#verdant storms

[verdantstorms]

EXU Trio Header Images

[viridiscrow]

Again, it'd be nice to be able to rb those "what does prev remind you of" polls without people reblogging from me, 'cause I already know which I am and... I dislike being misperceived.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, being hunted/chased, medieval period-esc standards, arranged marriage insinuations, toxic family insinuations, angst, protective Johnny?, etc.

A/N: This series is so Lord Huron coded

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You rush through the low-hanging branches of the reaching pines, their green arms tearing at the once perfect and virginal white dress clothing your body; waves of delicate fabric like bird’s wings. Shredded and torn, you sob in large gasps while the shouting gets louder behind you—the pound of vile hooves along cobblestone. 

“After her!” Blood was rushing down a long slice in your palm, dripping to the verdant grass as you traversed the off-trial paths, the roads of animals and bandits—monsters in the night. 

Flashes of torchlight had gone out long ago, the rain slamming the ground with ancient purpose as the storm got angrier. Tree trunks slam into your shoulders, the wedding dress ripping away in strips as pine needles pierce the bare skin of your feet. Your shoes had slipped off as soon as you had started this mad dash. 

“She went this way! Quickly!” You run faster, shuffling down a long hill as mud gets packed into your flesh; infecting wounds with its slimy make-up. 

“Please,” your voice begs lowly, hiccuping out vowels as you drop to your knees at the bottom of a ravine before you sob and grit your teeth. Wading through the stream of chilled water, you dig into the ground and shove yourself up on shaking legs as rain pelts your head. “Please, I can’t go back.”

Even your thin clothes are heavy on you—body weighed down by terror and a desperate plea. Because what you said was true. You can’t go back. Can’t go back to the search party, can’t go back to the ceremony…and you can’t go back to the man you were supposed to marry. No, you’d rather face the woods. 

Scaling up the other edge of the ravine, you slam a bloody hand down to the rocks atop, pebbles flying past your face as a flash of lightning momentarily illuminates your field of view. Noises reminiscent of an animal carve their way out of your esophagus, teeth gritted as feet slip and strain. 

You heave yourself over and fight the weakness in your arms. Coughing, you pray the storm will wash away any trace of your charge to freedom—the blood and the tracks. With any luck, the hounds won’t be able to pick up your scent even with the strips of your dress left behind in the branches. 

Pushing away the water from your forehead, you stumble onwards on unsteady feet that pound with pain. Grasping at your gushing palm, you cry out as the burning pain echoes up your forearm.

“Whatever God is out there,” You speak in gasps, slurring the words as your dry throat grates. It’s all but lost to the wind in its great bouts of staggering attacks through the trucks of the trees. “Please, offer me sanctuary.” 

Lightning is the world’s answer, more streaks of light that make your soaked body flinch and shake even more. Yet, in that tiny second of light, there had been something in the far distance—a shadow. 

Your eyes peer harder, the calls from the riders suck in the back of your mind as they taper off as the search is re-routed. 

What was…?

Wooden sides, three separate rectangular shapes that stand firm in the rampaging elements. Your feet slide over the ground as you limp in the direction you’d seen them, the flesh of your body so cold that you had gone numb in the sheets of rainfall. 

A heart fills with senseless hope.

A homestead! With no other option, you take a deep, ragged, breath and continue on as quickly as you’re able; dress hanging off one shoulder. When you reach the front door some ear-ringing minutes later you’re barely standing upright—legs teetering and thighs shaking with dying vigor. 

Panting, your first banging to the wood is weak at best, barely a sound above the thunder and the slap of rain. You strangle a sob and wrench your shoulder back, landing three hard hits that act more like punches. Pain blossoms in your hand, but you continue striking the wood. 

There’s a loud ruckus from behind the blackened barrier, a yell, and before your knuckles can make themselves bleed from fear-filled adrenaline, the door is whipped open. A dim firelight spills out from a low hearth and you find yourself staring into the narrowed eyes of a man and his exasperated expression. 

There’s the beginning of a growl, heavy with an accented voice, “Now who in the hell is—!”

A strong jaw goes slack, brunette stubble stilling. Blue eyes like cobalt instantly peel back to show the whites, words strangled away in a sharp inhale. 

The man is in his late twenties, stocky, and clothed in a loose sleep shirt made of thin linen with black pants. His shoulders were near large enough to knock on the frame of the door as he stood in it, built with the strength of a boar and then some. His large, lightly-tanned hand on the door slackens as his eyes speedily dart down your disoriented form. Biceps the size of your skull.

Heart hammering, you stare for a moment longer, rain pelting your back and looking like a wet dog. It’s as if you’ve forgotten to speak beyond gasps for air, but your eyes implore enough for you. The stranger recovers from his surprise at seeing such a beautiful lone woman at his door with a clearing of his throat.

“...Christ, Dearie, you’re soakin’ wet out here.” He shoulders the door open wider without another question. “Inside, now, quickly.” 

You wrap your arms around your waist and speed into the shelter of the home, water dripping down to the wood as you shiver and your teeth clatter. Not for a second did you think if this might be safe or not, too scared of the riders and their hounds than anything. You wouldn’t allow them to drag you back to your husband-to-be. Not in a million years. 

Your voice is hiccuping as you speak.

“I…I don’t mean to i-intrude, I’m very sorry, Sir.” The man looks around his home before he spots a large bear fur by the messy bed in the corner—he rushes over and grabs it. “I ask forgiveness for w-waking you at such an hour.”

“Jesus, is that what you’re worried about?” Blue eyes crease at you as the heavy fur over your shoulders; your hands snap to catch it, the entire thing swallowing you as gaze up in confusion. The man frowns, staring back as water drips from your nose. “Let’s just focus on gettin’ you dry, yeah? You’ll catch your death like this, Little Lady.” 

A wide hand presses to the expanse of your spine, prodding you forward as you squeak at the sudden contact. You’re guided to a small chair in front of the hearth, plopped down and the sides of the fur are hiked up to your neck quickly.

The stranger kneels down in front of you, focused, and his tired eyes alight with worry. He makes sure the fur isn’t going to fall as he blinks over the state of your hands. He pauses, his large grip stalling at the sight of spreading blood. 

Your wound—you’d almost forgotten. 

“Now what’s this, then?” The brunette's words are quiet, very in-tune with your state as you try to catch your breath and shiver. It was like coaxing a wild animal. 

Blinking, you shift your hand farther under the bear's fur, bringing it to your chest. 

“I won’t be here long, Sir. I promise,” you try to change the topic, but quickly jerk your nose into the crook of your arm as you sneeze, bending over slightly as mud and blood stain your skin. 

Lips tighten along a square face.

“It’s Johnny, Miss.” The world outside rages on, blocked out by the four walls of this nicely sized home of wooden logs and boards. It was well-made with pine and cider, the large hearth in the back wall with inlets near the shuddered windows and various crudely carved pieces of art. 

Weapon displays lined the walls, various makes and models hung on pegs. Axes and swords, spears with red-leather shafts set next to halberds of black steel. You blink at them in slight concern, not used to being around weapons. 

Johnny, as he calls himself, sees this and quickly explains as he rubs at the back of his head, eyes crinkling. 

“Ah, Johnny MacTavish, the blacksmith, that is,” a small, rough chuckle echos out. 

You ease at that. 

“Mr. MacTavish,” you give your name and offer a kind, yet still anxious, smile. “I give my thanks for allowing me shelter. A-and the fur.” 

His gaze slips down to your hidden hand once more, face swirling with an unidentified emotion before studying your torn wedding gown.

“Well, I’m not one to leave a person out on my doorstep in weather like this. Certainly not a Lady.” His brow raises, head tilting. “You going to let me clean that wound a’yours or am I going to have to fish it out myself?” 

Your body tenses slowly, bare feet shuffling over the floor. Staring at Johnny, you gaze at the strangely cut hair atop his head and the messy strands that speak to a night of shifting on his bed. His face is honest and open to you, blinking in soft question as his head angles to the side with an easy twitch of his lips. 

“It’s really not necessary,” you try to chuckle but it falls flat, eyes red and heart still speeding. 

Johnny sighs and glances at the fire, blinking before he shifts to grab another log and toss it in with no concern for the heat of the flame that lap at his fingers. You watch his muscles bunch under his shirt and quickly look at your lap. 

“I’m not the greatest doctor out there, Dearie, but I can do good with washin’ out a cut an’ wrapping it.” You study him and nervously tighten your lips. Johnny’s face seems to soften, hands going up and wrists tilting as his knee stays connected to the floor; firelight on his face. A small smile blooms. “C’mon, I’m not that scary of a bastard, am I?”

You spare a tiny chuckle, shoulders jumping as rainwater slips down your chin. Your shivering was still going on, and would until you got a change of clothes, but the warmth from the fire was helping tremendously. Already feeling was returning to your limbs. 

“Ah,” the blacksmith huffs a laugh, “there’s a smile. Now, let's have a little look-see shall we?” 

Under the fur, your hand lightly shifts, coming back into view, slit palm and all. Johnny’s eyes darken, face going serious behind his stubble. Brown brows turn in. 

“Now where in the hell did you get a—” Just as his gigantic hands were about to circle around yours, there was a violent knock at the door. 

You shoot up in an instant, jerking away from the blacksmith as he snaps his head to the front, eyes lighting. He stands up slowly as you back up a few paces, eyes frantically darting back and forth. The knocking starts up again and thunder peels from outside. 

Your form flinches.

“You can’t let them take me back,” you say quickly, breathing catching up in speed again. Fear burns your lungs and suddenly you’re ten times colder than before. “Mr. MacTavish, please, I can’t go back.”

Another round of knocking shakes the barrier. Blues eyes stare at you blankly, half-turned face pulled in visible confusion as Johnny’s jaw clenches. 

A voice echoes from under the door as the blacksmith once more lets his eyes linger down your battered frame; taking in cuts and the limp you carry. Muddy feet and water stained red. His hands twitch at his sides. 

“These are the guards of Lord Wilkin, would anyone in this home come to make him or herself known? It is of the utmost urgency!” You grow more fearful, head darting to find any other exit in this home but you land on nothing besides the windows. Your fingers shake with panic.

No, no, no.

Confusion gives way to deep concern.

A hand grasps your upper arm and you’re being hurried to the corner wall by the front door with fast feet and a firm, iron, grip. An accented voice mumbles quietly by your ear, “Keep quiet for me, Dearie. It’s alright, you let me take care of it.”

He stands you there and takes one last look at you, blinking, before grabbing the bear fur and pulling it above your head in a swift motion. There’s a quiet chuckle as you tense and slam a hand up to the brown material instinctually before Johnny darts around the corner and opens the door. You hold your breath and listen.

“Well, steamin’ Jesus, you bastards have any idea what time it is?! And in this damning weather, you show up at my door reamin’ on the wood like you’re the one who has to keep it anchored to the frame.” There’s a fast conversation of apologies and explanations that you can't catch above the yell of the rain.

“Does it look like I give a shite about a lost bride? Not my fuckin’ place to keep ‘er…I’ve seen nothing besides you…anyone out in this storm is as good as lost…” You listen and stay completely still, holding your breath as if it’s a prisoner in your lungs. 

You can hardly believe it. Why was this man…lying for you? A wounded stranger that had shown up at his doorstep in nothing but a tattered gown and babbling through tears. Anyone else would have turned you over—especially to your betrothed, Lord Wilkin. He owned these lands and held fiefs by all who lived here. Not a man to mess with, if your slit palm was anything to go by.

“Go on!” Johnny calls loudly, and the door closes a second later, the latch locking. There’s a moment of nothing, before the clearing of a throat and a soft call. “Well, they won’t be back, least.” 

He pops around the corner and smiles comfortingly. 

“Sorry about the yellin'.” You part your lips in innocent awe and you take a deep breath before speaking slowly.

“Why would you do that?” His expression tightens, crossing his arms over his chest. Under him, his large hips shift.

“Ya asked, didn’t you?” Your blank expression only serves to make him chuckle heartily, head shaking. Johnny hums, “I won’t press you about it all tonight, though I well should. You’re in no shape for it.” Cobalt eyes glance at the food before looking back up. “But I’m guessin’ you have a good enough reason to sneak off as I hear you did.” 

The very blood in your body heats with warmth.

You’re waved back over to the chair by the hearth. “Let’s get that injury looked at and I‘ll get you a change of clothes. You can take my place for the night,” eyes twinkle, “there’s no bed bugs in it, Dearie, knight’s honor.”

“What about iron shavings?” You call back softly, lips jerking up momentarily. The man’s actions had given you a large amount of trust in him. Johnny blinks in surprise at your joke, but a large grin grows moments later as you walk over delicately.

“Can’t say for certain, but I promise there’ll be no weapons under the covers. If anyone breaks in they’ll find my fists to be the first iron they get a touch of.” 

Your laugh bounces off the walls, hand coming up to cover your mouth in the picture of a cultured upbringing. Johnny chuckles in turn, looking smug. He liked your laugh, it seems.

“That was detestable, Mr. MacTavish.” You sit down, and Johnny kneels where he had been before—his hand outstretched where you carefully place your wounded limb. 

Immediately you feel the scrape of old burns and calluses, hands hardened by long hours of labor and intensive demands. You’re certain these are the hardest hands that have ever touched your skin, but it astounds you by how gently you’re being caressed and turned. People with far fairer flesh have never handled you like this. As if you would break apart with the barest of pressures.

Your breath stills as the blacksmith, with all the care of a butterfly, tilts your cut into the light and studies it, thumb absentmindedly brushing up and down your wrist. You hold back a shiver. 

“Ah,” he grumbles, still smiling yet more focused on your injury now. “It wasn’t that bad.”

You hum under your breath and try not to flinch when he wipes away a stain of mud near your wound. The blacksmith grunts to himself, gentle pressure at your flesh like the scuff of tree bark. But it wasn’t unpleasant. No, you thought, not at all. 

The two of you fall into a hole of soft silence, Johnny leaving for a moment to grab a bucket of water and bandages, saying in a mutter that he had plenty of the former to go around.

“Have a habit of burnin’ myself on my bad days, y’see,” he shimmies past, pausing before pulling back up the bear fur from where it had slightly slipped down your neck. “Comes with the job.”

Your face burns as he grabs what he needs, eyes stuck on your lap. You were astounded by the man’s ability to put away his obvious confusion for your care, how he was content to wait for answers until you were rested. It was honorable of him. 

Thinking back to Lord Wilkin’s guards at the door, your thighs shift over the chair. They’d be looking for you until they found you—be that days or months, it didn’t matter. The Lord wasn’t someone to let what he wanted get away from him. Like senseless beasts, your family would undoubtedly help. Your chest is stiff with worry. How would you get away with this?

The scene you’d made at the wedding wasn’t exactly subtle. 

Johnny comes back carrying a small bucket of fresh water, ladled from the wash basin, and a bundle of clean white cloth. 

“Alright,” he huffs, “let’s get this sorted, eh, Dearie?” The wound was very obviously a slice from a knife, anyone could see it. 

Johnny takes your hand once more and holds it in his palm, glancing up at you before dipping one of the cloths into the water and beginning to clean the cut. 

“Is it…bad, Mr. MacTavish?” You ask, worried about the likelihood of scarring. That would be the last thing you would want. The blacksmith looks up from where he pats the edges, the fabric already going red.

“Just Johnny, if it pleases you,” he smiles, hulking form seemingly all a facade to hide a cheeky and loyal Scot. “And…no, not bad. If you’re worried about a mark, don’t be—it’s deep but only at the beginning. A slight discoloration, no more.” His brows pull back, teasing, “You’ll not end up like me, at any rate.” Your shoulders ease back, and you let him work with a thankful comment and a giggle.

You watch and take in the way his jaw clenches and loosens as he works, completely focused as if he was fashioning an axe and not helping a complete stranger. 

“There’s no harm in scars,” you settle on saying, thinking over his last comment. Blues lock with your eyes, head tilting like a hound. Your face gains a slight heat to it and you stutter, “It’s just this one I’d rather not carry, Johnny.” Smiling warmly, you see the man’s lips part, his motions stalling for a moment as he looks up at you and blinks. “But yours suit you if…I’m allowed to say.”

It’s then that you realize that a slight flush has come to his cheeks, starting from under his stubble and leaking out to his cheeks like a red blaze—his gaze burrows deep with hidden fire that rivals the dancing shadows from the hearth.

Noticing, your own face burns all the hotter as the blacksmith quickly clears his throat, snapping his eyes away. Fingers once more cleaning your cut, he grunts out, neck now shifting to a blush of crimson, “...Thank you, Miss.” 

You stay in silence for the rest of the delicate process; the air heated and rolling with something. Electricity sparks when Johnny’s hands rub across yours, large enough to break you in an instant but acting like moss over a stone. You find yourself falling into a sort of comforted state you hadn’t felt in a long time—the fur over your shoulders and the tingle of skin-on-skin contact that expects nothing but offers all. 

“There,” Johnny says at last, and a part of you wants to cry when he pulls back, standing slowly. A firm but malleable wrapping is over your palm, a tiny knot tied in the middle to keep it from falling off. 

You bring it to your abdomen and blink, the other hand going to run over the material. 

“Thank you, Johnny. Truly. If I hadn’t found your homestead, I would have been lost.” The man rubs at the back of his neck, tunic bunched up by his elbows. 

“Gah,” after a second of bruising off the comment, he waves a hand while his wide chest puffs with pride. “It’s no trouble, really. Keeps me on my toes.”

Outside the storm continues to beat the walls, and the blacksmith can’t help but feel his eyes drawn to your dwarfed form under the large fur, the dripping water, and the weight of your gown. Based on the information from the guard, he had a decent story already forming in his head. 

A runaway bride and an angry Lord. By his own role as the fiefdom’s accomplished blacksmith, he should be turning you over. But your eyes had been flooded with tears when you’d pounded on his door; soaked in rain and mud—blood. No shoes. Freezing. 

You had looked so afraid, his heart had hurt for you, a strong need to shelter you stuck like a knife into his ribs. Johnny had seen much in his life, war, and death, but your desperation had stuck a cord in him. 

He’d keep you here with no charge, offer food and shelter, and do what he can to understand your situation. If not for simply hospitality sake, then because he had heard your laugh and had found it to be like a bird’s call in the wake of a dew-coated morning. Your soft skin like the wisps of fire from his forges. Your voice like a rippling spring. There was no way to describe the way he wanted to help besides to admit to himself that he was a good man. 

And, while cocky, the blacksmith had never once been self-absorbed.

He watches you rub at your damp cheek and starts out of whatever trance he had been sucked into. 

“I’ll…” Johnny rubs at his neck again, “I’ll get you that change of clothes, Bonnie. You just wait right here.” 

You stare at his back as he strides over, the fatigue washing back over you now that the adrenaline leaves in its stupendous sweep of heavy heartbeats. Anyone else would have given you up. Your face softens, seeing the quick dig of hands into the stack of clothes in the dresser. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” the man huffs, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Dearie, all I’ve got are my tunics and pants.” Black and pale cream linen is held up on display. 

“Oh,” you mutter, “I don’t mind,” your chuckle makes his lips twitch with care. “I would just prefer to be out of this…thing.” Your eyes glare down at the tattered gown, breathing softly. “Anything is perfect.”

“Well, then I hope you don’t mind the smell of fire,” Johnny hums. “Here you are.” As much as his insides twist to understand the story, making sure you don’t run a cold was more important. 

Your legs push you up and you walk over softly, gliding over the wooden floor to take up the articles and dig your fingers into the warm and easy texture, thin stitching, and cuffed wrists. There was a cut down the neck with a tied cord looped through, making up an ‘x’ pattern. 

“I would say thank you again,” you begin, “but I think you’ll be getting annoyed with how many times I’ve already said it.”

Johnny laughs, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his feet. 

“Ah, perhaps only a little.” Silence laps into a minute, and you study him with slow puzzlement, tilting your head. For a moment, the man wonders what he’s done. The blacksmith’s dark brows furrow, lips moving back. He looks down at the clothes again and starts with a wild blinking of his lids. 

“Oh! Hell’s bells, right,” Johnny walks to the other side of the room and swiftly turns his back to you with respect and a burning neck. He cringes. “Christ.” 

You laugh brightly, letting the fur fall to the floor as you undress and shimmy into the borrowed clothes. Your nose takes in the scents of metal and fire—fatty linseed oil used to protect a blade against corrosion. With the crackling fire, you slip the large tunic above your head and find that it falls heavily over you; far thicker than it seemed and very comfortable, ending at your lower thigh. 

But those scents make your head spin, rolling up the cuffs as you bring your nose to the collar and once more take it in with a slow breath. You hum and move, throwing the bear fur back atop your shoulders and grabbing your ruined garments from the floor before calling out to the rod-straight figure. 

“Johnny?” His arms lightly jerk, as if he’d been unfocused, but he doesn’t turn around. “Where would you like me to throw these?” 

The blacksmith delicately tilts his head to the side and utters with his eyes stuck to the side wall. “Bin by the door is just fine.” You look to the container holding scraps and other garbage to be taken out and drop the gown in before rubbing your cheek. 

Wide cobalt eyes stare at the clothes you wear heavily, jaw loose before he re-set it and averts his gaze. Johnny chuckles to ease himself and loops his thumbs into his waistband, embarrassed.

“Do you need anything else, then?” Your eyes blink with fatigue.

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Gazing at the home, your lips thin. Your family would have a heart attack if you even mentioned that you were staying the night at a complete stranger’s homestead. No protection, no way to beat off a blacksmith beyond a well-placed punch, and running from your betrothed. To say that you’d cause anything less than a heart attack would be generous. But Johnny felt different. Firmer in his emotions and intentions. Far more than the Lord. 

That was really all that matted. 

“Are you really sure this is okay,” you still ask hesitantly, gargantuan clothes atop your frame. Johnny is already nodding firmly.

“It’s my pleasure. I won’t be turnin’ you back out to the woods in a storm like this.” For whatever reason, the next words fall from his lips like an oath. “There’ll be no harm comin’ to ya as long as you stay under my roof.” 

Your hand burns with the memory of his gentle grip and your heart skips beats. You feel as if a great weight is lifted, even if only for a night. 

“Alright,” your words barely make it to air, and you grip the bear fur harder to stop yourself from kissing this man’s cheek, wanting to take him into a tight hug. 

Johnny takes a blanket from the bottom of his bed and shuffles over to the inlet below the shuddered window, sitting down while you slowly walk forward. 

“But, Little Lady,” you rest on the edge of the bed and look up to find him watching you intently, leaning back with a hand behind his head and the other on his stomach. The fire still crackles, the storm still dances outside, and the room is still tight with something you can’t put a name to. Like you’re caught in a trap of soft pillows and the scent of metal, you listen to the blacksmith with bated breath. “I’ll be needin’ answers…you hear?” 

Licking your lips, you nod tersely. “Tomorrow,” you agree. 

Johnny gazes off into your eyes, the runaway bride that had shown up on his doorstep and captured his attention like a bird made of a white wedding gown and panicked breath. He sneaks a peek down at your wrapped hand as you settle on his bed, burrowing into his furs and his covers—wearing his clothes. 

For some unknown reason, the smallest of blood stains makes his chest roll with bright anger. 

“Tomorrow,” he grunts through a tight jaw before he fights to turn his head away from you. It’s a long while before he sees any type of sleep, listening to the sound of your soft breath and the crackle of the fire.

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[throwaway-yandere]

𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙙𝙞𝙜𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮 (Yandere!Neuvillette/Reader)

a/n: this was inspired by my favorite childhood TV show, House MD & Oedipus Rex. The plot was supposed to be something else but dingleaf happened one 4AM ago. Anyways, welcome to our first Throwaway-Thursday this End of Year Blues!!!

Unreliable Synopsis: Everyone held their breath when they heard ex-defense attorney (Y/n) say these words: "Your Honor, I would like to challenge Champion Duelist Clorinde to clear my charges."

CW: yandere themes, reader has so much spite I can fry an egg, hurt/NO COMFORT. Please prioritize your mental health if these CWs are triggering to you. (Note: The plot happens a month before the Fontaine AQ, so he doesn't know about what happened to Vautrin.)

“Why the pale expression? Has the trial last week caused you tremendous pain?”

"Such pallor is caused by pity, not grief.” Neuvilette made his fragile excuse to reassure Furina, but the words did not reach her ears. The ringing of raindrops outside was louder, more convincing. Fontaine is vexed with storms near-daily. The sad verdant earth will soon sponge and dry the hydro dragon’s tears as always, but every man hopes they won’t drown first. 

At first, he was convinced what he harbored was pity. For the pessimists, Fontaine is a nation where virtuous pagans paraded themselves as rich and devoted ran amok. Absolute justice is a cartoonish ideal– lack of entertainment is the death sentence. 

Lady Furina was starting to believe he lives his life by a certain suspect’s final envoi: 

Count no man happy till he dies, free of pain at last.

"Are you insane?!" Navia held your shoulders, eyes wide. 

This was the worst thing you could ever do to your best friend. 

"Maybe I am." You told her, chuckling slightly as your thumbs caressed the nerves behind her palms. Navia, as intimidating as her occupation was, never once gripped you this hard. 

You wish you could hug her fully.

But these prison bars are holding you back.

"Can you blame me, Nav?"

"Don't." She glared. "Don't do this."

Navia trembled.

"Please, don't follow Dad..."

The blonde woman was reduced to a young, hopeless girl. You saw a reflection of the small Navia who lost Callas, and that short glimpse was stretched into a whole tragic spectacle. 

"I'm begging you, (Y/n). Please… d-don't go away. Don't leave me too…"

This was the cruelest you've ever been to someone you love.

But also the kindest you've been to yourself.

"There's nothing else I can do, Nav."

"W-We can always do something! There must be a way!" She screamed gutturally. "We'll find a way to make that Chief Justice pay instead. If there's a will—"

"But there's none. There is no will in me left."

"Then hold on to mine, for Archon's sake! Depend on me!"

"What for? We both lack the means to grasp our Archon's hand." You shook your head, grinning without life. 

You wiped the tears off her cheeks. In a small fraction of time, you trembled, showing a bit of soul.

"Our Goddess has abandoned me. Everyone and everything but you had." You said. "Dear Navia, don't make this harder for yourself. Let me go."

"(Y/n)..."

Her grip relaxed.

Navia finally let go.

But that was not the scene's last word.

Clorinde sprinted towards your cell, seething in electric rage. Navia stepped back. Their relationship might be less than cordial, but Clorinde was also your friend.

And after all these years of friendship, she never would've guessed you would elicit such melancholic frustration within her.

She knows she'll come out of this duel victorious.

She knows if she doesn't say a word, she'll be the one to bury you six feet under.

Clorinde's fists clenched and her breathing grew harsh and difficult, unable to accept your inhumane gaze.

"Is this your solution, (Y/n)?"

From the tone of her voice, this would not be a pleasant conversation. One wrong word, and you'll see a side of the Champion Duelist not even her court opponents knew.

You nodded.

"Yes."

"State your reason."

"Because this is the only way I'll die with dignity."

…

"Die… with dignity?"

Something inside her cracked.

"Yes." You nodded again, becoming uncertain. "At least with this, there would be something Neuvillette cannot decide for me. And (Y/n) (L/n) chooses a dignified death."

“DEATH HAS NO DIGNITY!!!” 

You and Navia flinched at the sudden sound.

Clorinde screamed, feeling her eyes burn. Her veins became more prominent in her face and her skin reddish. The sheer force of her scream was enough to bring your full attention to her, yet to the duelist, her uncharacteristic outburst meant nothing.

“DEATH WILL ALWAYS BE UGLY!!! DEATH– DEATH IS NEVER BEAUTIFUL!!! IT IS ALWAYS SINISTER— LOATHSOME AND VILE.”

"Clor—"

She pulled you by your collar.

“There– there is only dignity in living.” She trembled, casting her gaze down. “You can live with dignity– but you can’t die with it.”

For a while, only her unsteady breathing could be heard.

Clorinde eventually calmed down, her heavy sighs and frantic pants slowing as the red hue of her face somewhat returned to its usual pale complexion. She couldn’t afford a second more to process her growing grief.

"Find another duelist."

As a successor to the Marechaussee Hunters, there's no one else you need but her.

"But I want you."

"(Y/n)."

"You've always been my idol, Clorinde." You told her solemnly. "I always thought you at least made my clients have a clean death under your blade."

Clorinde paused.

That, she cannot deny. 

She did spare mercy to the people you defended. But she doesn't understand how you fail to comprehend why she couldn't bear to bring herself to enact the same reprieve for you.

"Retrieve your gloves. I don't and I won't accept your challenge." Clorinde closed her eyes. "Live your days in the Fortress instead. Death is not the solution."

You laughed. As if you'd let yourself be under Wriothesley's guidance when you can smell from miles away that he's one of Neuvillette's lap dogs.

"Isn't this suffering enough?" You spoke with a casual lack of self-preservation. "I don't want to live under Neuvillette's scrutinizing eyes. Not anymore."

You looked up.

That empty smile was no longer on your face.

And that was somehow more frightening than it should be.

"So do your job as a champion and end it all, just like what you've done to Uncle Callas and the others."

Your last conversation with the Duke was not as memorable as when he caught you spiking the Iudex’s cup, yet you’d give his personality credit where it is due. His was certainly a memorable one.

Wriothesley stood a few steps away from the bars while you purposefully cornered yourself. The distance was noticeable. It was clear that neither of you was close to each other. This was mere formality brought about by one of your should’ve-been victims.

“So, you sure don’t want to be roommates?” Wriothesley asked. "Or you know, see old friends and family down there?"

"I'd rather not disappoint them with my presence."

“So, you're a coward?" He asked, intending to provoke you.

"Maybe?" you answered, mimicking his tone. "Wouldn't know. Last time I checked, I was an honorable defense attorney. But suddenly, the Iudex had a change of heart."

"Neuvillette didn't have a change of heart. You are a terrorist."

You laughed sardonically, "suppose so."

You both weren't entirely wrong. Friends and foe alike know you've turned to rebellion after the justice system had failed you repeatedly. Neuvillette's lovestruck fixation was merely the final straw.

“You’re walking on a death sentence.”

“No shit,” you clicked your tongue and continued. “What else do you think this is for?”

“The Iudex was convinced that you’re acting out because you had a guilty conscience, and he’s very willing to drop those charges and forgive you.”

“Guilty conscience?! HA!!!” You laughed. “As if I felt guilty for what I’ve done. If anything, I’m rejoicing.”

Wriothesley smirked, but it faded quickly.

“I told him the same, but then he says if that were true, you’re probably just masking it to play the villain’s part.”

“Do you believe every word he says?”

“No,” Wriothesley did not hesitate to answer. “I know a criminal when I see one. And I also know when a criminal can get away with their mess.”

“The jury thinks otherwise– the oratrice cannot be wrong.” You snickered. “I’m as guilty as they come, hands filled with arsenic and all.”

"You can still get out of this. Sure, you'll get a stern talking-to— a lecture on the virtue of honor and respect. But in the end, he'd give you a second chance. He's still hoping that a mutual agreement will arise in the end."

You expressed your disinterest with a droopy-eyed “Blah, blah, blah…”

Wriothesley frowned.

“You’ll make him depressed.”

You raised an eyebrow. 

“And you think I care? Fontaine can flood next month. Just as long as I die tomorrow it’s none of my business.”

…

“Well, it’s your call,” Wriothesley said. “If you’re willing to throw your life away like that, then you probably wouldn’t survive a week underwater.”

He wrapped a hand around one of the bars.

“You know, (Y/n),” the Duke looked at you dead in the eye. “Marriage with the Iudex isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

You laughed.

“What makes you say that?” You smiled through gritted teeth. “Are you his second spouse?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “You could’ve just lived a bit more silently.”

You glared. 

“Are you saying I should live like a caged bird? That I should accept that our system here is rigged?”

“I’m saying you should’ve been more grateful with what you have.”

You scoffed.

“Wow.”

An awkward silence followed after. It wasn’t as if a quip was hard to form– but the historical context behind whom you were speaking to made weighing empathy over spite a challenge. You knew of his past, his name or lack thereof, and quiet allegiance to Neuvillette. Sigewinne had made sure you knew of it to glorify the adoptive “father” of the Melusines. Wriothesley owes him his survival.

But "Wriothesley" of all people should've known that those who know morbid truths cannot be silenced forever. 

And Neuvillette owes you a peaceful death. 

… The Duke sighed, noticing that his admiration for the Iudex did not align with his current morals.

“We’ll forever agree to disagree on this, won’t we?” He asked.

“Hopefully not forever, I don’t want to stay here for much longer.”

Wriothesley chuckled at your morbid joke. But before he could walk away with a less-than-heavy heart, you shifted from your corner.

“Hey, Wriothesley?”

He turned to look at you– your hand specifically.

It’s a letter.

“Mind handing these to the authorities?”

Wriothesley’s eyes widened.

“Is that–”

“It’s a written confession,” you chuckled. “Don’t ask me how I got a pen and paper. I know that damn bastard forbids anyone to lend me anything that’ll help me write a final will. Gotta say, at least his etiquette lessons had some use. At least my last words are in pretty cursive.”

He didn’t say another word. 

…

The Duke left the room, empty-handed.

…

No one wants to see the Iudex more heartbroken than he already is now.

The interrogation room was small, but not to the point that there was a minimal budget for its construction. You sat on one end behind the glass divider after one of the guards took your letter. There were only plain walls and two lightbulbs on the ceiling. At the center of the room is a table with two chairs on either side, no pen or paper. 

Nothing but an empty table. 

But the quiet comfort was gone when the man of the hour closed the door behind him. As the ticking of the clock becomes more softer, the two individuals would be forced to sit for the duration of this “interrogation.”

It was none other than your husband, the Iudex, the Chief Justice of Fontaine, and the bane of your existence.

Monsieur Neuvillette.

His back was straight; his eyes, “stern” and focused. He clasped his hands together, fingers intertwined. His gaze searched for something— regret, remorse, anything that could make the upcoming nightmare disappear. 

Neuvillette's voice was “calm” and “collected.” 

But you didn’t buy it. Not with his messy hair, his forlorn look, his frown. You rarely saw him cry. You had a gut feeling he hides it by standing amidst heavy rain, but this time the redness of his eyes and puffiness of his cheeks says it all.

It’s a heavy downpour outside. 

He can’t be bothered to hide his tears from the public eye anymore.

"In your own words, please explain why you had attempted to poison me."

Your eyes lit up. He immediately wished he could take those words back. 

So, he’s still in denial. Neuvillette seriously didn’t think you wrote the letter. He probably didn’t think it was your handwriting. It was almost insulting.

“Oh, Monsieur! You are as generous as they say, finally letting your spouse speak for themselves!” You grinned sarcastically. “And they say chivalry is dead! DEAD!!!”

He cringed at your pointed enthusiasm.

You recount the day you attempted to murder him, describing how you had slipped the poison into his favorite cup. How you didn’t really care to hope it wouldn’t be noticed since what mattered more to you was his death over your own freedom. The more detailed you became, the more it suffocated him.

“But, as you can see, you’re alive and I am behind this glass window,” you tapped the divider. “Away from you, at last.”

He bit his lip.

“(Y/n)—”

“I hate you.”

He breathed in shakily.

“I know.”

“And yet you still fell for it.” Your voice suddenly softened. 

“Why?” You continued. “Why did you believe my act for the past month? I know you had your suspicions, so why? You knew I was just playing along to get your guard down– to act like some loving housewife so I can find the opportunity to smother you with a pillow– so… why?”

“Maybe…”

Neuvillette took a deep breath.

“Maybe it’s because dying by your hands would be a dignified way to go.”

Your eyes widened. The air turned to glue. Breathing became a challenge.

He looked up, meeting your gaze. Monsieur Neuvillette was serious. No shifting position can make you feel comfortable. 

Because Neuvillette in his most sincere form of speech is the most brutal.

“I just wished to be loved by y-you,” his voice cracked. “Even for a moment, even for a lie, I would die to know I was loved by you.”

His face crumpled, tears flowing freely. He reached a hand out against the glass window, his palm marking the divider. Neuvillette was breathing erratically, desperate to hold you. The pain in his chest was getting heavier, much like the rain outside. You almost couldn’t hear him from all the background noise, and you wished that was what happened. 

This was the man who took your clients' happiness. The man who took Uncle Callas away with his rationale. The reason for your unhappiness.

And yet, you couldn't think of any other person who would love you as much as he does. 

“Y-You know me for who I-I am,” he gasped out. “I am but a weak and beaten down man w-who couldn’t express himself like a human being. Y-You were there, you comforted me with not a smile, an umbrella, or thoughtless words of encouragement— you accepted me for who I was with a warm embrace.” 

You hated it. 

You hate how your heart ached for the man that made your life a living hell.

“I was the leader of the Revolution and I needed intel against you, nothing more.” You spat. This time, you were the least convincing one. “It was an act of kindness I shouldn’t have done.”

“Yet it has helped me more than you had accounted for.”

“And never before have I ever regretted playing savior.”

“I was merely attempting to reform your life,” Neuvillette breathlessly spoke. “I wished to set you on the right path. You were a gifted individual with great connections. Your peers had high expectations of you. For you to throw that away for nonsense activism— no— terrorism is heartbreaking. And I—”

Neuvillette gulped.

“I didn’t want to face you on the other side of the courtroom.”

You laughed.

“Some things are just fated to happen,” you said. “An old astrologist told me that. She told me I was bound to get myself in deep legal trouble. Growing up, I figured it might as well be a cause worth doing if it’ll lead me to that path eventually. Why else did I become a defense attorney in such a hellishly political land?”

He trembled, tears falling at a faster rate.

You almost wanted to reach out and wipe those tears away.

Almost.

“Must you treat your life as though it is disposable?” Neuvillette asked, choking slightly. “Why are you…”

You digressed. “You’re not going to retract those charges are you?”

“I did.”

You frowned.

“But Lady Furina would not allow it,” he shook, frustrated. “She found out about your past, your hatred for her so-called incompetences and published lese-majestes.”

“Good for her, good for her.”

Neuvillette’s hand slowly slid down.

“I can’t… I cannot watch this…”

You felt a surge of confidence, for Neuvillette was indeed devoid of hope. You've never seen him with his head hung low. What went through Neuvillette's mind remained uncertain. Perhaps, just a small piece of him knew you could never be his. Perhaps he knew that you were destined for a doomed fate.

But it doesn't matter. 

All that mattered was that you were free.

That was a month ago.

The rain had been going on nonstop for thirty days, and the Hydro Archon had every right to worry. 

“I can’t sleep…” Neuvillette thought he spoke out loud, but it was just a whisper. He’s growing weak, his sleep deprivation catching up to him.

“Then come lay your head down,” she yawned slightly, fanning her breath. “Such heavy thoughts need a place to rest.”

“An irresistible offer,” Neuvillette mused humorlessly. “But I must decline.”

“Oh Neuvillette, when will you relax from this role you carry?” The archon spoke rhetorically.

Neuvillette chuckled sadly.

The heavy downpour wouldn’t stop. 

Perhaps…

Perhaps when the day comes and he is stripped of dignity.

Maybe then, he’ll have his rest.

Neuvillette had already forgotten why he was crying that fateful day. But in those memories, he recalls he was callow and unformed. Was it due to an unfavorable trial? The problem evades him. His recollection remains only in how the people reacted around him. Many asked if he was okay and he'd reply with a simple "I'm fine". And he was, until he could no longer convince himself with that lie. He was certain he was about to dip his toes in another cycle of nihilism.

And then you came.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?”

The rain was pouring out in the cemetery. You were there; your presence questionable. He knew that you arrived intending to probe whether or not he was a sovereign dragon, but he gave you the nod of acknowledgment.

“Greetings, Mx. (Y/n),” he answered, “I trust you’ve been well? Is there a person whom you’re visiting?”

He asked in sheer politeness despite knowing your motivations.

“...”

You frowned.

“How long?”

“Pardon?”

“How long have you been carrying that loneliness, Monsieur?” You asked, voice louder. “How long?”

His lip quivered.

“Centuries, perhaps,” the Iudex thought he could pass it off as a light joke to catch you off-guard, but it came off as too sincere. “I do not keep track.”

You cautiously and awkwardly approached Neuvillette, and without a word, wrapped your arms around him in a comforting embrace.

Just like what Uncle Callas had done for you before.

Your existence here was anathema and your words were seditious. His initial reaction was to resist because he knew you were just like Vautrin. He knew you were secretly seeking vengeance because the oratrice unfavorably judged numerous friends and family.

But he needed it. He needed this badly.

It was then that the Iudex decided that he needed you. That he will keep you.

Neuvillette cannot handle another Vautrin— he can't handle another Carole. So, he'll do it right this time. He'll keep you safe, from your illegal associations and even from yourself. 

And it was a selfish yet necessary need.

A lump formed in his throat as a tear fell, trickling down his cheek slowly. He allowed himself to melt in your hug, trembling. 

“You’re going to need all the hugs you can get if you’re planning to stay as Iudex for centuries more,” you whispered. “You’re resilient, but in this world, that solitary resilience won’t be enough, won’t it?”

Unable to maintain his stoic facade any longer, Neuvillette gripped you tighter in that embrace, his vulnerability finally resurfacing physically rather than Fontaine's rains. Surprised by his sudden tirade of sobs, you embraced him with all the warmth you could muster. At that moment, you had an epiphany. Despite the enmity of their positions, they were the same. Both of you were victims of a nation that demanded more in your assigned roles than you could bear.

“If you'd let me, I'll be the person you’d come to if you ever need a hug.” You weren’t sure if you said it as a devious plan or an act of empathy. “I wouldn’t mind. Not at all.”

You've made yourself important to him now. 

Neuvillette cannot lose you too.

As he clung to the solace you inadvertently provided, you can't help but wish you never extended that small comfort months later. Every inch given could be exploited, and when you offered him a shred of empathy, he had seized it and turned it into a mile-long advantage. The vulnerability shared in that hug was the dangerous crack in the sword you've worked so hard to maintain.

And so, when the time came you faced Champion Duelist Clorinde with it, the gaps broke the sword completely and with its death came soon the end of your life.

She was right. There is no dignity in dying with a broken hilt.

But there was peace.

And as much as you hated Neuvillette, you wish he’d have it too.

"I've made it this far, and all I've ever done was in accordance with what fate and others wanted of me. In my demise, let me do something for myself." “After all, I’ve learned from watching Uncle Callas when he fought Champion Duelist Clorinde— an encounter I’ll surely experience in the next few days— that there is beauty in the end. In his last moments, my much younger self saw what expression he wore.” “He was content. The most content I had ever seen in someone's face.” “It was then that I had an epiphany. One that I hope my “husband” Neuvillette will remember, and I care not if it will bring him comfort or pain.” “What I learned was simple:” “Count no man happy till he dies, free of pain at last.”

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added on the other three fics!): @ayadikreino @kireeen, @pebblemacaroon, @thelostpanta, @vennnnn-diagram, @sagekun, @vadelma-yatta, @detectivei @sugarplumcutiepie @sunhareskies @dxprived4-starboys @unloadingdata @harmonysanreads (amen.) @atomicsoulhumanspy @sangoqueenkoko @pix-stuff @dilucragnidvr 

[ineffable-suffering]

The Jane Austen Ball and why it was never about Nina and Maggie

Otherwise known as (*takes a deep breath*): A completely inflated close-up look at various dialogues and events of Season 2 that prove that the Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Meeting Cotillion Ball was supposed to be Aziraphale's confession to Crowley

Look, the point's been made before but that's never kept me from making it myself again, still. In fact, even I made it before, at the end of one of my other metas. But I feel like it's absolutely worthy enough to get its own soppy, way-too-long post. And I do love it so very much to write ridiculously long essays on something that could easily be condensed into a short paragraph.

So, here we go! Snuggle up, get cozy, settle in and, most importantly:

(Word count: 3.177 | Reading time: ~13 minutes)

As I already said above, I laid out a similar case in my meta about why Aziraphale is somewhat of an unreliable narrator. I'll try and recycle it here briefly, so I can further make my point.

When Aziraphale arrives back in London from his Edinburgh journey, he seems oddly happy and giddy for the fact that he just had a rather odd and threatening encounter with Shax. I explain in my other meta that this is because he just spent the last hours of his drive reminiscing on the thrilling and romantic magic show adventure of 1941 and also the fact that he just found out that Crowley has been replaced by Shax and no longer works for Hell.

Ergo: We have a hopelessly lovesick Principality at our hands, who's practically swooning over his serpent who saved him, his books and his magic show all those years ago.

Ergo:

✨This✨

Realistically, Aziraphale should probably be a tad worried about the eery encounter with Shax, in which she definitely had the upper hand on him. But well, if you spend many-a hours driving across the serene countryside (Edinburgh is about an 8-hour drive from London), pondering on one of the craziest, sticky-sweet romantic adventures of your not-life life, well ... things tend to turn a little rosy around the edges. Head in the clouds and all that. Light shades of grey!

Alright, onwards: Once the angel, filled to the very brim with fond memories and butterflies, gets out of the Bentley, he's kindly met with a face full of verdant plants and a very in-character-grumpy Crowley.

Fhwack! Way to burst the rosy bubble.

Seriously, the absolute lightning speed with which Crowley storms out to vacate the bookshop the very second Aziraphale arrives makes me giggle every time.

Let's make a first small (who am I kidding) diversion into analysing the following conversation in unnecessary detail ...

... simply because I enjoy quoting dialogue as an accurate reference in my metas. I'll also highlight certain passages I want to comment on in individual colours so I can back up my thoughts with them below. Alright, their little chinwag goes as follows:

Crowley: "They you are! I was worried something might have happened to you." Aziraphale: "No, nothing happened to me. Very uneventful journey indeed. No strange things at all." Crowley: "Good. That's what we wanna hear." Aziraphale: "Um .. everything okay with- ah.." *nods to the bookshop* Crowley: "Oh, yeah, fine. He's singing to himself. I think he must have been asleep. I heard snoring coming from his bedroom–" Crowley, to the Bentley: "Did you miss me? I bet you did." Aziraphale: "... I'm sure it did." Crowley: "So, any more clues from the mystery of the missing archangel?" Aziraphale: "Not exactly. Or, if there are, I haven't yet cracked the case. But I'm certainly hot on the trail of something." Crowley: "I'm sure you are. Oh, by the way, the whole sudden rain and awning thing was a complete washout." Aziraphale: "Sorry?" Crowley: "You know, project making Nina fall in love with Maggie. I failed, it's your go." Aziraphale: "I see. Well then, Whickber Street Traders and Shopkeeper's Association Monthly Meeting, here we come!" Crowley: "You're really hosting the meeting?" Aziraphale: "Absolutely! And I can guarantee you, it will be a night to remember."

At first glance, this has little to do with the plot of this meta but actually, it folds into my point very nicely! However, it's not time for that yet, so we'll just state the facts as they are for now and then bring them back 'round later when we need them. That being said: For the love of Someone, will these two ever manage to simply tell each other the truth of what happened instead of thinking they can protect each other by lying about it all the time? Hrmpf. As a big fan of open communication myself, I'm close to developing a stomach ulcer with the amount of false truths being spewed here. (Then again – and yes, that is another, way larger meta I'm currently cooking up – it plays so very perfectly into the whole Jane-Austen-Pride-and-Prejudice tragic miscommunication theme that this entire Season has, so I understand the point of it.)

Very uneventful journey indeed, Aziraphale, except for the fact that you were ambushed by a demon who told you she was Crowley's successor, knows about the rumors of the two of you being an item as well as what went down in 1941 (that almost had both of you exposed) and also seems to have figured out where you and your demon boyfriend are hiding Gabriel, all in the span of about a minute. No strange things at all, nooo!

And Crowley's "Oh yeah, fine" is a total lie too. Again, we see him make an absolute run for it before Aziraphale can even enter the bookshop. After all, he just once again witnessed Jim have a Gabriel-flashback, speaking of the Second Coming, while Crowley was alone with him. As fumingly angry he is with the amnesiac archangel – he's also absolutely terrified of what might happen (to him and Aziraphale) should Jim regain his memories. So, no wonder he's quick to vacate the premises after witnessing Jim's rather eery memory flashback (and was, just like Aziraphale, threatened by Shax mere moments later, lol).

But no, nothing out of the ordinary happened to either of them. Tip-top. Absolutely tickety-fucking-boo.

Alright, let's get back on track with the actual topic of this meta. Certainly hot on the trail of something, hm? At first glance, it might seem like Aziraphale is talking about the fact that Gabriel was in company of someone whenever he went to the Resurrectionist Pub. (The clue!) However, I don't actually think he is talking about that. Why? Because, and this slipped my mind too at first, he never actually follows any of this information up, does he? Yes, sure, he went to Edinburgh, found the capital-c Clue and then returned to London. But what does he do with it? Nothing. He doesn't keep investigating this hot trail because that's not the important thing he realized during his journey. No, the more important clue Aziraphale found during his trip, is that Crowley no longer works for Hell and that he is also very much irrevocably in love with him and must confess this at the earliest given chance. (The latter part isn't necessarily a new discovery for Aziraphale, but it surely is fuelled by the fact that he just realized Crowley's out of a Hellish job and simply hasn't told him yet.)

This exchange just the perfect indicator for the fact that Aziraphale, at no point during his drive back, was thinking about the Maggie and Nina mission. He has no idea what Crowley is talking about once he mentions it and seems surprised, even, that he would. Even though they just talked about it on the phone when Aziraphale was still at the graveyard. Which is another important piece of evidence because it means that the last status update Aziraphale got of Mission Lovebirds, was that Crowley had sensed an opportunity to make them fall in love – and had then hung up on him. Why is this important? Because it means that until that very point of their conversation, Aziraphale did not know that Crowley's attempt had failed! There would have been just as much of a chance of Crowley's weather miracle actually working out and Maggie and Nina already having skipped into the sunset happily ever after.

So, riddle me this:

Why would Aziraphale spend the entire ride back from Edinburgh plotting "a night to remember" (because clearly, he already had the entire Ball planned out down to a T in his head since he goes into action right away after arriving) if he didn't even know yet that Crowley's attempt had failed?

To be very clear here: We're not talking about Aziraphale driving on the M1 to London, having a silly little idea for putting on some good music, miracle-ing Nina and Maggie to dance to it and watch them confess their love–

No.

He planned an entire actual Cotillion Ball with very particular location design that involves re-arranging the entire bookshop, specifically designed individual outfits for (almost) every single attendee, topped off with a live band, hors-d'œuvre, drinks and an actual choreographed group dance.

During one car ride.

Where's the party planner Aziraphale AU? I'm waiting!

Now, sure, we know that it's still quite important for Aziraphale to convince Heaven of the faux-reason they gave for their accidental ✨25-Lazarii miracle✨. But if we're all honest, this all seems to be a tad much just to make two random humans fall in love, even for that.

Glittery ball gowns and suits? Red and gold wall curtains? A modified language filter? Bloody vol-au-vents?

Talk about over the top ...

Once we start S2E5, Crowley is still surprised at the mere fact that Aziraphale is actually planning to organize the Monthly Meeting – and he doesn't even know yet that it's gonna be the most extravagant ball-boogaloo that the Whickber Street Community has ever seen! Aziraphale wanting to organize the meeting alone, is enough to render Crowley incredulous, because Aziraphale never mingles with the other shopkeepers. He usually actively avoids them and any sort of social encounters as much as he can because he doesn't care about the bloody Christmas lights, alright?

These things seem mundane and uninteresting to him, obviously, since all he really cares about is hoarding his book collection in peace like the little hedonist he is and drawing as little attention as possible to his none-business business.

Oh, right, speaking of books:

Let's take another unnecessarily detailed look at the whole Whickber Street invitation scene:

Aziraphale realizes very quickly that he's not the only one who's quite unenthusiastic about the blessed Chritsmas lights. And despite his very persuasive methods of temptation ...

... he has to take some more drastic measurements. And those are?

That's right: Giving away his books.

I'll repeat it again, slowly: Aziraphale is willingly (!) giving away or lending his books to pretty much complete strangers to, allegedly, make two other humans strangers fall in love.

Seriously, who is that angel and what has he done with our prim, fussy, hedonistic Aziraphale that protects his books with the vice grip of an eagle carrying his precious prey?

Believe in the importance of Mission Lovebirds as much as you will, but we're talking about Mr. A.Z. Fell here who, over the past millennia, has pretty much spent every day actively working out methods to stop people from purchasing as much as a single paperback from his holy shelves.

And yet: the 1965 September Dr. Who Annual? Given away. The first edition of Expert at the Card Table that was S. W. Erdnase's personal copy? Lent away to grubby human hands to fondle around with.

Let's do another coloured dialogue diversion (don't worry, it's not as extensive as the last one):

Crowley: "You just did what I think you did?" Aziraphale: "I'm not prepared to talk about it." Crowley: "You gave away a book." Aziraphale: "I had to! Maggie and Nina are depending on me. They just don't know it yet."

Crowley backs up my point: This is a huge deal. Aziraphale does not sell his books – let alone give them away for free. We're all shocked! Flabbergasted!

And the explanation Crowley and us get just ... doesn't satisfy. Something and someone sure is depending on this Ball and doesn't know it yet. But it's most definitely not Maggie and Nina, folks.

You know for whom Aziraphale would give away his books in the blink of an eye, though?

Mhm, that's right.

This pretty old serpent.

I want to take a minute to show you the reaction again that Aziraphale has upon entering the very same magic shop him and Crowley went to in 1941 to acquire the Bullet Catch:

You ... you need a minute there, angel? You're sure looking a little ... affected.

And I mean, well, no wonder. He reminisced about that very memory four hours last night. To him, this shop is where the most turbulent, ecstatic, adrenaline-fuelled and romantic night of his life began. And it shows.

I've made my point in my other meta series about how Aziraphale is an incredibly nostalgic character. He romanticizes so many things in his memories – especially the parts that feature Crowley. So, it doesn't surprise me in the slightest that he's once again willing to loosen the tight grip he has on his book collection to get the successor of Will Goldstone's Magic Shop, the shop that started it all for him, to come to his fancy Ball.

As we watch Aziraphale and his little lap dog demon pat around Soho, I'd like to take another second to point out that he goes to seven or more establishments before he even invites Nina.

... and he only does so because she starts talking to them on the street. Almost like he'd forgotten about it. Why not ask her at the very beginning? To establish whether or not he'd have to book-blackmail her too?

"Perfectly ordinary invitation with no hidden agenda of any kind", except that he's using you and Maggie as a pretence to resolve his own clusterfuck of a relationship-miscommunication Jane-Austen-style so that he can then hopefully confess his undying love to his demon not-boyfriend boyfriend.

Marvellous!

You'll forgive me another short diversion but my God, the whole exchange at the Marguerite's restaurant with Crowley literally cat-call-whistling Aziraphale over to him (and Aziraphale checking if he meant someone else first, I–)? I am weak. So, so weak and

However, this is also when we get a snippet of Crowley finally revealing the truth in place of his "Oh, he's fine"-lie earlier and telling Aziraphale that he's actually pretty scared Jim might turn back into Gabriel and smite him altogether. And Aziraphale's response is, in a cosmic sense, (remember the pink paragraph now) so hilarious:

"Have you thought of just talking to him?"

Yeah, have you? Have any of the two of you? Just thought about talking? To each other? About anything?

'pparently not. But hey, it's all good because remember what the ultimate remedy for star-crossed lovers simply misunderstanding each other is?

Bish, bash, bosh, problem solved!

Back at the ballroom bookshop, Aziraphale sends Crowley to invite Maggie in order to, in my opinion, not spoil the Ball-y surprise for him. (Inviting Maggie only now?! Wouldn't she be one of the only two guests who really should attend? Why the short notice? If she's really that important for the Ball you're planning, hm?)

On top of this, we see Nina almost not attending the Ball meeting after her partner broke up with her and Crowley being the one who coincidentally runs into her and ushers her into the bookshop before Shax and her "legion" of demons start creeping up on them. Again, if this hadn't happened by pure coincidence, Nina would have left to go home and this whole Ball would have taken place without her, rendering the apparent sole purpose of making her fall in love with Maggie useless.

Why doesn't Aziraphale care more for both of them to attend and be there? Why is he instead busy fussing over everything looking perfect and wonderful and doesn't even seem to notice that both Nina and Maggie are really late to the meeting?

Well. Well.

The answer's in the title, babes.

Alas, Crowley safely gets Maggie and Nina to join them, Mr. Brown is the only one who doesn't get a miracled outfit (fussy, petty angel, you just don't like him, do you?), Jimbriel stuns with glamour and flirt (and whatever sexually suggestive thing he does with his cheeks) and the Whickber Street Ball is a-go!

Sorry, I just had to chuck this in again because Crowley's face here absolutely kills me every time. He looks so confused, I am hollering.

And the heart eyes Aziraphale is making at Nina and Maggie now that they're actually here?

Oh, bless it, angel.

He's all like "Oh look, it's working! Jane was right! It's all going to be resolved, all the misunderstanding and quarrels! Crowley, where's Crowley–"

Ah yes, there he is.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an angel who is not listening to a single word being said right now. No, in his head, Aziraphale is already down on one knee, pouring his heart out to Crowley after they just danced the night away.

Oh, yes, right. The dancing.

Parallel much?

But well, as marvellous and beautifully romantic as her stories tend to be, it turns out that Jane Austen isn't always right after all. Because before we know it, the perfect night shatters into many-a tiny pieces (literally).

And once again, fhwack:

... the rosy bubble bursts.

Let's take one more deep breath so I can make my final point:

In S2E2, Aziraphale explains to us very exactly what Jane's Balls (hrhr) used to be about: Solving miscommunication and confessing love to one another.

During his car journey back from Edinburgh, Aziraphale:

doesn't know Crowley's Mission Lovebirds had failed

remembers 1941 and just how badly he's in love with Crowley

and also realizes that they seem to have been wildly miscommunicating for quite some time now. (Crowley didn't even tell him he basically got let go!)

So, what does maddeningly strong love plus a want to resolve all the miscommunication equal? That's right: A night to remember! A Ball to change it all! A dance, a vol-au-vent, a confession. And, ideally, a happy ever after. Because:

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man angel in possession of a good fortune Jane Austen collection, must be in want of a wife demon husband.”

The Ball was never for Nina and Maggie. As a byproduct, maybe, yes. But the whole rest of the glimmer and glamour, the careful, romantic planning and set up of it all, the book-bating the other shopkeepers– that was for Crowley and Crowley only.

And oh, if only it were as easy as in the books.

*whispers* I'm sorry, I had to.

***

Your honour, the tinfoil-hat crackpot defence rests. Feel free to share thoughts (and prayers) if you want to!

Au revoir! 💗

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

Wedding Day Blues.

my masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here!

authors note - i was watching ‘Sam and Billie the mummy diaries’ and it was the wedding episode so i decided to write something wedding inspired. 🤷‍♀️

word count - 2.4k

in which, it’s your and your fiancés wedding day, getting married in the garden of your shared italian villa, surrounded by your close friends and loved ones, but you can’t help but let the nerves get to you.

Today was meant to be a day that you will never forget.

You and your fiancé had been engaged for a total of two years and today was the day the two of you would be tying the knot.

As you stand in the guest bedroom of your enchanting Italian villa, the soft morning sunlight streams through the window, casting a warm glow on the elegantly adorned room. The walls, painted in serene pastel hues, echo the timeless romance that fills the air on this momentous day. The delicate lace curtains sway gently, as if whispering secrets of love and anticipation.

Gazing outside, your heart swells with emotion as you witness the scene unfolding before you. The garden, a verdant paradise, is transformed into a sanctuary of love and celebration. Rows of pristine white chairs are meticulously arranged, each one a seat for a cherished guest, their faces alive with joy and excitement.

Your eyes are drawn to the majestic archway adorned with intertwined blooms and foliage, an emblem of unity and devotion. Beneath it, you and your beloved will stand, surrounded by the fragrant embrace of nature, ready to exchange vows that will bind your hearts eternally.

In the midst of this exquisite scene, workers bustle with quiet dedication, ensuring that every detail is perfect. The flowers, vibrant and fragrant, are arranged flawlessly. The soft, melodic hum of their preparations blends harmoniously with the rustling leaves and distant chirping of birds, creating a symphony of anticipation.

As you stand there, dressed in a gown that embodies your dreams and adorned with the promise of forever.

The dress was flowy, white and the bodice was designed with flowers, your hair was curled and in a bun.

A sense of profound gratitude washes over you. The villa, the garden, the archway—all bear witness to the love that has blossomed and grown, leading you to this magical moment. And as the day unfolds, you know that this chapter of your journey will be etched in your hearts and memories, a testament to the beauty of love and the artistry of life.

As you watch from the window, a rush of emotions courses through you as you see your fiancé, Harry, take his place at the altar. His presence is commanding, yet his eyes hold a vulnerability that speaks to the depth of your connection. The weight of the moment presses against your chest, and your hands tremble uncontrollably.

Nerves begin to tighten their grip, a tide of anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you. You realise you need to step away from the window, away from prying eyes, to find solace in the privacy of your own thoughts. Slowly, you retreat from the view, your heart racing as you navigate the room.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed, you try to steady your breathing, but the panic has taken hold. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, and your vision blurs as the world around you becomes a blur of colours and shapes. It's as if the weight of the moment, the culmination of so many dreams and hopes, has become too much to bear all at once.

In the midst of this overwhelming rush of sensations, you clutch at the sheets beneath your fingers, seeking an anchor amidst the storm. Your mind races, thoughts colliding, and tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You close your eyes, trying to regain control, to remind yourself that this moment is a celebration of love, a union of two souls meant to be together.

As you sit on the edge of the bed, lost in the grip of your panic attack, you're startled by a gentle knock on the door. Your father's voice, warm and familiar, floats through the air, breaking through the fog of your distress.

"Hey darling, are you almost ready? It's almost time."

However, in the midst of your overwhelming emotions, the sound of his knock doesn't register. You remain caught in the clutches of your anxiety, your breathing erratic, your hands trembling. Your father, sensing that something might be amiss, quietly enters the room.

As he approaches you, concern etches his face. He takes in the sight of you, shaken and struggling to catch your breath.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" he asks softly, his voice a soothing balm against the storm that rages within you. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder, attempting to offer comfort.

You try to respond, to explain the torrent of feelings that has engulfed you, but your words are caught in your throat. Tears gather in your eyes, and you find it difficult to meet his gaze. His presence, though, is a lifeline, a reminder of the love and support that surrounds you.

Your father's touch is steady and unwavering as he continues to reassure you.

"It's okay, my love. Just take a deep breath with me." His voice is a lifeline, guiding you through the storm with every word.

He encourages you to focus on your breath, guiding you in inhaling and exhaling, the rhythm slowly helping to ground you. His calming presence, his unwavering love, begins to chip away at the edges of your panic, offering a glimmer of relief.

As the waves of panic slowly recede, you manage to find your voice, your trembling words breaking through the lingering unease.

"I want Harry," you mutter, the simple desire a beacon of clarity amidst the emotional tumult.

Your father's eyes soften with understanding, and he nods in response, a silent affirmation of your wishes. With a reassuring squeeze of your shoulder, he offers a comforting smile. "Of course, my dear. I'll be right back."

He steps away from you, leaving a sense of warmth and reassurance in his wake. The space around you is filled with a mixture of anticipation and a newfound sense of serenity. You watch as he leaves the room, his footsteps fading down the corridor, a promise that he'll bring the one who can anchor you most in this moment of vulnerability.

Harry stands at the altar, a black tuxedo, with a frilly colour and a long, thin black tie, matching trousers and some heeled chelsea boots on his feet, the embodiment of nerves and excitement, his heart racing as he waits for the moment you'll appear. His gaze sweeps over the rows of seated guests, their faces illuminated by the soft golden light of the sun. The garden around him is alive with anticipation, each petal and leaf whispering of the love that's about to unfold.

But as he scans the garden, his eyes seeking the vision of you he's held in his heart, a flicker of concern crosses his features. You're nowhere to be seen, and his brow furrows with worry. His gaze narrows, hoping for a glimpse of your familiar figure emerging from the villa, but the seconds stretch on, and you remain absent.

Confusion deepens into concern as he tilts his head, trying to discern any sign of what might be amiss. His heart beats faster, the rhythm of the moment disrupted by the absence of the one he's been waiting for. Just as worry begins to tighten its grip, he notices your father approaching him, a determined expression on his face.

"Harry," your father says, his voice steady, though laced with urgency. "I need to talk to you for a moment."

He offers a reassuring smile, his eyes holding a mix of empathy and understanding.

Harry's heart skips a beat, his apprehension growing as he steps forward to meet your father.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, his voice carrying the weight of concern.

Your father takes a deep breath before speaking, his tone measured and calm. "There's been a little hiccup with (Y/N). She's inside the villa, and she needs a moment."

A rush of emotions sweeps over Harry as reality sinks in. He nods in understanding, his thoughts racing. "Is she okay?"

Your father's eyes soften, and he places a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder. "She's with us. Just needed a moment to gather herself. I wanted to let you know."

Without another word, Harry turns on his heels and rushes back down the aisle toward the villa. He moves with an urgency fueled by love and concern, his heart pounding in his chest.

Time seems to stretch as you wait, the air pregnant with anticipation. In the distance, the sounds of laughter and murmured conversations from the garden drift through the window, a reminder of the celebration that awaits. And then, as if a gentle whisper of destiny, the door opens once again.

And there he is—Harry, your anchor, your rock, your source of solace. His presence fills the room, a magnetic force that draws you closer to him. As his eyes meet yours, you see an understanding there, a connection that transcends words.

In that instant, all the swirling worries and fears seem to melt away, replaced by a sense of security that only his presence can provide. He barely spares a glance at your dress, as if deliberately averting his gaze to maintain the element of surprise.

Without hesitation, Harry crosses the room, his movements fueled by a sense of urgency to be by your side. He crouches down in front of you, his fingers gently finding yours, his touch a lifeline as he holds your trembling hands. His eyes search your face, his concern etched in his expression.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice a tender murmur that seems to fill the room. "What's wrong? Talk t’me."

You draw in a shaky breath, feeling the safety of his presence as you begin to voice the jumbled thoughts that have been plaguing your mind.

"I'm really nervous, H," you admit, your words a vulnerable confession of your inner turmoil.

Harry's grip on your hands tightens, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your skin.

"It's okay t’be nervous, m’honey," he reassures you, his gaze unwavering. "But we're in this together. Y’and me, right?"

A tear escapes your eye, and you nod, your voice barely a whisper. "I know, but... I want to make sure you're making the right decision by marrying me. I don't want you to regret it."

Harry's brow furrows slightly, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of understanding and determination.

"Listen t’me," he says firmly, his voice carrying a depth of emotion that leaves no room for doubt. "There's no one else, (Y/N), baby You're the only one I want, the only one I've ever wanted."

The weight of his words settles over you like a warm embrace, filling the space around you with a sense of profound clarity. In his gaze, you see a reflection of the love that has brought you to this moment, a love that is steadfast and unwavering.

With a tender smile, Harry reaches up to wipe away the tear that has fallen from your eye. "I'm here because I want t’be, because I choose y’every single day. We're a team, and we're on this journey together."

As you hold Harry's gaze, your heart swells with emotion, the words you're about to speak carrying the weight of vulnerability.

"Harry, I'm not like everyone else you've dated," you begin, your voice soft yet resolute. "I'm not a model, I'm not famous, I'm just... average."

The sincerity in your words hangs in the air, a testament to your own insecurities, a fear that you might not measure up to the glamorous lives he's been a part of. But before you can say more, Harry interrupts you, his voice gentle yet firm. "Hey, don't say that."

His fingers find yours, his touch grounding you in the moment. The look in his eyes is earnest, a reflection of his genuine emotions. "You're not just 'average',your (Y/N). Y’unique, y’beautiful, and y’perfect just the way y’are. Y’don't have t’be like anyone else. That's not why I love you."

The weight of his words washes over you, a tide of reassurance that erases the doubts you've been carrying. His sincerity wraps around you like a warm embrace, pushing away the shadows of comparison and self-doubt. In this moment, you understand that Harry's love transcends the surface and superficial, and that his feelings for you run deep.

He lifts your chin gently, his thumb brushing against your cheek as he gazes into your eyes. "Y’are not defined by anyone else's standards. Y’not just a sum of y’parts. Y’you, and that's all I ever wanted."

As Harry continues to hold your hands, his fingers gently intertwined with yours, his observant gaze catches the subtle tremble that still lingers in your fingers.

A hint of concern flickers in his eyes, and he offers a tender smile, his voice a soothing balm. "Y’know, there's an idea that just crossed m’mind."

You meet his gaze, curious and attentive, eager to hear what he's thinking.

"What is it?" you ask, your voice a mixture of curiosity and anticipation.

His smile widens, and his words are spoken with a warmth that radiates through the room. "What if... what if we walked down the aisle together?"

The suggestion hangs in the air, its simplicity carrying a depth of understanding that resonates with you. The idea of facing the nervousness together, as a team, is both comforting and intriguing. You take a moment to consider it, letting the concept settle within your heart.

"Walk down the aisle together?" you repeat, your thoughts taking shape. "You mean, like, side by side?"

Harry nods, his gaze unwavering, his expression filled with unwavering support. "Yeah, that way y’won't have t’feel nervous. We'll face whatever comes together."

His words echo the sentiment you've come to cherish—the idea of partnership, of sharing the journey, of supporting one another through challenges. You let his suggestion sink in, and a sense of relief begins to replace the lingering apprehension.

After a beat, you smile, your heart lighter than it's been in moments. "Yeah, that would make me feel a lot better."

Harry's eyes light up, his smile mirroring your own as he uses one hand to your hand gently and uses his free hand to wipe under your eyes, making sure your mascara didn’t smudge. "Good. It's settled then. We'll walk down that aisle together, facing whatever comes hand in hand."

His words are a promise, a reassurance that even in the face of nervousness and uncertainty, you'll find strength in each other's presence. As you lock eyes with Harry, you're reminded once again of the power of love, the connection that can ease even the most anxious of hearts.

[081314]

Book 7: The Ruler of the Abyss – Chapter 6 (Part 2)

Following is part 2 of my translation of Chapter 6 of Book 7: The Ruler of the Abyss. This part contains Episode 7-89 to 7-94.

Main storyline spoilers after the cut.

Episode 7-89

Lilia: We finally…. made it… There’s Black Scale Castle!

Yuu: So this is where Tsunotarou grew up!

Imperial Guard C: Garururu! Gaaaaa!

Imperial Guard A: Kukeeee!!

Lilia: Forget about me! The egg… We need to get the egg to the castle! Please, go tell Queen Maleficia to prepare cradle tower… and hurry!

Imperial Guard C / A: Gyaoou!!

(The guards depart)

Lilia: Ugh…!

(Lilia collapses)

Baul: General! Someone, fetch a doctor!! He needs medical attention now!!

Lilia: I don’t need a damn doctor. I fulfilled the princess’s imperial decree… And I’m going back to the Verdant Moors…!

Baul: You idiot! It’s beyond reckless for you to return to the battlefield in your condition!

(Lightning flashes)

Everyone: !?

Sebek: What was that!? The sky to the east, it’s glowing all of a sudden…

Lilia: That light… No, it can’t be…!!

Land of Briar – Land near Castle

Meleanor (Dragon form): ROOOOOAAAAR!!

Iron One A: Aauuugh!!

Iron One B: That blasted witch! I can’t believe she still has the strength left to fight, we’ve hit her with everything we’ve got! And now she’s covered the sky with her black magic, and blocked off all our escape routes with those awful thorns… She truly is the definition of evil…!

Iron One C: There’s no telling how many of our comrades she’s taken out already. We can’t let her reign of terror continue one second longer. WE’LL FELL THAT FOUL BEAST HERE AND NOW!

Iron Ones: Uooooooooh!!!

Meleanor (Dragon form): ROOOOARRR!!

Knight of Dawn: …Haaah… hahhh…. Just where did we go wrong. If we’d only tried to understand each other better, to work together more… Then perhaps we all could have lived in peace. But I-… But we choose to go down this path, instead. We’ve hurt each other so much, lost so many of our dear friends… There’s no turning back now. I know I cannot ask for your forgiveness, but please… Please just let me have my dream. Let me dream of a world where all species, not just human and face… can smile together. And may my dream… become reality someday. ….Fairy guardians… LEND ME YOUR STRENGTH!

Land of Briar – Maleficia’s Castle

Sebek: The storm has ended, and those black clouds have vanished…

Silver: …It’s the dawn.

Lilia: Ah…. Aaaah…Ahhhhh…!!!

(Lilia falls to his knees)

Silver: General Vanrouge!?

Baul: No, that’s absurd!! It- It can’t be…!!!

Sebek: Sir Baul, just what is going on!?

Baul: Lady Meleanor’s magic, it’s…. it’s gone.

Sebek / Silver: ….!!

Lilia: Meleanor…. MELEANOOOR! If I were only stronger, I would’ve made you come with us….! Why…! Just why…! Levan… I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep our promise…! GOD DAMMMIIIIIIIIT!!

Episode 7-90

Lilia: Levan… I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep our promise…! GOD DAMMMIIIIIIIIT!!

Mysterious Voice: What is the meaning of this… Princess Meleanor has returned to the stars….

Mysterious Voice: She never backed down before the humans, not once. Oh, how noble she was! The very pride of the followers of the night!

Mysterious Voice: Rest in peace, dear child of the night.

Mysterious Voices: The night’s blessing upon ye.

Grim: The heck’s goin’ on? I hear voices whisperin’ in my ears, but there’s nobody here.

Baul (whispering): …It’s the senate.

Sebek (whispering): The senate!? I’ve heard though their bodies have returned to the stars, they linger in this world as naught but consciousnesses.

Lilia: ….Meleanor was noble? She was our pride? Bullshit! That’s all a fucking load of bullshit!! The hell does any of that even fucking matter now, she’s gone…!

Senate Member A: Shut your vile little mouth, you lowly bat. Have you no shame! You left the princess behind on the battlefield and slunk back here all by yourself…! You couldn’t protect the princess, yet you dare call yourself an Imperial Guard! Shame on you for running away!

Senate Member C: Ahh, dear princess…. The poor thing, to be stuck with a subordinate too daff to comprehend the fae’s pride…

Senate Member D: I warned her time and time again: a dirty little bat has no business at a dragon’s side.

Senate Member E: You returned the Draconia family’s kindness with ingratitude…. You good-for-nothing!

Baul: Please, wait! The General was protecting the heir under an imperial decree from Princess Meleanor…!

Lilia: …Stop, Baul. The high elders are right. From hereon I….. I resign from the Imperial Guard. I relinquish my title as General of the Right. My subordinates were just following my orders. I humbly ask if you could be… lenient in your judgement.

Senate Member F: You aren’t just going to lose your title - you’re never stepping foot within the capital again!

Senate Member G: Hurry up and get your filthy hands off the heir’s egg! You repulse me!

Yuu: But he was just trying to protect Tsunotarou!

Grim: What the- The egg slipped outta Lilia’s arms an’ now it’s floatin’ in the air!

Baul (whispering): Damnit… Damn that blasted senate!

Baul: Please, wait! Princess Meleanor instructed the general to hatch the egg if she failed to return! And even our distinguished senate cannot defy an imperial decree, you all know that!

(Mallyegg floats away and vanishes in a burst of light)

Lilia: ……Farewell, Malleus.

Baul: Ah! G-General! Where are you going!? Are you turning your back on Princess Meleanor’s decree!?

Lilia: …I’m not an Imperial Guard anymore, Baul. Her decree has nothing to do with me now.

Baul: But…!

Lilia: I don’t belong here anymore. And there’s nothing left for me to protect….

Silver: General Vanrouge… Please wait!

(Lilia slaps away Silver’s hand)

Lilia: Just leave me alone…

(The Darkness appears)

Baul: W-What is this… this foul energy!?

Sebek: Is it… Is it the Darkness!?

Silver: It’s being drawn in by father’s despair! Shit, it’s already got him surrounded!

Lilia: …Meleanor, Levan…. Are you down there?

Silver: No, you can’t go down there!! The Darkness is trying to trap you, General Vanrouge!

Lilia: You guys take me… with you…

Silver: FATHEEEEER!!

Sebek: Silver! We must go after Sir Lilia! Grim, Yuu, ready yourselves!

Silver: …Yeah. Let’s go!

Grim: Man, how come we had to wind up here again. It’s so dark an’ cold…

Sebek: Argh, cease with your mewling! If we’re able to locate Sir Lilia, and have him understood this is but a dream, we should return to where we were prior.

Silver: Yeah… That’s right. I never knew… I never knew father stepped down as general because of something that serious.

Sebek: ….In truth, there’s something I’ve been suspicious of ever since I first apprenticed under Sir Lilia. Don’t most of our retired leaders reside in vast mansions just outside the capital? And yet… And yet someone whom my grandfather respects as our nation’s hero, and someone whom the Young Lord adores as part of his family… Lives deep within the forest, far, far away from the capital - as though he were in hiding. I’ve long wondered why that was.

Silver: My father would always tell me the air up in the capital city disagreed with his skin. And he never took me with him there, either… So I just always thought he preferred a quiet life, surrounded by nature… But my father's known Lord Malleus since he was little, and I remember he’d often get summoned to the castle by Her Majesty and Lord Malleus.

Sebek: I wonder, just what transpired in the 200 years between Sir Lilia abdicating his position, and Lord Malleus being born?

Grim: Ain’t gonna do us any good just sittin’ around blabberin’. Come on, let’s go look for Lilia. Then we can get outta here!

Silver: Right. …Wait for us, father!

Episode 7-91

Sebek: Hmph. You are but small fry. You’ve no chance against us, Darkness!

Silver: !! Shh!

(Silver puts his hand over Sebek’s mouth)

Sebek: Fmph?!?

Silver: I hear someone talking, on your 2 o’clock. Let’s check it out.

Sebek: Hmphh!!

Silver: Is this… Dragon Capital City?

Grim: This is just like when we were lookin’ for Silver in the Darkness. We’re all see-through, like ghosts.

Sebek: Ghmph!! Fmmhp… *Sebek rips off Silver’s hand* …Ahh! You!!! Just how long do you intend to keep your hand upon my mouth!

Silver: !! Shh!

(Silver puts his hand back over Sebek’s mouth)

Sebek: Bfmph!?

Baul: Sir Vanrouge. I apologize for the abrupt summons…. But I’m glad you made it.

Lilia: It’s been ten years since we last met, eh?

Silver/Sebek/Grim: !!

Baul: I was concerned since I didn’t get any response to the New Year’s card I sent you… But I’m glad to see you’re doing well.

Lilia: Uh-huh, sure. You know that letter you sent me… I noticed it had the Draconia family’s coat of arms on it. It was Her Majesty who ordered I come here, right? …The heck’s going on? I can’t imagine the Senate or the aristocrats would be happy to see me here. I know Queen Maleficia's subject to their opinions, as well...

Baul: Indeed. That’s why we had that message delivered to you in secret. But you know… Your expertise in concealment hasn’t dulled a bit since you retired. I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. …This way, please.

Lilia: …?

Silver: …Looks like this dream takes place about a decade after the battle ended.

Grim: Let’s trail ‘em.

Lilia: Is this… cradle tower?

Baul: Correct. The heir’s egg… Lord Malleus’s egg is sleeping up there. This tower is to serve as a temporary cradle for the royal family’s eggs, in case something happens that prevents one from hatching.

Lilia: So it’s basically a dragon incubator, since their eggs won’t grow if you don’t pour love and magic into them. I’m guessing Queen Maleficia’s the one providing the magic right now? I heard if dragon eggs don’t directly receive their parents’ love and affection, it takes a lot longer for them to hatch, but I never thought ten years would pass by without hearing news of the heir’s birth.

Baul: The truth is… you were summoned here due to a grave issue we’re having with the egg.

Lilia: …An issue?

Baul: Yes. For the first five years, Queen Maleficia poured her magic into the egg via the tower… And though its growth was slow, the egg did steadily develop in that time. However… Shortly thereafter, the egg began rejecting her magic.

Lilia: What?

Baul: The doctors we consulted said the egg would be more receptive to her magic and affection if she cradled it, instead of sending her magic to the tower. So in between her official duties, Her Majesty comes to the tower to hold the egg… But even that hasn’t had any effect.

Lilia: He’s rejecting her magic… Don’t tell me it’s because she’s not his parent? That’s ridiculous – his eyes aren’t even open yet, there’s no way he’d be able to tell whose magic he’s receiving!

Baul: We’ve summoned doctors from across the country to come look at things, but the cause for all this remains a mystery. The only thing we’re certain of is this: if we fail to find a way to fix this, Lord Malleus will go join the starts without ever hatching.

Episode 7-92

Baul: The only thing we’re certain of is this: if we fail to find a way to fix this, Lord Malleus will go join the starts without ever hatching.

Lilia: No…!

Baul: As the egg is accepting only a limited amount of magic at this point, Queen Maleficia has been pouring in several times the amount of magic needed to hatch him. But as she’s at an advanced age, it will be dangerous for her to keep this up for much longer. The Land of Briar-… Apologies, Briar Valley is in chaos right now, and we’re in a precipitous situation with the neighboring countries. The fate of our country rests on Her Majesty’s shoulders, and she can’t afford to tend to the egg 24/7.

Lilia: …Okay, and?

Baul: Sir Vanrouge, you were once renown as the Dragon’s Right Hand Man. And so I ask of you - please help us.

Lilia: Help you? The hell do you expect me to do? I was never anybody’s right hand man, I couldn’t even fulfill my duty. I’m just a good-for-nothing…. Just a “dirty little bat”.

Baul: I don’t care what anyone says, Her Majesty and I have faith in you. We’d like you to travel the world, and search for information on how to hatch dragon eggs.

Lilia: Travel the world… Does Briar Valley even have anything like passports we can use?

Baul: We do not. …Not official ones, at least.

Lilia: ….Ha, hahaha! Ahahahahaha! That’s rich, never thought I’d get to see the Queen act so reckless. Alright, so what’s in it for me?

Baul: Nothing… except… Do you recall our final audience with Lady Meleanor?

Lilia: Our final audience…

(Flashback)

Lilia: This egg won’t hatch without you!

Meleanor: Then you must hatch it for me.

Meleanor: And you loved Levan, too. You two, the General of the Right and the General of the Left, spent more time together than I did with my own husband. Of course you will love our child, just as you loved us.

(End flashback)

Lilia: “Then you must hatch it for me”….. *sigh* Why does everybody always gotto dump their problems onto me.

Baul: Does that mean you’ll….!

Lilia: I was just thinking about taking a little trip, actually. I’ll ask around about the egg while I’m gone. But that’s it, got it? Don’t expect I’ll be much help.

Baul: Of course. While you’re gone, we’ll keep trying to find a solution on our end. Safe travels… The night’s blessing upon ye.

(Baul departs)

Lilia: First things first, I need to find out where dragons live outside of Briar Valley. Then I can start my search there… *sigh* If we can’t hatch you before you join the stars, I already know your parents are gonna give me an earful when I get up there myself… So you better not kick the bucket while I’m gone… Malleus.

Episode 7-93

Silver: …So that’s the reason why father went traveling around the world. He was looking for a way to hatch Lord Malleus…

Sebek:  Four hundred years ago, eh…‘Twas a time when prejudice against other species ran rampant. Doubtless ‘twas no pleasant journey.

Silver: …I wonder what happened while he was traveling?

Lilia: I heard there was a see-through dragon that pops up sometimes in the Shaftlands… But I doubt a dragon would live here, so close to humans.

Townsperson A: Hey, traveler! Come join on the fun! This festival only comes ‘round once a year.

Lilia: Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry. Ah, actually, have you heard about a dragon that lives around here?

Townsperson A: Dragon? No way, those things are just fairytales. Anyways, you don’t look so good. You feeling okay? You’re white as a ghost- Ah! T-Those pointy ears… Are you a fae…!?

Townsperson B: What!? They say the fae rule over the lands up north with an iron fist!

Townsperson C: M-Monsteeer!! Get away from us!

(The townspeople start throwing rocks at Lilia)

Lilia: A monster? You’re one to talk, human!

(Lilia starts charging up his magic, then stops)

Lilia: We’re just gonna look even worse if I cause any trouble… Dammit!

Maleficia’s Castle – Cradle Tower

Baul: How did your trip go, Sir Vanrouge?

Lilia: …I didn’t get any leads.

Baul: I see…

Lilia: How’s the egg doing?

Baul: Not much better, unfortunately. However… After you departed for your travels, he started accepting just a little bit more magic. Perhaps your parting words encouraged His Majesty.

Lilia: Don’t be ridiculous, it’s impossible to tell what babies are thinking. Long as he’s still alive, that’s what matters.

Baul: I’ve ordered everyone out of the tower. Would you like to go speak with him?

Lilia: I don’t see any reason why. Not like there’s anything I can do for him.

Baul: That’s not true. I’ve no doubt he’d be delighted just to hear your voice.

Lilia: …Fine, but only for a second…. Hey there, Malleus. Haven’t seen you in two years, just about. I was worried you’d go join the stars while I was gone… But I see you’re hanging in there just fine, yeah? I bet you must get bored just sleeping all the time. Here I’ll… I’ll tell you about my travels. I was just in the Shaftlands the other day. It ended up being a wild goose chase, so I… Ah, let me tell you a happier story. So this town I went to had this huge festival going on… There were restaurants and food stalls as far as the eye could see… I even got to try some goat’s milk cheese, and it was delicious. ….Is there any point telling you these stupid stories… I’ll be going down south next. Hopefully I can actually get some useful information this time. …See you, Malleus. Don’t kick the bucket while I’m gone. 

Merchant: Dear traveler! Would you be interested in this magic lamp?

Lilia: Magic lamp?

Merchant: Indeed. If you rub this beautiful lamp here, a magic genie will appear and grant you three wishes. Amazing, isn’t it?

Lilia: He’ll grant my wish… So could he hatch a dragon egg, for example?

Merchant: A dragon… You mean those creatures from those old fairy tales? Why of course! I’m certain a genie could do that for you. Ah, well, this lamp is just a replica, so even if you rub it a genie won’t come out. So, you going to buy it or not?

Lilia: …No, I got enough luggage already.

Merchant: Well I think souvenirs are the real highlight of traveling, but okay. If you’re not going to buy anything, then scram. You’re getting in the way of my other customers.

Lilia: Fairy tales, huh. There’s still dragons alive today… So maybe the genie of the lamp is still out there somewhere. I’ll see if I can’t collect some more info while I’m here. Ugh, but the sunlight’s so strong in this country… *sigh*

Episode 7-94

Lilia: Hey there, Malleus. How’re you doing? Baul told me somedays you’ll accept magic, and somedays you won’t. But they can’t figure out any rhyme or reason to it. You’re too young to be this picky, you know. Your mother was an awful picky eater, I remember she gave the kitchen staff a lot of grief. Couldn’t you have picked a different quality of hers to take after? I’m sure Queen Maleficia’s just about fed up by now, too. …And I bet Meleanor’s up there laughing at us right now, seeing us run around all frazzled. Oh, and Levan. He always went around acting all prim and proper, but anytime he had to eat some vegetables he didn’t like, he’d hide them underneath the table cloth. I’m totally the opposite, though – I’ll eat just about anything, long as it fills my stomach. The three of you are the most bothersome family I’ll ever meet, I swear. …This time, I went to Scalding Sands. Humans are something else. In only ten years they built up their small villages into these huge cities, and it’s unbelievable how quickly their countries keep developing. For a pure blood fae like you, the world might just get harder and harder to live in as time goes on. …I’ll be leaving again soon. I’m sure I’ll find a way to hatch you this time. So until I get back, you better not…

Lilia (singing): Now sleep, sleep, my beloved child

I pray you’ll walk towards that light

That light that will guide you in your dreams…

Lilia: Haaa, haaah…. Legends say dragons lived in this valley… But this place is a ghost town. Maybe they relocated somewhere, or maybe they’re already… Dammit! It took me years to get here, but it was just another stupid goose chase. Isn’t there anything here that can give me any clues? I’ll ask the furniture and the carpeting if I have to. Just tell me, please! Tell me how to hatch a dragon egg! He’s been getting weaker and weaker all this time! I don’t care who or what… Just someone tell me! Please!!!

(magic starts building up)

Lilia: What’s going on? My magic’s flowing out of my fingertips by itself…! …. “Life is but a fleeting day, distance but an illusion.” Far Cry Cradle.

Lilia: Those visions just now… Was I seeing this castle’s past? ….Did my magic do that? I’ll try again… There! I can see it… It’s only just a little bit, but I can see the memories that were left behind here! Haha! Yes! With this spell, there’ll be so many new avenues I can take with my search. If I can peer into memories of the past… I’m sure I’ll find some clues on how to hatch dragon eggs…! I’ll find it, I know I will! I’ll find a way to hatch him!

Part 1

Part 3

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

[ikkosu]

quick angsty little drabble

mouse-verse YOU don't like how they stare at Prowl.

Like he's fire, that every touch his pede lands, broils a warmth too strong, it flourishes into a malevolent ire.

"He's unstable, mouse." Ratchet said, not sparing you a look as he scribbles away on his datapad. He termed it so simply, so casually, it was as though he's lecturing you on the basics of Cybertronian anatomy, all over again.

"He's not unstable. He's different."

You're roosted by his desk, fists clamping, unclamping, easing up the temper pressurized in your chest.

"Look." He swivels around to face you, arms crossed. "I know you like standing up for the guy. You're the closest person he's got. I get it. I understand. But please, next time when a pede's about to connect to someone's skull — don't, don't try to go in for the save, alright?"

"I wasn't protecting him." You can't help but bite back.

He kneads his face. "Then what were you trying to do kid, if you're not desperate for a one-way trip to Primus with a broken skull. "

"Making a point. Stating my case. That those bots who punch him as they please get nothing out of that."

Ratchet regards you for a moment. His optics were gentle and firm as a silent understanding passes over his face. He wants to say something but can't.

"It's nothing big. in a few week's time, he'll be the same again."

"But he's not the same. He's never the same, Ratchet."

Why does everyone think he won't be affected?

—

He's got his back to you, kneeling on the ground, helm in his servos. You stood at the doorway, sympathy pulling your features taut as you observe the way his doorwings fall to the side. A broken bird. No wings to fly.

He seemed so alone in his habsuite. So small. He could curl up into a ball, if he could. Lights, close to darkness. Space, empty. The middle is Prowl. Just Prowl and only Prowl.

"Control." Was all he said. Almost like a breath of a whisper. "I've got no control. Not even with my subordinates. Not even with myself. Nobody believes me."

His helm lifts up until it falls back, optics to the ceiling. His digits are curled out like he's trying to grasp something that's not there.

"I do." You said.

"You don't."

"I do."

Surprised pulled his features when you're close, fingers a gentle mould around his cheek. . He's not surprised by your touch or by your close proximity — he's used to them

No, what he's surprised is how contorted your expression was, how his spark twists much as how despair twists your face.

Prowl maintains the rigidity of his expression. His servos falls to his lap though and finds himself leaning a little into your touch.

In a fit of boldness, you lean up and pressed your forehead against his. Electricity crackles at the touch and colors burst into your vision.

At first it was sickly black. A storm, broiling in the depths of his mind. Tendrils curl out and nip in an attempt to deter you away. But you won't be. When you eased in your own thoughts of verdant foliage, rustic charms of sceneries and anything that's warm —he loosens visibly and let's his helm fall into your shoulder.

"You're good to keep around." He murmers, drawling against your uniform before becoming still in your hold.

You hug him tight. The thick lump on your throat is hidden by your smile.

"Yeah..."

It was better not to tell him how charred his mind was.

[itsabouttimex2]

My Alternate Universes

(AF) Primal Moon:

Twice a year; once in spring and once in autumn, a verdant moon rises to bring the bestial instincts of non-humans to light. Celestials and demons alike struggle to keep hold of themselves, something ancient welling up within them and shifting their thoughts and feelings to a more animalistic state.

The spring moon ends on the summer solstice, the autumn moon ends on the winter solstice.

Each week drives non-humans to feral or uninhibited states, leaving them struggling to control themselves. Violence and kidnappings spike during this time, humans as the usual victims. As a result of this, many people hold rather bigoted and fearful views towards demons and Celestials. Some even wish to oust them from society entirely.

(LMK) Monkie Glaive:

Long ago, monsters of terrifying might roamed the land freely. These beasts tore villages asunder and swallowed up the people inside, leaving naught but cinders of destruction in their wake. When a great Black Dragon came to wreak havoc upon humanity with wings spread wide, only one dared to stand against it- the legendary hunter, Sun Wukong! With his lightning-charged glaive held high, the Monkey King summoned a storm and forced the dragon down from the skies, where he overcame it in single combat! Today, in his honor, we hunters train monkeys as our partners to aid us on the field. With them, we overcome our opponents and forge a brighter future for all of humanity!

(Essentially, a Monster Hunter crossover.)

(LMK) Let’s Start Over:

It’s been years since MK’s story ended, and now yours is just beginning. Upgrading his nickname to ‘Monkie Knight’, he’s working hard to shape you into a worthy successor. As the new ‘Monkie Kid’, you are:

1. An everyday mortal, you were gifted a tiny fraction of MK’s power, allowing you to wield the staff and use his skills. Putting yourself in danger leads to the prompt removal of this privilege, and then you’re relegated to chores and stretches until MK thinks you’ve learned your lesson.

2. A Mystic Monkey in disguise, unaware of your true nature. If he finds out, he’s intent on breaking the news early, trying to keep you from having a breakdown like him. He considers you to be a kindred soul, and frequently offers to help with grooming and personal strife.

Given that MK still hasn’t overcome his trauma, he’s grown extremely protective of his successor, trying to force you down a safe and happy path. He dotes on you constantly, acting almost like a surrogate father. Instead of allowing you to explore and fight on your own, he tags along everywhere to keep you safe. He refuses to truly relinquish his responsibilities to you, instead vicariously living through the safety and security he forces onto you.

Until you get the chance to slip away and meet a resurrected villain that MK had hoped to never see again, allowing you to take the first step on your own journey.

(LMK) Taken Aboard:

Upon his visit to the sprawling Emerald Grove; a massive expanse of forest and rivers, Tang Sanzang finds a mischievous demon child living all alone- you. Taking pity on you, the Great Monk prays to Guanyin for her help, and receives two more tightening bands. Upon being ‘gifted’ these golden cuffs, you ask for the monk’s help to put them on- and are promptly dragged into a long and dangerous journey against your will.

Your fellow pilgrims come to view you as a mischievous little sibling, in need of both discipline and love. They won’t stop Sanzang from activating the bands, but are happy to help with the wounds and tears that come afterwards. They also engage in your tutoring, helping to teach you to read and write and perform basic arithmetic.

All the while, you try your hardest to escape and return home.

[verdantstorms]

Dorym hands.

[yuesya]

Land! Sweet, sweet land!

Lumine almost feels as if she could cry in this moment. She shouldn’t have chosen that merchant vessel over Beidou’s Alcor and experienced crew. At the time, the merchant’s ship was leaving sooner –two entire weeks before Beidou was planning to set sail– and Lumine had only wanted to reach Inazuma as soon as possible in order to continue her search for her brother.

They’d been hit by a storm, and the ship had capsized. Fortunately, there were enough emergency rowboats for all members on board, even if the merchant’s goods had been a complete loss to the ruthless waves. Less fortunately… it had been several long days of drifting at sea, and their dwindling supplies weren’t about to last much longer.

“We’ve made it, Lumine!” Paimon cheers. Lumine nods firmly. “We’re alive!”

Alive, and in desperate need of aid. Lumine and a few of the other stronger sailors set out to explore a bit and get a better idea of their surroundings. Hopefully they’d come across some friendly locals who’d be able to extend a helping hand, or at least be willing to just tell them where they’d washed up on–

Someone’s there.

Another person! Lumine quickens her footsteps, even as waterlogged as she is.

“Excuse me–!”

Paimon flies ahead of her, chasing the figure that she’d glimpsed. “Wait! Wait, please, we’re just hapless travelers who –ack!”

“Paimon?” Urgency quickens her footsteps, and Lumine hurries to reach her companion. “You…”

Her voice dies in her throat.

There’s a young girl standing amidst the trees, with blue-white hair that appears almost silver beneath the sunlight. Her clothing is in the distinct fashion of Inazuman dress, a mix of soft blue and lilac colors flowing down her body. It’s almost enough to make Lumine acutely self-conscious of her own waterlogged state and haphazard appearance from days of floating out at sea–

But there’s a dark purple cloth tied over the girl’s face, covering her eyes. A blindfold. The girl is blind.

Blind, and yet she’d moved so smoothly and confidently over the rough terrain. Lumine had barely managed to glimpse her earlier, and if it hadn’t been for her coloring standing out so starkly against the verdant backdrop of the trees, she would’ve thought that she’d imagined it all in her head.

The girl raises her hand –the hand that’s holding onto the back of Paimon’s dress, “Is it yours?”

Paimon squirms. “I’m not an ‘it!’”

“Yes, Paimon is my friend,” Lumine nods firmly –and belatedly realizes that the girl probably can’t even see it. Wait. Is she really blind? The way she moved, the way she seemed aware of everything around her… didn’t really seem like the motions of a blind person…

The girl wordlessly releases her grip on Paimon; Paimon immediately returns to Lumine’s side, casting the girl an unsettled, suspicious look.

“Um…” Best to just get to the point, probably. “Could you possibly point us towards where the nearest settlement is, please?”

“Head south,” the girl raises a pale hand, the one that’s not holding the basket of strange purple grass as she points towards the direction to their left. “Watatsumi’s Bourou Village isn’t far from here. You’ll find it easily once you reach and follow the road.”

“Thank you!” That’s probably the best news that Lumine has heard ever since the shipwreck. “We really appreciate it, miss…?”

The girl remains silent. Lumine trails off awkwardly.

“… Erm, what should I call you?” Lumine ends up asking sheepishly. The girl is certainly strange, but she doesn’t sense any ill will from her. And she’d helped give directions easily enough; Lumine would like to have a name for the person who’d given them assistance.

“… Gojo," the girl says. "Call me Gojo.”

[multifandom--mess]

hannigram x villaneve crossover fics bc hell yes!

mlm/wlw solidarity if you know what i mean 🤭

《☆☆☆》

》 Summertime in Marseille - (12k)(Mature)

Murder wives across the pond? The London area manhunt for pay to play assassin Oksana Astankova continues tonight after the gruesome discovery of the bodies of two M16 agents and the unsettling disappearance of a third. The missing agent Eve Polastri’s checkered history with the femme fatale stirs up a sense of deja-vu to a case stateside involving the (still unsolved) disappearance of a certain disgraced psychiatrist turned psychopath and his companion Will Graham. Both pairs vanished without a trace, leaving behind only a couple of corpses in the hands of, debatetly inept, law enforcement. Longtime readers will remember the debacle on the rumors of the relationship between Lecter and Graham. Fresh faces should expect much of the same insight when it comes to Astankova and Polastri. -Freddie Lounds [Tattlecrime.com] Or: Villanelle takes Eve to visit an old friend.

》 Wintertime in the Atlantic - (10k)(Mature)

Dear Hannibal and Will, [Eve warned me I really shouldn’t write Hannibal and Will but I don’t think you two are stupid enough to let other people read your mail and the consequences are on you if you are.] A recent client has gifted me four first class tickets for a cruise to Australia on the 11th of December! The ship leaves from Lisbon which is a wonderful coincidence since Eve tells me that’s where you’re currently living. We never got the opportunity to repay you two for helping us during our time of need back in Marseille. My fiancé and I would be delighted if you would accompany us. The tickets are attached! -xoxo Villanelle Or: Eve and Villanelle meet up with the Lecter-Graham’s once again.

》 Rhapsody in Brashness - (4k)(Mature)

“We understand,” says Hannibal. The vibrations of his voice rumble against her the way that thunder does through storm clouds. “You are unique, as I am. And she insinuated herself into you, as Will insinuated himself into me. The blind, pearly rootlets of human connection have burrowed themselves too deeply into the fertile soil of your soul to be killed, now, no matter how many times you hack away at the verdant growth which springs anew into the air, again and again. The intricate underground web of them merely spreads implacably further and deeper and will continue to do so until they smother you, or until you allow the leaves to fully unfurl into the light.” “But she stabbed me,” Villanelle exclaims petulantly.

》 A Cannibal, A Dog Lover, and an Assassin Walk Into A Bar - (1.7k)(G)

Hannibal and Will wanted a quick getaway to Rome, but end up with a little more adventure than they anticipated.

》 Murder Pals in Alaska - (1.5k)(Mature)

Eve and Villanelle make their home in Alaska and befriend Will and Hannibal.

》 Cannibal vs. Assassin: The Showdown - (5k)(Mature)

“Obviously, they do kill people based on those dance moves alone,” Hannibal tittered, but quietly enough as to not attract attention. Will stifled a laugh. “That is not a reason to ruin their night though,” Hannibal decided, following Will through the crowd.

》 Taste and Temptation - (18k)(G)

Eve and Villanelle have gone off on their own, traveling and getting to know each other better. Hannibal and Will have too. Both couples happen to have dark pasts and trouble with the law, but that hasn't really put a damper on their vacations. The four of them happen to meet at an opera in Florence but when they keep running into each other, they have to wonder if their meetings are coincidence or something that could put their travels in danger. Villaneve meets Hannigram on the run.

(NOTE: unfinished but still worth the read!)

》 The Professionals Series - (12k)(T)

A Hannibal/Killing Eve crossover AU where Hannibal and Villanelle are best buds. Theoretically set after "The Wrath of the Lamb" and "God, I'm Tired" for parts I and II and after "You're Mine" for part III.

[madwomansapologist]

Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 8 - A nightingale sang

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series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

eigth chapter synopsis: A surprising invitation made you discover a different, incredible place hidden in Greenwood. You were glad that Thranduil showed you such a special place. But probably you were even more glad that he was there with you. [3K]

warnings: female!reader. pre-Smaug. cried writing this but this is apparently something that will happens with every chapter so... go hear a nightingale sang in berkeley square. look i am just a sensitive girl in a difficult world, this is straight up murdering you with love.

glossary: Idril: Treasure, sweetheart┆Ellon: Male elf┆

Forests are secrets in themselves. They hide things. That is what they do, their primordial essense. A forest without a secret is a human without a soul, a planet without a star, a mother without her child. That is the real language of the woods.

You knew all the meadow’s secrets in Rivendell. You knew where the sprouts flourished, where the clearing started, where the trees fall after storms. You knew all its secrets, until you did not.

Because in kind places a forest hides wisteria and sage sprouts. In cruel ones it hides wargs and warm blood. And for those who are lucky enough it hides suspended gardens.

Stone pillars, embedded on gold, supported all seven floors. It would already be a beautiful sight, light reflecting in waves of warmth through Greenwood, but the ascending series of tiered gardens above each floor turned it into a paradise. Each specimen from the wide variet of trees, flowers and vines were part of this mountain constructed of golden bricks.

“I got goosebumps,” you whispered. Even the air was different there. It smelled like honey and daisies. If Thranduil told you that daylight comes from that place, you would have believed him. “Why did you hide this place from me!?”

Strangers had been born and buried and their lifetime would be nothing compared to all the time the Elvenking spend on the suspended gardens. And still, looking into your moist eyes, Thranduil discovered a new sort of beauty in this place.

The green of the vines, more verdant. The gold of the pillars, more golden. The pink of the flowers, more rosy. The whole world was brighter. Wind whispering against the autumn leaves, birds flocking, river crashing against stones: the world became a song. Such a beautiful, intricate symphony. One that he never noticed before.

It must be fate. That was meant to be. Since the world was first created and the stars were put into place. For what other reason did he survived this far, if not to admire you admiring the world his ancestors build? For what reason did Thranduil endure this far, if not to be alone in this world with you?

Your eyes glowed, and Thranduil wondered if Varda put her light into them. Into you.

The Elvenking gestured towards the gardens. “Shall we, idril?”

Thranduil watched as you prepared a raspberry pie in silence, which was better than when he tried to make you let someone else finish it. As if it was offensive for you to get your hands dirty. Your last job was to take care of horses. What is a pie compared to that?

Cleaning your hands, you almost could not believe your ears when the invitation came. It was strange of him to have free time during the day. He never had before, not once since you first got in his realm. But you were not the one to remind a king of his duties.

Not when that can take him away from you.

So this time, when Thranduil suggest you to let someone else bake it, you accept it.

“You really should stop doing that,” you continued along the paved way, and Thranduil followed your eager steps. Turning to look at him instead of facing the path, a delicate smile showed you did not meant what you were saying. “Calling me words I do not know.”

“Yet,” Thranduil completed. “Do not know yet.”

On the first floor, you understood that the construction did not matter. Its halls were simple, with long open arches and practically empty except for the occasional sculptures. Anyone there would only have eyes for the gardens, and whoever built it knew that no amount of gold or jewels would ever compete with nature.

Quince flowers draped over the walls, pears were almost to the point of crop. Thranduil showed you almond flowers, his long fingers brushing against the tiny buds. You did not even knew almonds came from flowers.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, you brushed your hands against the rough trunk of a pistachio tree. “Do you fear birds?” Thranduil looked concerned.

“Definitely no.”

Following throught the halls, you could see the garden suspended over the first floor. Butterflies and bees flew around the almond flowers, which made you speed up the pace. You heard Thranduil laughing, and he only did not heard you complaining because you were too scared that maybe a bee would enter your mouth.

A swallow landed on your hair, and you tried your best to not move so Thranduil would see it too. When he stopped in front of you, Thranduil’s eyes seemed so… calm.

You knew he was tired and worried. That he had much to do, to understand, to protect. In Rivendell people believe that Sauron is gone, but here they have more than faith to prove the contrary. But now Thranduil look so peaceful.

As if nothing bad had ever happened to him.

“A little one mistook you by a tree,” Thranduil stretched a finger towards your hair. You felt the swallow moving, pulling your hair along, and saw it on his ring finger. Such a small thing, with greenish down.

Your smile went wider when you looked into his face.

“And you by a flower.” In his wood crown, butterflies found a new home. “If you pay attention, you really look like a sunflower kind of person,” you used your hands to cover your laugh. “Always smiling, never yelling at anyone.”

Thranduil’s response was to roll his eyes.

On the third floor, you passed through ebony, cedar and rosewood. You told Thranduil how most of the trees surrounding Aerin’s inn are ash trees, and how sad it is that most of the stories you read use them as metaphor for dead things. Thranduil shared a poem about a willow tree.

It surprised you how he recited it from memory.

Junipers were new for you. Never before you heard about them. But myrrh was not. You told Thranduil that Luthien gave you a bottle of its oil and practically ordered you to use it on your shoulder. His peacefulness oscilated for a second, but it appeared again.

The floor with fruits were your favorite one. Thranduil split open a pomegranate, revealing clusters of seeds inside it. You both shared it, eating slowly while watching the sun reflecting upon Greenwood. You took a tangerine from its branch, and gave him half of it. With half of a fresh fig on your hands, you were more interest on plum flowers than on its fruit.

There is something about sharing a fruit with someone that just makes it feel holy. The way Thranduil cut the fig in half. How you cleaned the tangerine. Your fingers brushing against one another to take another seed. It just felt better than eating one alone.

You brushed your fingers against ferns and orchids. Cherry blossoms floated, washing you both upon pink petals. A few got stucked on your hair. A few that Thranduil did not warned you about.

On the last floor, there were tables and chairs made of wood, but what really mattered to you was the view. From up there, you could see everything. Greenwood, every floor and its suspended garden, a flowing river on distance. Once again, goosebumps explored your body.

“A step back,” said Thranduil when he saw you too close from the edge. It may have been a warning, it may have been an order, but you took one either. He sat, observing carefully. “Your fall is not worth the landscape.”

“Do not be affraid. That will not happen,” your eyes locked on a bird flying away. You think it was a nightingale. He was so small, and yet he knew a type of freedom you would never. How must it be to fly? It happened for you to fall from places that made you feel like you were flying, until you met the ground. Does it works the other way around? You imagine so. “You do not need to worry about me.”

“How could I not?” replied Thranduil. “You reign in my mind. It is my duty to worry about your safety and happiness.”

Your mouth went dry. “It was never my intention to make you worry about my safety or my happiness,” your voice was barely a whisper. “Or about me, at all.”

Words, when commonly used, tend to lose their initial meaning. It dissolves, disappears with each repetition, until the word is just a ghost of what it once was. Of what their meaning once was. So many man use love almost as a greeting, but not a ellon. Never a ellon.

Love for a elve is more than just a word. It is not something that happens several times. It happens once in a lifetime, and it last forever and evermore. Only one person can own a elve’s heart, just their half, and they will never trust it to someone else.

Thranduil never thought of himself as someone lucky, but now he knows he is. In such a dangerous world, Thranduil found you. His friend, his confidant, his love. His one and only. Your heart belong with his. Thranduil can wait however long it takes for you to believe in that too.

“I never said it was.”

The silence pierced your mind. His words… Why Thranduil keep on doing this? Why he keep on saying those sweet, toothaching sweet things? Thranduil is so beautiful, and everytime he opens his mouth you get more sure that his heart is just as pretty. If you could open his skull and study his brain, you would.

“Still,” you licked your lips. “I am not falling.”

Thranduil nodded. You came back to watch the sky, mostly because you did not knew what else to do. It was rosy. A breeze made chills go down your spine, and a petal fell from your hair right into your hands. Your caressed it, and moved it closer to your nose.

“Who created this place?” You sniffed it. “They must be so proud.”

Lost on you, Thranduil did not saw a reason to lie. “It was my father.”

That warm feeling spreading into you faded away. He never talked to you about his father before, but you knew that there was only one way for a prince to become a king. What you do not know is how much does it hurt. It must be a lot. Usually things that we love hurt way too much.

Without a ounce of shame, you walked towards Thranduil. The way he made your thoughts hazy did not matter anymore. You pulled yourself a chair, and dragged it until it was right beside him. Thranduil chuckled at the act.

“He must have been really creative,” you told him. “How was he?”

That surprised Thranduil. People never ask things about his father. They only say that they are sorry, that they feel so much, that it must be so difficult. They never talk about Oropher. They always remind Thranduil that he is dead, but they never talk about him.

“Wise,” said Thranduil. With just one word, he already felt that it was so easier to breath. Sometimes it feels like Oropher only lives on his memory. Like there is this unsurmountable weight on his shoulders, one that none can see or help to carry. It felt nice to share. “And ruthless. He was the strongest until the very end.”

You tried to picture Oropher. The king who died too soon. The warrior that led his people against Sauron, and saw his knights falling down. You picture someone that knew the weight of a sword dipped in blood, the sound of a last breath, the rotteness of a dying land. You pictured this person, and then imagined him daydreaming about suspended gardens. Architecting a palace, designing irrigation, choosing seeds.

Oropher sounds like someone that was worth knowing.

Your fingers dipped into your watery dress, and you bit back a smile. You imagine that Thranduil have the same effect on people. That they will heard how he protect his land and his people, and then get amazed about how he can recite poems about a willow tree. At least he has that effect on you.

“And how was him to you? Was he good?”

“Not ruthless,” Thranduil smiled at the memories in hindsight. You could not help but to do the same. “He was gentle and… When I was just a little ellon, I used to not understand when it was time to shut up. Now I see how awful I was, but he always listened to me. He never made me feel like I should remain silent.”

You held his hand, it was so cold. Stroking his delicate skin, you felt a warmth inside you. Something different from anything you ever felt. You felt… not alone.

“I bet Oropher would be proud of you,” the words escaped your mouth. “I know I am. You are good. You are also great, but you are good.”

Somehow, Thranduil understood exactly what you meant. There are so many great people in this world. So many great poets, great warriors, great rulers. But good… Oh, it appears that the world is always lacking people that are good.

People who will discuss with dragons because their friends deserve their home back. People that will cross a continent to destroy a ring simply because someone needs to. People that will lit beacons without permission, that will use helmets to hide the fact that they are a woman, that will fight even as arrows pierce their chest.

“You think I am good?” Thranduil felt his eyes burning. “You really do?”

“Of course, my king.” You intertwined his fingers with yours. It felt right. Like they were made to complement eachother. A sly smirk replaced your genuine smile. “You think I would put up with you if I did not?

Thranduil looked at the horizon, hoping you would not notice the redness of his eyes. He reciprocated your touch, squeezing your hand lightly. Maybe it was the sunset, maybe it was the autumn leaves, but everything felt golden.

Everything felt just fine.

“You are good,” murmured Thranduil. “Is it because of your parents?”

You let go of his hand, and Thranduil felt the sky getting darker. Your colors also faded, as if it was robbed from your skin. “It is getting late,” you told him. You were quick to get up. Quick to lie. Badly. “I should come back.”

“I am sorry. I really am,” Thranduil ignored everything you said. There was no need for him to pretend to fall for your bad lies. He stand, just as fast as you. “But you are not a good liar, idril. I will not force you to say the truth, nor do I wish for you to speak when you do not want to, but you do not need to lie. Not to me. We are friends. You do not need to perform around me.”

You threw yourself onto the chair, without any energy to argue. You watched the horizon, the changing colors of the sky, and tried to ignore the pressure on your chest. “I am sorry.”

“No need to,” Thranduil sat too. He tried to be silent, but something told him that maybe you also had a unsurmountable weight on your shoulders. That maybe you also needed to share it. “Were they not good?”

“Maybe yes, maybe not,” you huffled. You responded right away, so Thranduil assumd he made the right decision. “That is the problem.”

With your eyelids closed, you turned your head to Thranduil. When courage made its way into your chest, you looked at him. Was he going to judge you? To see you as too much of a problem? A part of you feared that he would. The other half thought it was mean to think of him that way.

“I have no memories of them.”

He let you talk. About how you have no memories of parents, of any family, of growing or sharing meals or going to school or learning to read. About how for you it is like you were born during a thunderstorm, then wandered until you found Aerin. You told him everything.

After you rant, his silence came. He breathe in, and you could feel his body getting tense. “No one ever looked for you?” Thranduil finally said something.

You denied. “Do you think I am crazy?”

“I think…”

For Thranduil, now everything makes sense. The way you tend to pretend not to see when Aerin treated you badly. Or how people insisted on not calling you by your name. Why you would have felt bad if you did nothing. The gentleness of your heart. How your intelligence have a touch of naivety.

But it also made him even more intrigued about why you and Gandalf are friends. Does he have any interest on your memories coming back? Is he the reason why they faded? Can you really see him as a friend?

Thranduil never liked those pilgrim wizards, and Gandalf tend to be the one creating more problems for him. If he is right about who betrayed the free people, then maybe you have something to do with it.

He is glad you are away from him. Thranduil does not trust him.

Thranduil licked his lips. “I think you are so unlucky.”

That made you burst into laugh. For a whole minute. You belly hurt, your cheeks burned, your head spin. It was loud and ugly and true. “I… I agree.”

When silence came, it was natural. It was welcomed. You stared into his watery eyes, and decided that you would never try to hide things from Thranduil. It is just not worth the effort, now when he reacts this way. Not when he is so sweet.

“You still want to go back home?” Thranduil whispered. There was simply no need to, but he wanted to. It felt right to.

You inhale. “Not really,” you admitted. You turned your gaze to the sky, and it was on that marvelous moment when it is not day and it is not night. Thranduil did the same as you. “This place feels like a summer dream.”

A nightingale sang that night. Not that you both heard it, since your voices were louder. But it sang, and it still mattered.

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish @whore-of-many-hot-men @h0ly-fire

if you enjoyed, please reblog! i promise it makes a difference ♡

@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

[fragileheartbeats]

idea: What do you think about a prophecy like Aegon's prophecy for your own house?

Rhaevar I was on his deathbed staring at the ceiling with tear filled eyes. He stretched out his trembling hands towards the mirror and whispered with his eyes wide open, shining like starlight:

Listen, for the winds whisper secrets of impending doom, a tale of one hundred and ten thousand and then ten thousand more, seeds of wrath sown by the hands of malice.

Behold, those vile progeny, borne of darkness and scorn, shall descend upon my realm, bearing flags of oppression and robes blackened by the sun's cruel gaze. Their lineage obscured, their origins shrouded in the mists of deceit, they shall come with sorcery and false promises, intent on sundering the lands I, Rhaevar, have nurtured.

They defile and pollute, leaving homes and fields in ruins, transforming once vibrant lands into desolate wastelands. Joy and reverence dissipate, faith and covenant shattered, as the wicked lineage rises to power, tearing asunder the fabric of righteousness that I have woven into existence.

Cities shall crumble, wells run dry, scholars fall to ash, and the flames of knowledge shall be extinguished by their unholy touch. They shall defile the sanctity of home and hearth, turning verdant fields to desolate wastes, and my sacred flame shall be snuffed out, leaving naught but ashes in its wake.

In their wake, a wasteland shall bloom, where once grand villages stood, now naught but bones and dust remain. Joy shall flee from the hearts of children, and reverence for the elderly shall wither like leaves in autumn's chill. Their words shall ring hollow, their deeds black as the night, for they are faithless, betrayers of the Creator's covenant.

When this world approaches its end and the time of their birth is near, the days, months, and years will grow shorter, and the day and night will alternate and the sun will become more straight and hidden, they will invite the dead, and spread the dead.

In the darkest hour, they shall rise to power, pitting kin against kin in a ceaseless cycle of strife. They shall spurn righteousness and embrace wickedness, honoring their own lineage while casting mine as lowly. Birds shall be revered more than my kin, and the faithful shall be branded as heretics in their twisted creed.

And they will commit many sins, such as slavery and intimacy with unfaithful women, and they will make it common, and they will engage in idolatry and commit many vile acts.

When storms and violent winds come at their time, the rain will not fall as it should, except that it will bring pollution to the land and bring evil creatures with it. the rivers and streams will dry up, and it will not bring an increase, except that it will bring destruction with it. and the cattle, sheep, and goats will bear less and what they bear will be smaller and less skilled, and they will carry less weight and have less fur and tighter skin, and they will not yield milk, and their fat will decrease.

and the celebrations and customs of the past will change and the customs they follow will be weak and without belief.

when the time comes and their destruction is at hand, the mouth of Himelios will open and release all that they have hidden in their hearts of iron, silver, gold, copper, and jewels, the rule of this land will fall into the hands of evil and even the righteous rulers will follow the ways of those with evil deeds, and the kingship shall pass from them into the hands of bandits and rebels, and, the kingship of these evil ones shall spread, and if they kill a righteous in their stead, it will be as if killing a fly in their eyes.

And when the time comes for their destruction, these evil ones will be destroyed like a tree shedding its leaves on a cold winter night, and their destruction will be complete.

for in the hour of reckoning, the heavens shall weep tears of fire, and the earth shall open to swallow the wicked whole. The rule of kings shall crumble, and even dragons will fly away. Yet from the ashes, a child shall rise, born of my blood, destined to bring hope to a world shrouded in darkness.

his father will be of the fire lineage, and he will seek the help of winter in north, this child will come into the world when he reaches nine and will have a conversation with me. in that night, a sign will appear in the world. the stars will rain down and a new star will appear in the sky, visible to all.

And in that night, his father will die, and he will be raised by noble women.

many young people from my land will return to the ways of their ancestors and many will be killed and lost for this crime.

When Mars reaches its zenith and Venus falls, armies shall gather to claim the promised one's birthright. this promised savior shall emerge, heralding the final battle where the Shivering Sea shall run red with the blood of the righteous and the wicked alike.

And then a tear fell from his eye and he closed his eyes to the world forever.

House Celestyr tag list: @emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

[hearthouses]

you could call me babe for the weekend ↳ supernatural, m/m, nc-17, dean winchester/sam winchester, ~13,800 words

warnings/enticements: sibling incest, implied/referenced underage sex, switching, first aid/canon typical gore, hurt/comfort, spit as lube, angst, bittersweet ending

There’s a downpour outside.

It’s been months since Sam has seen one, the mild Californian weather producing only the lightest of light drizzles while the sun still shone bright in the sky, just enough mist to keep everything verdant and alive. Today the sun had been washed away, covered by clouds, the mid-February storm painting everything outside gray and dark, producing heavy shadows, like the storms Sam remembered further east, with the rumble of thunder and sudden strikes of lightning, streaking through the sky.

It was all in all a miserable fucking day that carried Dean to his doorstep, drenched and bloody, like he’d been battered by the storm outside, rattled around in the sky and spat back out, but Sam knew better than that.

Stanford Era: It’s Valentine’s Day at Stanford and Sam is spending it alone, until his brother shows up injured.

BONUS: official playlist.