegon.
His mouth was moving in his dream.
Gods, she hoped his dreams were not like his father’s.
It will be alright, she thought, but could not say.
She was expecting things to become complicated. Difficult. Even unpredictable; and it was the last one that struck first, of course. When Rhaegar arranged for his tournament, and fought, and passed her over in his victory run to name the Stark girl-child his Queen of Love and Beauty. Elia’s first thought was that he was shaming her on purpose. Her second thought was that Lyanna Stark was an active and healthy girl, but also, a girl. There was still baby fat on her cheeks and a certain hint to her frame that suggested she was on the cusp of a growth spurt.
Did Rhaegar choose a child, she thought, in hopes of making it clear that he was intentionally snubbing Elia? But, why pick a girl who was engaged to his own cousin? Surely Robert Baratheon could easily interpret the slight as one aimed at him, and it would be a needless insult if Rhaegar’s only goal was to humiliate her…
She sat, calm but also frozen, as something else pressed against the back of her mind.
Lyanna Stark.
The Starks were a northern family, of course. The wolves. Honourable but simplistic, viewed as very steadfast, and unwise to provoke, but also not generally involved with courtly affairs. They were well-liked by their bannermen, so far as Elia knew, and that was impressive, given the number of brutal houses reputedly situated in the North. But then, she supposed, pragmatism was often inescapable when one lived in a dangerous place, and the North was home to the Wall, and served as the last border against the wildlings. The first sentinel of winter.
…Cold.
As ice.
Ice, and fire.
Oh, Rhaegar could not be so stupid, could he? Lyanna Stark? Aegon was not even out of the cradle yet, and already her ‘honourable’ prince was making moves to woo a highborn and betrothed girl to his bed, all for the sake of his thrice-damned prophecy.
Elia was calm, and collected, and spitting mad when she finally made her way out of the stands with as much decorum as she could manage. Her heart was hammering hard enough that it was difficult to disguise her shallow breaths. The court was all in a flurry over things, of course, and the number of pitying looks she received was unsurprising. She preferred the outrage, though, and for once, when Aerys launched into one of his tirades, she found some small vindication in it.
Naturally, Aerys still managed to blame her for much of it. And Rhaegar’s response to his father’s shouting was stoic and resilient. Elia was permitted to leave, by way of her father-in-law bellowing that everyone else get out, and she did. She had no interest in hearing more of his tirades about spies and traitors and his son being an embarrassment. She had no will to even begin to defend her husband.
She was surprised when Rhaegar sought her out, not long after the shouting had finished.
She sat by the fire, trying to warm herself up, and calm the tangle of her nerves. Rhaegar stood at her doorway, still dressed as if for a fight. He looked tired.
“None could fault you for leaving me, now,” he ventured, after a few awkward moments.
Elia stared.
“Is that what you think?” she asked.
He blinked, as if that was not a response he had expected.
“You think I have stayed here because I could not manufacture a decent excuse for leaving?” she continued, too angry and too tired to bother minding her manners. “You are a fool. My children are Targaryens, Rhaegar. They are heirs to the Iron Throne, and your father may be as mad as a bag of cats, but at least he knows how political maneuvering actually works. There is not a lord in all seven kingdoms who does not want to see him off of the throne by now. If I go home, it will be with my children, and if I take my children to Dorne, then there will be nothing to prevent Dorne from rallying the discontent lords throughout the kingdoms, deposing your father, and ruling as regents until Aegon comes of age. He knows that.”
Rhaegar looked sad and stoic. Sad, and stoic, and gods, she was tired of it. He was an able warrior, a man with access to all the resources of the kingdom, and yes, his father was a mad wretch, and Elia did not pretend to know what growing up with that must have been like. But she, who had none of his warrior’s prowess, had taken to keeping a poisoned dagger beneath her skirts. She had watched, and learned, and she knew the way this court worked. She had laboured and nearly died to give Rhaegar his heirs, had done exactly what was expected of her, and given half the chance, she would bury her dagger in his father’s black heart and do what was needed, too.
Rhaegar had more than half a chance.
And he used his chances to give flowers to betrothed girls of five-and-ten.
“…I am sorry,” he ventured. “I did not think…”
Silence fell between them again.
Elia looked into the fire. She needed the warmth. But the sight of flames had long since begun to make her feel sick. The venom in the back of her throat felt like blood and ash, instead.
Rhaegar sighed.
“I will make certain you are safe,” he promised. She supposed it was the only thing he reasonably could promise, here. No other words of comfort would not tread too close to treason. The walls had ears; Elia had possibly said too much herself. Though, come to it, she doubted that she had said anything that King Aerys was not entirely assured of already.
“Of course. I know what your word is worth,” she replied.
And there, just barely, she saw him flinch. Saw the barb land home, for once. Before he turned, and walked away.
Elia of Dorne knew that having children might kill her.
But she had always supposed that it would do so in the carrying and birthing of them, and not the terrible intrigues that would follow after.
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mischiefmanaged1993 · 7 years ago
Text
Perfect - Prologue
Hey! So, I’ve been inspired lately and decided to write a Harry Potter fanfiction. I’ll be posting it on tumblr and Archieve of our Own. I’ve proofed read it like 5 times, I hope there’s no mistakes, if there is I’m terribly sorry! This is the first time posting a story on tumblr. I hope you enjoy reading it! 
October 25, 1981
Gone. In a blink of an eye, they were all gone. Taken from this world, taken from her, from them.
Jenna Blair was sitting on the pavement, her back facing the now empty house that use to hold so much life. So much warmth. Tears racing down her cheeks, an involuntary whimper escaped her lips. A baby girl sleeping soundlessly, cradled safely in her arms. While a young boy, held onto the only family he had left. His face buried in her sweater, crying silently. The world around her was moving in slow motion. The distant sounds of a few Auror’s entering the house to investigate did not comfort her, but only serve as a reminder of what took place only a half-hour ago. The images of what she witnessed tonight. Her sister, her brother, her brother-in-law. Dead. Gone; taken from her, from their children. A choked sob escaped her mouth.
Rustling from her right caught the attention of the eldest child, he held onto his aunt tightly. Terrified that whoever attacked his parents were coming back. Instead, a man with shoulder length dark hair and worried grey eyes showed up. Kneeling in front of the small group. Her vision was blurry from the tears, but she recognized the voice immediately. It was the man she loved; Sirius Black “Jenna...”
“They’re gone!” She cried, breaking down “Elizabeth… Alaric… Christian… they’re gone!”
Sirius looked at her, his eyes soft and sadden. It pained him to see the woman he loved in so much despair. He wanted nothing more than to hug her tight; tell her that everything will be alright, but he knew better. He saw the Dark mark above the house behind them. Knew of the meaning. She didn’t have to tell him. The Death Eaters had attack and killed. That was the reason he was here, knowing that she’d be visiting her sister. Oddly, they failed to finish off the children, which he suspected was because Jenna had arrived just in time.
“I’m so sorry.” He whispered, closing his eyes tightly when she cried harder.
“What am I going to do? The children... I can’t… I can’t watch over them! I’m 21! They need… They need their parents…” Jenna sobbed unceasingly, holding the sleeping toddler closer. Scared that she’d lose her as well if she’d let go. “I’m terrified… I can’t raise two young children. I can’t financially. I’m not even sure I can be a good mother-figure.” Breathing heavily, gulping for breath. This was too much.
Taking her face with both his large hands, starring into her beautiful green eyes “Jennifer Blair, listen to me, you can do this. They need their aunt more than anything right now. I know you can do this, I believe in you. You’re a Gryffindor, you’re the bravest woman I know.” Using his thumb to wipe away her tears “I’ll help you any way I can.” Noticing the young boy trembling, curled up next to his aunt, an attempt to get some warmth no doubt.
“My dear, we should get all three of you home.” He tried softly. “It’s freezing, and the children are shivering.” Coaxing her to stand up from the cold floor. She felt the pain weighing her down, having trouble to speak from the grief, the guilt of not having been there sooner, maybe she could have prevented this. The fear and unknown of having to raise two young children so suddenly. The toddler moved a little, having been woken up from the commotion around her. The first thing Sirius saw when she looked up at him, were those bright chestnut brown eyes. The same ones as her father’s, Christian O’Connor. Jenna trembled, taking a huge breath of frosty air, she had to be strong, Sirius was right, they needed her more than anything “Damon… Come.” She whimpered.
“Let me bring her.” Sirius soft voice touched her ears. Nodding, she let him hold her niece. Taking another deep breath, Jenna straighten herself and took hold of her nephew’s little hand. Taking her wand out, both adults nodding and apparated to her house.
 4 years later…
“Aunt Jenna! I got my Hogwarts letter!”
This was the reason why on a warm summer day, Jenna had taken her nephew and niece to Diagon Alley for the first time. Earlier this morning, her nephew had gotten his Hogwarts letter. Unable to stop herself from chuckling, seeing their amazed expressions when they walked down the alley was adorable. So much to see, so many different shops with all their unique products. Once the initial shock had worn off, Damon looked over his school list, but glanced in every window as they passed, and Naomi just looked around, trying to take in everything. The first stop they had to make was at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Coming out an hour later with the required money and a very pale looking Damon “I don’t like carts. I hate carts.” He mumbled, trying very hard to not vomit on the stone path. Naomi, on the other hand, wanted to go for a second ride.
“Aunt Jenna, I need school uniforms, I can get those here?” Damon asked, looking up with a frown. Still looking quite pale.
His aunt chuckled and nodded “Yes, at Madam Malkin’s Robes.”
They arrived at the shop and were in luck, she had just finished with another Hogwarts student. While Damon stood on the stand, Madam Malkin’s was fixing up his uniform robe. Jenna smiled fondly at her nephew, he had grown so much. It’s been four years since the lost of their parents, it hadn’t been easy on any of them, including herself. She wished Elizabeth could be here right now to see her son, to see him off to Hogwarts. She was brought out of her thoughts when she heard her nephew ask, “Aunt Jenna, where is Naomi?”
.  . .  .  . .  .  . .  .
Curious chestnut brown eyes glanced around, staying at the robes shop had become too boring for little Naomi. A wizard passing by the shop with an owl in a cage had caught her attention, wanting to see it closer she had left without anyone noticing her. At first it was fun exploring this new place, it felt like she was on some big adventure. Unfortunately, as time passed, she couldn’t find her way back to her aunt and brothers. Panic started to rise within the small seven years old. There were too many wizards and witches, no one she recognized. Tears streamed down her cheeks, sitting down in front of some store, scared and alone.
“Why are you crying?” Naomi looked up at the sound of a young boy’s voice. Standing in front of her, two identical twins with fiery flaming hair, brown eyes and freckles. Additionally, they seemed to be the same age as her. She sniffed and rubbed her eyes, telling them that she was lost and wanted her mum. One of the twins bent down to her level and smiled “Don’t cry, we’ll help you find your mum, I’m Fred, that’s my brother George, and you are?”
“I think she knows we’re brothers Fred! We’re twins!” George replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
Naomi giggled and both twins smiled ���My name is Naomi.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Naomi!” Both twins said in unison. The twin named George extended his hand for her to take. Helping the young little girl off the ground, they were almost the same height, the twins slightly taller than she “We’ll bring you to our mum. She can help you find your mum.”
They didn’t have to go looking very far, a short, plump woman with the same flaming fiery red hair, was rushing towards them. Two boys following her closely, one looked to be about four years old while the other looked older than the twins, possibly eight years old? The woman had a look of anger, yet relieved when she saw the twins “Fred! George! There you are! I’ve been looking- What have you two done this time?!” The twin’s mum exclaimed upon seeing the little girl. Molly Weasley starred down at her two sons, then at the girl, her eyes softening.
“We didn’t do anything!” Both twins defended themselves.
Their mother looked at them suspiciously before kneeling to the little girl’s height. Giving her a motherly, gentle smile. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” Even her voice was much kinder than when she spoke to her boys. More tears fell from Naomi’s eyes.
“I’m lost, I want my mummy.”
Molly gave her a tender smile, extending her free hand, which the little girl took without hesitation. “Then let’s go find your mummy. What’s your name, sweetie?”
“N-Naomi.”
“Naomi, what a lovely name. Percy, you keep an eye on the twins. Don’t leave them out of your sight.” She turned to her eldest son, to which he nodded reluctantly. Eyeing both his younger brothers suspiciously while they grinned back at him. All six of them walked down the alley, looking for Naomi’s family. To help with the search, Molly had asked what her mother looked like, and was confused when the little girl told her she didn’t remember. So, they looked around the crowded alley, hoping to spot them.
“Naomi!”
Jenna, with a relieved cry, rushed towards the group with Damon at her sides. Taking Naomi into her arms, hugging her tightly “Thank Merlin you’re safe! Naomi, don’t you ever scare me like that ever again young lady.” Staring with all the seriousness she could muster into the little girl’s eyes. Once she got a nod from her niece, she smiled at the little one.
“Jennifer Blair?” Jenna looked at the older woman and gasped softly. Molly was staring at the younger witch, so many questions, worries, but she couldn’t bring herself to voice them all. They hadn’t seen each other since the funeral of Christian and Elizabeth. She had sent owl after owl, wondering how she was doing. The few that she got back, weren’t very detailed.  
Molly had been her sister’s closest friend since Hogwarts. The guilt over took her, she could have written back more often. Could have even visited her. She knew how much Molly adored Elizabeth’s children, which only made her feel worse. Mrs. Weasley looked down at the two young children and tears gathered in her eyes. Why hadn’t she noticed how much the little girl looked like her mother? The little boy, so much like his father, but with his mother’s kind eyes “I should have known. She looks so much like her mother. They’ve grown so much since last time I saw them.”
“Mrs. Weasley, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean… I should have… I’m sorry.” Jenna apologized. She didn’t need to say more; the older woman gave her an understanding smile. She knew the struggle the young witch was going through, having lost her brothers in the war as well. It was challenging times and Molly would never dare hold it against her.
“Don’t sweetie, I understand.” Placing a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder in a comforting way “Need to continue shopping for Bill’s and Charlie’s school books. Please come over for tea some time, and I won’t be taking no for an answer.” Adding quickly when the young woman was about to say she didn’t want to be a burden. After agreeing, Molly smiled at the little family before walking away with her sons. The twins waving goodbye to Naomi, which she returned.
 4 years later…
“You behave yourself, got it? I want you to send an owl once you’ve been sorted telling me which house you’re in, tell me how your first week went, I want to know everything.” Jenna fussed over her niece. Straightening her jacket, her nephew standing next to her, rolling his eyes at their aunt in amusement. It was like this every year. “You have everything? Not missing anything?”
“Aunt Jenna, I’m sure I’ve got everything, I will send you an owl after my first week, and I promise to not get into trouble.” Naomi said, beaming. Today was her first day at Hogwarts, she was finally going to the school her brother had kept talking about for years. The school her parents attended. Jenna smiled, trying very hard not to cry.
“Alright, watch over your sister. Damon, I’m warning you, no owls and please, please stop getting into detention.” She begged her nephew.
“Not my fault! Its that greasy hair git that keeps giving me detention for no reason!”
“The train is about to leave, come on, give me a hug.” After hugging each one, they embarked onto the Hogwarts Express. Opening the windows and waving at their aunt as the train began to move away from King’s Cross Station. Once the train station was out of eyesight, Damon went to find his friends, Naomi following, looking inside compartments to see if there were any empty ones. She didn’t get far until something cold and slimy fell on her head. The sound of a bucket hitting the floor right behind her rang in her ears.
Her brother turned when hearing the commotion, seeing his sister wipe slime from her face. Damon’s mouth was slightly opened in stun silence. Two identical heads popped out of a compartment, their brown eyes opened wide when they noticed that the victim of their prank wasn’t the one they were hoping.
“We’re terribly sorry, you have to believe us, that prank wasn’t meant for you.” George walked up, trying to explain.
“That prank was for our older brother, Percy.” Fred explained, slightly disappointed it didn’t work. Both twins backed away when she glared at them.
“You did this?!” The sounds of other students snickering and laughing only fueled her anger. She felt humiliated and they haven’t even arrived at Hogwarts. Wonderful way to start her first year.
“It wasn’t meant for you!”
Damon cleared his throat, walked passed the twins, giving them a glance before smiling a little at his sister “Its okay, Nao, let me fix this.” Waving his wand, muttering a spell, and the goo was all gone. Yet it didn’t take away the embarrassment she felt. Her eyes had never left Fred and George, muttering a thanks to her brother, Naomi turned and stormed opposite from the twins, promising herself to get them back.
 2 months later…
After arriving at Hogwarts, during the sorting ceremony Naomi and the Weasley twins were sorted into Gryffindor. The next morning at breakfast, Fred and George, unknowingly, had their cereal bewitched. When they both went to put their spoons in the bowl, milk and cereal blew up in their face. Naomi was grinning, trying hard to hide her giggles, both twins quickly figured out that she was behind it. From then on, an all-out prank war began between the three. Which was the reason why they were in detention tonight. During potions, the three of them thought it would be funny to prank the other. Sadly, neither pranks went as planned. The prank that was meant for Naomi had, unfortunately, hit Professor Snape. While advancing intimidatingly towards the twins, who he figured were at the base of this prank, he got hit with another prank, which was meant for Fred and George.
Naomi apologized repeatedly, taking the entire blame. Fred and George starred at her in complete amazement, she was ready to get punish for both pranks. The brother’s looked at each other, deciding that they weren’t going to let her take all the blame.
“Professor, it was us!” George said.
“Naomi had nothing to do with those.” Fred added, motioning to the pranks. Naomi looked at both twins, her eyes wide when they in turn took responsibility. Denying her involvement of any kind.
“Detention. All three of you.” Snape said through gritted teeth, glaring at the trio “And 30 points from Gryffindor!”
Which was the reason why all three were now polishing the trophy room, without using magic, very much passed curfew. Filch, who was monitoring the detention, had rushed out when the school’s poltergeist, Peeves, had caused some ruckus down the hall. It was silent between the trio for some time until one of the twins, Fred, spoke “You know, that was a pretty good prank.”
“It was brilliant.” George grinned.
Naomi giggled, “Thank you. May I add, yours was hilarious. Professor Snape’s face was priceless.”
All three looked at each other before breaking into a fit of laughter. Fred and George mimicking the faces that Snape had made in Potions, causing Naomi to howl with laughter. The rest of their detention was spent talking about the days event and cleaning. After that night, the twins and Naomi became very good friends.
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marumafan · 8 years ago
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Yuuram in Novel 2
Novel 2. ch.1 -Yuuri describing Wolf -
An angel and a demon are standing in the open doorway: the master of this castle, Lord Gwendal von Voltaire, making his entrance to the Love Theme from The Godfather, and a Vienna Boy Choir OB-style pretty boy, Lord Wolfram von Bielefelt.
(...)
Lord Wolfram von Bielefelt, on the other hand, is my twin in stature and physique, but angelically handsome. If you didn't know he was Mazoku, you'd think he was God's greatest masterpiece. Glittering gold hair, white skin, long eyelashes, and emerald-green eyes. But that damn arrogance of his makes him sound like a yapping Pomeranian.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Novel 2. ch.1
- Settling things -
I prick up my ears at these dirty goings-on of the adult world, but Wolfram roughly jerks my head back. His lake's bottom green eyes meet mine.
Target: lock on.
"How dare you vanish from right in front of us after saying that you would become this country's king?! I was going settle things with you properly after you were safely done with the coronation ceremony!"
"Se-settle? I told you, I'm fine with a tie!...or no, if you still find it that hard to swallow, then let's just say I lost, okay? 'Cause ultimately that duel was like one of those things where an exchange of blows forged a friendship, you know?"
(...)
"You were pretty strong, and I gave it my best too, so why don't we just leave it at that? We don't have to go into all of that stuff about duels and revenge again."
"That's not any kind of...hey, Yuuri! What is the meaning of this?! You're not wearing the gold bird I gave you, but you have Conrart's pendant...?!"
(...)
"You can't deceive me, Yuuri! You're too lacking in prudence. Well, yes, I guess...you're somewhat good-looking...just a bit...so you can't help but be a temptation..."
------------------------------------------------------------------ Novel 2. ch.2
- Ship -
You're late!"
Why is Wolfram sitting so regally on the double bed?!
I'm guessing that the gob-smacked look on Conrad's face means that he didn't expect this either.
"From the looks of it, this room is normally reserved for newly-weds. I presume Your Ma...my young masters are still in their prenuptial period...?"
"...I have no idea who's responsible for this mix-up either."
The next while is devoted to Wolfram being violently seasick, and so the afternoon passed.
(...)
Wolfram, who stalked us to the ship and smuggled himself on board, ended up in front of the toilet as soon as we set sail. Now he's bedridden and refuses to eat or drink anything, even water. He can't even quarrel with me. With his ruffled gold hair straggling down blanched cheeks and eyes lightly closed, he looks like an angel who's fallen to earth and in despair because he cannot return home.
------------------------------------------------------------------ Novel 2. ch.3
-Just so you know, Japanese people never say anything when you sneeze-
"Achoo!"
"Gesundheit!" I answer on cue in a conditioned response to Wolfram's cute little sneeze, which sounds like something a manga character might make, as I rummage through my luggage and toss everything out of the clothes chest.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.4
-Closet scene-
Even though Wolfram could not have guessed at my feelings, his hand falls on mine. We huddle together in the cramped space of the too-small-to-be-called-a-walk-in closet, shivering.
No, I'm the only one who's shivering.
Wolfram is a soldier, after all. Even if he's not used to playing such a dangerous game of hide-and-seek, it can't be his first time.
"...Are you okay, Yuuri?"
"O-of course I am!"
I grip the hand touching mine, closing my eyes, and hang my head.
"Sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
He's not laughing at me, is he?
It's just...it's not just that I'm frightened, not even that I'm scared stiff—it's this silence, this tension, that is unbearably painful...
My roommate seems to read my mind. He whispers, "Like Conrart said, don't do anything rash if we're found. They're not going to kill you if you don't resist, 'cause you've got such good looks."
"Then you'd better not do anything either. You're several times cuter than me. No one would kill someone as pretty as you."
"No way. I am a warrior of the Mazoku; if I don't fight, I can't be allowed to live."
"That's stupid."
"Shush!"
(...)
"Wolfram! Don't, there're too many of them!" "Shut up!" "I'm begging you, Wolf! Stop it...that's an order!" He freezes and without looking at me allows the sword to drop. (...after getting caught...)
"I hear you're on your honeymoon, an' want to be sold together." Unwinding his turban, Wolfram asks me, "Honeymoon?" "Don't know anything about it," I reply from my position on the floor, not yet recovered from the shock of the sailor uniforms.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.5
- Maou-
He lifts his eyes when he reaches the approximate center of the deck and stares sharply at the man right in front of him with the one black eye not obscured by contacts.
"...Yuuri?" Wolfram calls, forgetting his alias, but Yuuri doesn't seem to hear.
Taken aback, he grabs Yuuri's hand. With the exception of his index finger, it's icy cold.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.6 -Random inner monologue-
The third son is standing in the doorway, still in his bathrobe. His beautiful eyebrows are knit in an exaggerated frown.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.6
-casual yuuram-  “(...)His Excellency looks like he's still deep in dreamland."
Pretty boys, like pretty girls, have low blood pressure. Wolfram rubs his eyes adorably and pulls the rough blanket close.
"Wolfram, you'll be late for school if you go back to sleep. You can nap in first period math class."
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.6
---Yuuri teaching Wolf the Lamaze technique to stay awake---
The boat starts listing slightly. Wolfram is starting to doze off next to me.
"Wah, Wolf, don't fall asleep! We're turning, we're going to start going around in circles—!"
"Hrmm."
"Not hrmm! Row! Row, come on! Pull-and-push, pull-and-push, heeheefuu, heeheefuu."
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.7
-Equally tired-
Conrad and Josak nonchalantly raise the white porcelain teacups to their lips, but Wolfram and I are both shaking right down to our fingertips and don't even have the energy left to slurp our drinks.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.7
-happy times-
"I'll go with you tomorrow." "Huh?" He can't give me any real help even if he comes with me. Even Conrad, who could make short work of any sword master, couldn't move a finger to help me. But Wolfram is indifferent to my private waffling. He folds his arms and says rather happily, "Since you're a total henachoko." "Stop calling me a henachoko!" Ah.
The selfish prince with the angelic features and clear emerald eyes that remind you of the bottom of a lake. Abbreviate half-ironically, and you get selfish Puu.
Wolfram always goes right to the point. He throws himself straight into any challenge.
He bores into both my mitt and my chest, but it's kinder and gentler than a lie.
"What? What are you grinning about?" "...I was just thinking, it's been a while." "What has?" "You calling me a henachoko."
"That's because you left the country. You left your people and your land to the care of others. You have no sense or consciousness of being a king. What's wrong with calling a henachoko a henachoko?" "Nothing."
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.7 -Closetting -
"Okay, then why don't I dump you? 'I'm sorry, let's call it quits?'" "Don't you dare! It would be a blow to my self-respect!" "Oh, oh riiight, then why don't you reject me? 'I refuse your proposal.' I think my pride would be able to handle it just fine. I was the one in the wrong, so no help for it." "I can't do that!" "Why not? Is there some kind of rule about that? Some sort of religious reason?" "Shut up!" Wolfram stands straight up and opens the corner door without another word. "Aaah, Wolf! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was wrong! I'm apologizing, so don't lock yourself up in the closet!"
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.7 -Equally frustrated-
Wolfram, who has no interest in human festivals, goes to bed immediately after finishing his wine. I feel like getting drunk and airing all my grievances too, but I'm not going to smoke or drink as long as there's still any possibility that I haven't reached my full height yet. Instead, I lie in bed tracking the moon's course.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.8 -Angel of Love-
So the whole party proceeded to the hospital in the morning and ended up dashing frantically about until noon.
But even though we've run ourselves to the ground, nobody has set off on their last journey yet—in fact, no less than three people revived. We've had gratitude heaped on us, and people have even started calling Wolfram the Angel of Love. But for us it's something of a mixed blessing.
-------------------------------------------------- Novel 2. ch.8 -Misunderstandings-
I pounce, trying to grab it from Wolfram, and land on top of him. This is the exact moment when— "Listen to this, Young Master...oops." "..." "Am I interrupting your fun, by any chance?" Josak closes the door again. "No, no, wait! We weren't having fun, we were not having any fun of any kind, you're taking it the wrong way! This is a massive, majorly massive misunder—ow!" I've bitten my tongue. "My my, Young Masters, it's the middle of the day, so if you're going to have a dalliance, you should at least lock the door. You really shouldn't tempt your elders like this," Josak teases in the voice he uses when disguised as a woman, and enters the room.
--------------------------------------------------
Novel 2. ch.10 -Sneaking into Yuuri's room for the first time-
"Wolf...what are you doing here?!"
"What do you mean, what am I doing?"
Wolfram, lying on his stomach and dressed like a madam after her bath, kicks his legs.
"I sneaked over for a night crawl."
"Night crawl?! A-as in, when a g-g-g-guy secretly crawls into a bed..."
"For a rendezvous?"
"Yeah, rendezvous...no no no no, that's not what I mean! The guy crawls into a woman's bed...!"
Now he's got me going at his pace.
Wolfram half-rises, scowling, a hand placed imperiously on his hip. He looks like pretty boy who's hit the mat after a knockdown, for those with the taste for it.
"If I had to wait for you, you'd never come to a decision."
"Um, incidentally, what sort of a decision are you looking for...?" My voice trails off as he sways his hips closer.
The Mazoku ex-prince's face brightens, and he pulls me down by the arm.
"Wah!"
"Are we any closer to a decision yet?"
"No!"
I'm terrified just thinking about what sort of decision this might be. I'm not going to lose my life or anything, but I do feel like there's something else I'm going to lose. I desperately extract myself, fly into the bathroom and lock the door.
"Yuuri!"
"Wait wait wait! I gotta take a bath first, okay?! You don't wanna do anything with a sweaty guy either, right?!"
Do...? I blanch at my own words.
My head and nose both prickle, and I stagger, suddenly dizzy.
"Yuuri! Hey, open the door!"
"No!"
Unable to keep upright any longer, I sit down on the rim of the tub
"Blooploop."
---------------------------------------------------------------
Yuuram in Novel : 1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17
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thickasthievesrpg-hidden · 8 years ago
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WELCOME TO THE HEIST, SAM!
YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF TOMMASO CAPECCHI
A note from Admin Risa: This week has truly been the week of the Capecchis - and I’m glad of it! It’s such a joy to have the eldest Capecchi child among us again, and having seen all that you can do, I’m certain that you’ll bring Tommaso to great heights, Sam. Your request to change Tommaso’s faceclaim to Michiel Huisman has been granted, and I’m very excited to see another Capecchi join us! Congratulations on your acceptance! You’ve been to the museums, the banks, the isolated manors with their black dogs and gilded keys. You’ve stolen their necklaces, their jewels, the prized heirlooms in their vaults and their safes. They’ll watch out for you. Please visit the after acceptance page and submit your account within the next 24 hours – we’re excited to have you with us!
OOC
Name/Alias + Pronouns: Sam She/her
Age: 23
Timezone + Activity CET/GMT+1. You guys know how my activity is; I go back to university in April, too (after taking a break for two years rip me) so it might drop down to a 6-7 by then. Between lectures and on the weekends I’d def have more time though. I love TaT and rping with y'all so I’d never abandon you if I could help it <3
IC
Desired Role: Tommaso Ettore Capecchi
Analysis:
sexuality/romantic preference – Tommaso Capecchi falls, first and foremost, for people. If someone is able to catch and hold his attention, to make him muse and wonder, lost in his own head to his own wishing thoughts, he’ll be intrigued. While it was Juliet’s beauty and elegance that drew him to her, it was who she was as a person whom he fell in love with in the end. Aware of the ‘traditional’ relationships that are expected from him, Tommaso keeps quiet about possible attractions to the same sex.
birthdate – September 16th, 1983. A son of late summer, he is just as lovely. The warm chill on your skin once the sun started to disappear behind the treetops and still, the sun lingered in your bones.
birthplace/hometown – Palermo. Palermo, oh Palermo, his heart and soul clings to this city, intertwined with it, two entities lost in an eternal dance. Despite the painful memories of his mother leaving them, Palermo is the one city Tommaso will always return to. His one true home. When he left he needed to, and when he returned it was for the same reason. But he doesn’t see it as forced. Family is his duty, before anything else. When they call, he answers.
occupation – He could be the new face of the Capecchi name, could be the legacy his father dreamed him to be. He could be, and when once, that notion twisted his stomach in a way that made it hard to breathe, it is now an opportunity. A chance to shape his own future, that of his siblings and his family name…perhaps to something better.
criminal occupation – Partner-in-crime – a right hand man, the one with ideas, the head behind the strings his father pulled. Sometimes, Tommaso wonders if he’d understand the world around him better if he had killed Salvatore all those years back, but he knows that murder doesn’t have to define him in the way it does his father. He has nothing but respect for Lorenzo, the two are simply two sides of the simple coin. His father’s side just happened to be splattered in blood.
Eleanor – From all his siblings, Tommaso believes he remembers her best, had the most time to spend with her, and that is exactly what hurts most. Every day, he misses his mother, wishes her back, yearns for the safety of her embraces, wonders what it was that drove her away from them. What cruelty did she see? What horrors couldn’t Lorenzo hide from her? Should Tommaso ever marry Juliet, he knows he’d try to do it differently. Try being the word – he'd tried with Talia, and lost her.
Migraines – He gets them, from time to time, and they’re a dully pounding pain in the confines of his skull. Managable. Other times, he gets them and it feels like they’re splitting open his head and spine, the tiniest ray of light hurting his eyes in ways unimaginable. When the bad ones hit, Tommaso retreats in his room, blinds closed and in his bed, waiting it out, enduring.
Four Characteristics:
+ Caring:
Before he left, he was that kind of brother who’d gather all his siblings during a thunderstorm to hide away with them in a blanket fort, who’d read them bedtime stories if they asked him to, and who’d, sometimes, for his own entertainment, scare them in dark hallways. He remembers playing with Alessia in the backyard, braiding Violetta’s hair while she told him a made up story, or even accompanying Santino to kindergarten at occasion. To this day, his siblings are the most important thing in Tommaso’s life, but he is aware he needs to earn their trust again, knowing that the gaping chasm between them is his fault and his fault only.
+ Good-willed:
Perhaps something of Eleanor’s rubbed off on Tommaso after all, but unlike some of his siblings, he doesn’t have a mean streak in his body. Of course, if pressed, or if the situation calls for it, he can change into something unknown and snarling. But he prefers solving his problems in a civilized fashion and approaching people with a gentle smile on his face.
- Naïve:
Tommaso, despite knowing better, despite coming from a family that has trained him to know better, believes that there is something good in everyone. Sometimes he wonders if that makes him a fool, if he’s stupid for thinking that people are gentler, kinder, softer than the world makes them out to be. He wants to believe it. If Tommaso knew better, he would have seen just how much Ciro has changed his demeanor towards the eldest Capecchi child from the very start. It’s this naïveté that makes him hope he can get through his life without ever having to kill someone, even if he knows better…
- Cautious:
Caution isn’t inherently a bad thing. But sometimes, caution hinders you from acting in a situation that needs quick acting. Tommaso isn’t brash like his father – he likes to think before he dives in head first, not as hot-blooded as Lorenzo…not yet, anyways. It can make him seem cold when he’s talking to new people, too, especially when it’s someone like Charles Villiers.
Expansion:
Santino Capecchi: The relationship with his baby brother might be the only one Tommaso can actually fix. Things have been just…different, ever since he came back; entirely his fault, and he is aware of that. Ciro is not the boy he remembers, and there’s a distance between Alessia and him, too. Violetta’s plagued by her own demons, but Santino? He was just a boy when Tommaso left and he wonders if his brother even remembers him well. But he wants to try to at least be close to him again, to save something.
Lorenzo Capecchi: ‘Daddy issues’ would be the words to use here. Tommaso has nothing but respect for his old man, don’t get him wrong – and the trust Lorenzo puts in him is not misplaced. They share the scars of heartbreak but a part of Tommaso can’t forgive his father for thrusting that gun into his hand and ordering him to kill Salvatore. They, too, need to mend what Tommaso has broken down, and he’s willing to try.
Para Sample(s):
“You should probably ring the bell, you know. Or knock. Knocking’s also an option.”
The chuckle that draws out of Tommaso is dry, and yet, he squeezes Juliet’s hand in silent appreciation. Her hand is warm in his, always is, soft, gentle. It’s what tethers him to this realm, what makes him think clear; what grounds him, what gives him the courage to face what is to come. He’s the cowardly lion, then, on his old home’s doorsteps. Isn’t that why he had run in first place? Not enough heart, not enough confidence, to face what his life actually is. He sought for a new one in hopes to be reborn, and for a time, it seemed like it had actually worked. It seemed like he could rebuild himself, set himself together bone for bone. But the past never really stays in the past, does it?
So he’s back in Palermo, back where it all began, back where he started, this tiny boy with hopes and dreams and the beating pulse of life in his heart’s ventricles. When he was soft kindness, and cheeky grins, when he ran the streets with his best friend and later lover, uncaring of all the dark things that would eventually catch up to them both. When they did, Tommaso was hardly prepared for it. He should have, he knew what was coming, and yet, he’d let it wreck him in every possible way. To be consumed by a simple scratch was weakness, wasn’t it?
Juliets gives his shoulder a light nudge with her own, and Tommaso looks over to her. She’s beautiful – of course she is, radiant and brilliant, her eyes so familair by now that Tommaso finds comfort in them with just one glance, like now. He takes a deep breath through his nose, looks back at the door, then Juliet again. “They can be…much,” he tells her, his voice soft. “Especially my father.”
Juliet shrugs. She leans into him, and Tommaso feels his own gravitation shift, meeting her halfway. “I think I can handle.”
“So take everything they say with a grain of salt.”
“Okay.”
“They’re good people, you know.”
“Tommy.” The old nickname almost feels wrong leaving her lips, the cold whisper from a life past, but Tommaso’ll take it. He cracks a grin; lazy, not genuine, not with the image of Violetta half-dead in a hospital bed, not with thoughts assaulting him, making him wonder if he could have protected her from this if only he stayed. He lets go of Juliets and takes a step forward, rings the bell, an unpleasant chill settling in the pit of his stomach.
He waits. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three.
The door opens.
Starter Example:
His skills had become rusty in the time he was gone, to say the least.
Or perhaps he had just aged badly. Wine that was rotten, that should have been beautiful to the taste and colour and yet, Tommaso believed that along the way, during the ten years he spent travelling the world and seeing more of life than he ever could have dreamed off, a drop of vinegar found its way into his bloodstream and ruined it all. He sat there, next to Lorenzo, head propped up in a hand: thumb against his jaw, index and middle finger pressed against his temple. It looked like he was simply resting, listening carefully, but if you looked closely, Tommaso was rubbing soothing cirlces into his temple. A feeble attempt to chase away the headache that’d began to pound dully about an hour ago. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
They were under attack. They were on high alert. This, Tommaso understood. What he didn’t was why everyone thought this could be fixed by loudly yelling at each other about whose fault this exactly was (the name ‘Lohovary’ was dropped quite often).
“I think we need a different approach to this.” Finally, Tommaso spoke up, the hand on his face dropping to the table slowly. His palm pressed against the cool surface, appreciating the change of temperature against his heated skin. “We have to be smart about this or all we’ll accomplish is draw more attention towards us. We can’t put our family, and the Society, in even more jeopardy.”
Freestyle/Extra:
You can find a Tommaso mockblog (also the blog I’ll eventually use should I be accepted) here!
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