#whenever there's bowed string instruments in it

[chevvy-ryder]

Me sitting here, editing pics in middle of the night. I listen to random music suggestions.

and what came to my mind is

If Thyjs was an instrument he surely would be a cello. Yet his favorite instrument, he likes to play, is a piano.

But I see him as a cello.

[vxnuslogy]

𐙚 shelter from storms.

— how is life when you're living with the stellaron hunters.

— warnings: none

— author's notes: sunday is a stellaron hunter just trust me, these can be taken as romantic or platonic except for silver wolf, hers is purely platonic. once again credits to @.cafekitsune for the banners.

𐙚 KAFKA

one day brought a record player back to headquarters after a mission. she happily skipped over to you to inquire about the spare room that hasn’t been used in years. and that’s how you got roped into decorating the said room with kafka, making it her pseudo music room whenever it's her day off. 

she even convinced you to pick up the violin and practice with her. it was hard at first - you had no past experience with playing an instrument - but kafka was patient, taking her time to teach you how to properly hold the violin, how to press on the strings correctly so it doesn’t sound strained when you glide the bow over it. more often than not, you’d call it quits after an hour and a half and simply just listen to kafka play. these were the times where she became more expressive so you cherished it.

after practice she would tell you about the local music from the planet she went to for her mission. retelling in great detail how the musician played the piece, how the crowd gathered and clapped once the person finished. you can’t help but let the growing smile on your face show. kafka doesn’t show that much emotion - a big consequence of being an emanator of the nihility - but you knew deep down that kafka was kind a person, even if the universe said otherwise.

𐙚 BLADE

is the type of person that would eat whatever you offer him without question. you were quite shocked when it first happened – you had dragged him to one of the stalls on the luofu to eat a snack and when you offered him a bite, he took it. you stood frozen in your spot as blade chewed his food, muttering a soft praise for how it was cooked and started to drag you away from the stall. a certain head of white had slowly started to approach the two of you.

when silver wolf and firefly found out, they were certainly amused, the former more so than the latter. and since then, whenever you and silver wolf would practice cooking when kafka wasn’t around, you would drag blade into the kitchen and spoon feed him the food you made. you found it endearing when his voice would grow soft whenever firefly or silver wolf offered him a spoonful of food and he’d take it without hesitation. giving constructive criticism and even assisting the three of you whenever he’s feeling nice.

though you’ve learned how not to push his buttons too much. after silver wolf accidentally (it was on purpose) put sugar instead of salt in his food, you had to pull the man back by the arm so he didn’t kill the poor girl. 

𐙚 SILVER WOLF

kafka laughed under her breath as blade groaned. there you two go again, stopping your actions whenever you pass each other in the halls just to stare, then laugh, and proceed as if nothing had happened. you don’t remember when this started or how it even came to be, it just became a silly little greeting between the two of you that made blade think the two of you were insane. but then again, who wasn’t insane in this organization?

when silver wolf first became a hunter she was quite the pissy baby, sam often left her in your care, maybe that's why you always sought out each other’s presence when it's your day offs. kafka joked how the two of you must be siblings separated by birth and that led to her dragging you into her room, a whiteboard behind her and a marker perched on her ear, trying to explain how you two were actually siblings. 

she’s grown quite attached to you, always the first one to greet you when you come back from a mission and drag you to her room so you can play video games together. time spent with each other is always fun and full of laughter, you can’t help but wish time would move slower so you could spend more time with her. when kafka comes to drag you out of her room because it was 3 am and you’ve lost track of time, you can’t help but miss the girl’s laughter as you yet again, lost your combo on one of her favorite rhythm games.

𐙚 FIREFLY

ever since you joined the stellaron hunters, sam and elio have given you full reign in being their mechanic/inventor. it was a great honor and you took pleasure whenever the hunters trusted your inventions and used them in battle. the biggest downside would probably be is being in charge of cleaning sam’s armor when missions get too rough. before you, kafka would always be the one in charge of this but after your arrival, firefly seems to only want you to clean it, especially when silver wolf tried to doodle on sam’s WHITE ARMOR with pastel markers. 

your station was always filled with easygoing chatter between you and firefly. she would tell you about how her mission went, what happened, what needed to be fixed and if there were any adjustments needed to be made. you always listened with keen eagerness, pausing every once in a while at wiping off the grime and dirt on sam and writing something on the clipboard that’s always on your desk.

aeons bless this girl’s heart because she was a total sweetheart. most of the time you never get the chance to keep up with the trends among the cosmos so she took it upon herself to always keep you updated. even when she was on missions, she never fails to send you a text on the new trending fashion, makeup, and even food. speaking of makeup, you should start wrapping that set you managed to snag online. it was a thank you gift for firefly for always keeping you updated.

𐙚 SUNDAY

hesitation, regret, but quiet determination. that was your first impression of sunday when kafka entered your station with him in tow. a pair of mechanical wings to replace his broken one, kafka said before abruptly leaving. he was hesitant to let you near his wings but eventually caved after lots and lots of reassurances that it would be quick. when you finished, you kept a close eye on him whenever he practiced taking flight with it, always remembering to keep a good distance so you don’t invade his comfort zone.

wincing when sunday stumbled for the seventh time today. sweat dripping from his forehead to chin as he tried and tried again, trying to take flight again after years of chaining himself to the ground. it was painful to watch, but you can’t help but feel proud of his determination to make it work. a smile crept up to your face as you scribbled something down on your clipboard when he nearly made it. you made a mental note to reshape the wings a bit and use a different type of material so it didn’t weigh him down too much.

sunday may not show it, but he knows you’re watching from afar, he's happy you keep him company in his trying times, it makes his failures in taking flight a little more bearable. he couldn’t help but feel thankful to his hereditary genes of being able to sense the emotions of others, he just wished you could do the same. you have no idea how grateful he is that you’re taking so much of his comfort and needs into account when creating his wings. he could only offer you a small smile when he knocks at your door to announce dinner. sunday swore to take you to penacony one day when kafka mentioned you’ve always wanted to travel there.

© vxnuslogy 2024. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works.

[sir-twitcher]

Calloway ‘Siegfried’ Darling - Prime Asset OC

Calloway was born in Germany, and grew up with his father after his mother passed during labour. His father was an underground doctor, claiming that he was ‘doing good for those who couldn’t afford it’ and Calloway being only young at the time, saw nothing wrong with this. In fact he envied his father. He was fascinated with the human body after watching countless operations done by his father. At around the age of fifteen they moved to New York, where Calloway’s love for music started to grow. He basically grew up in the theatre, particularly falling in love with classical music. It gave him a sense of power whenever he heard it. And so he enrolled at a music school for the naturally gifted. Music made him someone. Without it he was just ‘the back-alley doctor’s sissy son’. He knew he was destined for greatness. He was going to show them. Even if it meant getting a little messy.

Twelve years pass and Calloway’s father has finally been caught for all the illegal operations he does. On the night that the police were meant to collect him, all they could find were rooms and rooms filled to the brim with classical instruments. And amongst them, Calloway. He tells the officers he hasn’t seen his father, but rather suspects he’s gone on the run to avoid being arrested. The police don’t see anything that sticks out so they leave. What they didn’t know was that Calloway’s father was right there the whole time. Just a little scattered. His head in the tuba, his body stuffed into the piano, his hands ready at the violin. Calloway wasn’t going to let his father’s stupidity drag him down. He was in his prime now.

Another ten years goes by and Calloway is at the top. His blood, sweat and tears has brought him to this very moment. His name in lights, his face on posters and billboards. His live orchestras are the best in town. Many people like to joke that it’s due to his unusually elongated fingers on his right hand. They say he doesn’t need his baton. He was born to do this. God chose him. He always lets that comment get to his head. He loved the power he got when he was conducting. He was in control. Until the curtains dropped that was. He knew he needed more. The instruments never sounded right. They never had that rawness he was searching for. It needed a more ‘human’ touch. And no, not a singer. Nothing could ever be that easy.

‘The sound a human body makes is more sweeter than any instrument in the world. A guttural scream is much better than anything a trumpet could do. I can make you beautiful, I can make you sound perfect.’

Turning humans into his instruments was what he craved. That’s what he’s been needing. And thanks to his father, he knew just how to do that. He knew that no one would truly understand his image. A maestro with ‘living instruments’ wasn’t a thing. That was just a mad man. Calloway would make the people see his vision. One way or another.

Calloway’s appearance is a mess between a bunch of different instruments. Piano keys lodged in his head. Harp strings attached to the side of his torso and the underside of his arm. He has a violin bow sticking out his leg and the classic f hole carved into his leg. And of course you can’t forget the trumpet hanging from the bandages clinging to his tux. He believes he’s one with the instruments. And will mainly use his baton to end his victims.

‘Music is a labyrinth with no beginning and no end, where mystery remains eternal’

(Forgive me if anything is grammatically wrong I’ve been so tired lately 😞)

[crguang]

violinist kafka x her pianist accompaniment reader, courtesy of my 🎹 anon and @shalomniscient’s beautiful brain <3 we’ve been going crazy over this AU since i received the ask today.

R and kafka are childhood best friends who have been playing together since their respective instructors discovered their potential and made them work together on a piece, very much young prodigies in the making who do nothing but hone their skills with the dream of becoming the best in their field. one day, when they’re around 16 years old, R moves away. this bus ride is the last memory kafka holds of them together and she remembers it viscerally whenever she brings an especially complex composition to life, which eventually becomes the source of her recognition and success. this is a goodbye she only understands once she’s lost them.

607. i miss you.

//

You held her hand that early evening on the way to the bus stop on the corner street four minutes from the music academy; your pinky finger loosely looped with hers and in the chill of February, she could feel the rough material of your knitted glove against her own, the one gifted to you by an aunt she doesn’t remember the name of. Fingertips linked like an implicit promise, she spared you a questioning glance at the unusual gesture and you avoided her gaze, making a show of scrolling through a playlist on your MP3 player with your free hand. She thinks of it as holding hands now, because despite your palms not touching at the time, your bodies were connected through that fragile bridge between your fingers and your hands swayed in the air with your unhurried steps. Each of her exhales were made visible by the cold while you kept yours within the confines of the scarf around your neck, you always despised the drop in temperature. Even with the bottom half of your head hidden by the soft fabric, she could read the reservation on the lines of your face. You were keeping something in and it was obvious to her who had known you since that Wednesday you sat in her every-day rehearsal room, patiently waiting with her violin instructor and a faraway look in your eyes. Back then, it had been eight years. Perhaps that isn’t accurate, she has known you a total of eight years up to the present day. That is the only constant between you, whoever you are today she does not know.

Kafka chuckles lowly to herself, a self-deprecating sound. After all this time, she still needs this moment of reminiscence before she dares put the bow to her violin’s sacred strings. If this is what puts her in the state of mind necessary to perform this composition flawlessly, so be it. She inhales long and slow, then exhales quietly through her mouth. She raises her right hand and in one controlled motion, slides the bow over the first note of her instrument. 

The 607 bus was half empty when you stepped on it first. You paid the bus fare and she followed you to the back after doing the same. You took the seat next to a window tainted with water streaks and silently took the violin case from her hands to lay part of it on your thigh, the other half rested on her leg the entire ride home, its small weight shared like the rest of your burdens. She took the earphone you handed her and pressed a little closer to you to see what you were showing her on your MP3. The bus started moving a second later. 

“I don’t want something too loud this time,” you said, scrolling down the music app where you’d created playlists for each other a year prior. 

“Lame.”

“You chose the playlist yesterday, you don’t get to complain. This one is nice.”

You pressed play on a slow song and lifted your head to meet her eyes expectantly as the first melodies reached her ear. She conceded with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. You smiled, a soft edge to it, and didn’t tear your gaze from hers for a moment that Kafka now wonders if it lasted seconds or minutes. You looked into her eyes, searching for something she didn’t have the guts to confess, and she looked back at you with the words on her lips. They were often there, sitting just past her lips like they’d fly out of her mouth the instant she opened it, but she found that they were anchored to her tongue and had no plan to leave the warmth of their comfort zone. Her eyebrows twitched in question for the second time that hour, an unsure smile on her face in response to your stare.

“What?”

Her attempt to glimpse into your mind broke the suspended moment. You shook your head somewhat ruefully.

“Nothing.”

You lowered your MP3 and followed the movement with your eyes, avoiding hers once again. She could see something brewing inside of you since that morning, guilt you couldn’t admit to her, maybe, but she didn’t push thinking you would speak up eventually. Instead, she playfully nudged your side with an elbow.

“Practice used up your last brain cells or what?”

“Ha, ha. Like you weren’t the one struggling to keep up with the tempo.”

“Try again, maybe the next lie will be more convincing.”

“Oh, sorry, I forgot Kafka The Prodigy could never make a mistake, ever. I’m only the accompaniment, what would I know?”

“That’s more like it.”

You lifted your eyes to the sky, but the smile that replaced the weird one you were previously giving her was much more brilliant. You glanced at her, then turned your head to the window. An older couple were quietly chatting to themselves a few rows to the left in front of you, their heads leaning against each other, and she spent a minute looking at them while the next song played in your earphones. With the music, it was impossible to catch what one was saying to the other, but that didn’t matter. Their bodies were pressed together like yours with hers, as if huddling for warmth, and the woman was talking with her hands the way you would when you were passionate about a new album you just discovered. She didn’t notice it then, that she was looking for you in others even as you sat next to her. Her world was so small; you and music, music and you, and those hours where the two were one and the same. 

To this day, you are the music she plays. Your harmonious smiles and dulcet voice, they are all within the melodies she borrows from other composers and in a sense, you are always on stage next to her during a performance. In the practice room, Kafka furrows her brows. She feels it mounting in her, that feeling that makes her great, akin to a pulsing heart ascending to her throat until it lodges itself between her vocal chords and she lets the violin speak for her. The climax approaches steadily, she knows that part like the back of her hand. 

She lost interest in the talking couple. You were still looking outside the window at the swaying tree branches and passing cars, and she wondered what was so interesting out there that you couldn’t look at her. She watched your eyelids droop, though you stayed awake and kept staring at the world beyond the two of you. The song in her ear had a bass that followed her heartbeat. It wasn't sad, but you were. Streetlights had come on to balance out the rapidly vanishing sunlight and each one illuminated your features in fleeting rays of yellow, your eyes were hazy and your lips no longer smiling for her, and strands of hair brushed your temple whenever you adjusted your head on the glass. She followed the smooth lines of your brows down to the bridge of your nose, then to the curve of your upper lip. On her lap, her fingers twitched and curled into a loose fist. Her gaze went unnoticed, you were entirely enticed by the world beyond her reach and she was enthralled by the sadness on your face that added years to your current age of merely sixteen. You knew something she didn’t, she was sure of it, but no sound came out of her mouth after she parted her lips to ask. You swallowed, and her eyes flitted to the lump in your throat before settling back on your fluttering lashes. She suddenly perceived a distance between you that made her deeply uncomfortable and that feeling sat on her chest until your bus stop approached and you finally straightened up to look back at her. You smiled weakly, and Kafka spent years regretting not saying anything as you hesitantly patted her closed fist and placed the violin case on her thighs so you could prepare to stand, ringing the bell to announce your stop. She searched your eyes and found nothing but apologies. 

“Playing with you makes me so happy,” you said out of the blue, holding up her stare intently. “You’re really great.”

“I know,” she replied lamely, half-jokingly, “but I like hearing you say it.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound weak and breathless. It made her smile nonetheless. 

“You’re gonna be so great, and I’m gonna be great, and we’re gonna be great together. We’ll perform on stage just like we talked about, and in ten years, we’ll be the best in our field.”

“It’ll take me less than ten years. But I’ll wait for you to catch up.”

You gazed at her for the half minute it took for the bus to pull over, searing her playful cockiness into your mind, then you stood and she moved her legs out of the way for you to reach the aisle. 

“Bye, Kafka.”

“See you M…” Her goodbye was interrupted by the soft press of your lips on her cheek, a quick gesture before you rapidly turned away from her and walked out of the bus. “...Monday,” she muttered in confusion. 

She turned to the window as the bus started up again and you waved at her with enthusiasm that felt out of place. Still, she made a disgusted face that made you smile wider, opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue like she was going to puke from the uncharacteristic display of affection. Your figure got smaller and smaller, and she lifted a hand to her cheek to wipe the skin where your lips had been.

The piece is coming to an end. The hardest part has passed and all that is left is a clean finish that Kafka executes perfectly. The final note rings out in the empty room. Her head hangs low for a moment, eyes shut and exhaling slowly through her mouth. She is great and she’ll perform on stage in two weeks. She is not the best, not yet, she’s missing the soothing notes of piano keys to accompany her violin. Kafka chuckles to herself, the irony of this thought is laughable. She smiles, raises her head, and starts the piece from the top. 

[chibinasuu]

Happy Working Song | Brook & Reader

Part of the Thousand Sunny Slice-of-Life Series

Find the other parts with the rest of the Straw Hats here

Summary: It’s cleaning day onboard the Thousand Sunny, and Brook knows more than anyone that working is always more fun with a little bit of music. Word count: 1.1k  Tags: one-shot, domestic bliss onboard the sunny, platonic straw hat pirates x reader, no use of y/n, GN but written with F!Reader in mind, i swear this was supposed to be pure fluff but it took a bit of an emotional turn at the end (sorry but brook's backstory lives rent-free in my head) Disclaimer: this fic contains excerpts of "Binks' Sake" taken verbatim from the Funimation dub

The Thousand Sunny sailed alone through the waters. No other ship, nor islands, were visible in any direction as far as the eyes could see.

The ship was far from lonely, though. Its inhabitants, while small in number, never failed to fill up the space with endless chatter and laughter. 

Another constant onboard the Thousand Sunny was music. 

From sweet serenades to jaunty sea shanties, the Straw Hats’ very own musician was never out of tunes to play or songs to sing. The melodies from Brook’s violin, or sometimes electric guitar, acted almost like a soundtrack for your day-to-day lives onboard the Sunny. Hence, it was not unusual that a lively tune was the first thing you heard when you opened your eyes this morning. 

The violin’s song accompanied you as you brushed your teeth, washed your face, and changed out of your sleepwear. Your crewmates were just starting to stir from their sleep when you stepped out of the room. Brook immediately noticed you and shouted out his good morning, his bony fingers not once faltering in their dance upon the strings of the instrument. 

You returned his greetings as you sat on one of the swings on the lawn deck. You closed your eyes, swaying slowly while enjoying the wind on your face and the sweet violin in your ears.

A News Coo’s arrival broke you out of your trance, and you put a coin in its little pouch in exchange for a newspaper. Your eyes had barely scanned the front page headline when Sanji poked his head out of the kitchen and announced that breakfast was ready.

Brook ended his performance with a flourish, and you clapped appreciatively as he took a curt bow. 

He came by you and offered an arm, “Shall we go to breakfast?”

You nodded and linked your arm with his skeletal one – the feeling strange, but not unusual. 

Breakfast at the Thousand Sunny was always full of life. You never get tired of discussing the morning paper with Robin and Jinbe while enjoying Sanji’s hearty offerings, or hearing the crew’s raucous laughter as Zoro desperately protects his plate of food from Luffy’s sneaky arms. Your captain’s huge appetite also meant that breakfast, or any meal really, was always a quick affair for the Straw Hats. 

“Thanks for the meal, Sanji!” Luffy shouted as he moved to get up, but he was stopped by Nami’s palm on his head, forcing him to sit back down on his chair.

“Now, wait a minute, Luffy!” Nami scolded him, “Did you already forget what I told you yesterday?”

“No…” Luffy answered with a pout, his eyes wandering everywhere but to meet Nami’s. 

“You suck at lying!” Nami sighed, “I told you we’ll be cleaning Sunny after breakfast.”

Cleaning day at the Thousand Sunny doesn’t come by as often as it should, on account of all the troubles that always seem to follow the crew whenever they go. But when the waters are calm with no pursuing ships in sight, the crew would dedicate an entire day to properly look after their home. 

Once Nami finished listing off the crew’s chores, all of the Straw Hats rose from the table and got ready to work. 

Sanji was tasked with deep cleaning the kitchen and the pantry, whilst Nami was in charge of the baths. Luffy was swinging around like a monkey high up upon the masts, wiping the sails clean from salt and grime, and disposing of any debris caught in the riggings. Jinbe had dived from the side of the ship and was working underwater to rid the ship’s hull of barnacles.

You and Brook, meanwhile, took up the job of swabbing the decks. Brook scrubbed the wooden deck with a brush, and you followed with a mop and a bucket of fresh water. 

The sun slowly crept up higher into the sky as you worked, the heat becoming more intense by the hour. By noon, you were drenched in sweat and were beginning to feel the effects of your labor. 

“Are you feeling quite alright?” Brook asked, “It is remarkably hot today, isn’t it?” 

“I’m okay, thanks!” You told him, fanning your face with your hand in a desperate effort to find some relief from the heat, “Just need a little break, maybe.”

Brook handed you a small towel, which you took gratefully and used to wipe the sweat off your forehead. You draped the towel around your neck and leaned against the railing to take a breather. Brook (literally) rested his bones beside you. 

“My old crew,” Brook began, breaking the silence. His voice was tinged with a forlornness you couldn’t even dare try to comprehend, “They used to whistle all the time while swabbing the decks. Laboon loved it — he used to jump and swim around, circling the ship as if dancing to the music.”

Brook then suggested, “Perhaps a jolly little tune would also lift our spirits?”

He paused dramatically, before following up with a cheerful voice, “Ah, but I’m a skeleton so I don’t have lips to whistle, yo ho ho ho!”

You chuckled, more out of amusement at his antics rather than actually finding the joke funny, then proposed, “How about a song to sing then?”

“That is a wonderful idea,” Brook said as he took his long-handled brush and held it before him like a stand microphone. 

Brook took a deep breath and started his solo. The opening bars of his favorite song filled the air like a cool breeze amid the heat, “Yo ho ho ho~ Yo ho ho ho~” 

He gestured for you to take part in the song, and you obeyed, shy and hesitant at first, but gradually gaining confidence after a few notes. 

“Gather up all of the crew, it's time to ship out Binks' brew! Sea wind blows, to where, who knows? The waves will be our guide!”

Your voices rang out in harmony, as you picked up your mop again and started moving it across the deck to the vibrant rhythm of the song. 

Luffy was the first to notice your little duet. His loud voice echoed from the top of the mast, joining in to make a trio.

“O'er across the ocean's tide, rays of sunshine far and wide!”

Franky, who was mowing the grass of the Sunny’s central deck, turned the trio into a quartet, “Birds they sing, of cheerful things, in circles passing by!”

And so, one by one, the rest of Straw Hats picked up the song as they worked on their respective tasks. Colorful voices resonated from the crew’s various stations all over the Sunny, filling up the ship with the joyful melody. 

It was slightly out of tune, slightly out of tempo, and obnoxiously loud – but Brook couldn’t ask for a better chorus.

a/n: man, i love brook. and i just really love the idea of him being surrounded by a loving crew and having someone sing along to his music again after all that time :')

Find the other parts with the rest of the Straw Hats here

[humansofnewyork]

(10/54) “Mitra loved anything beautiful. She kept countless notebooks. And on every page she’d paste something beautiful: a flower, a feather, a line from a poem. One time we went to a large antique shop, and the owner challenged us to choose the most expensive items in the shop. Mitra looked around the store and chose two that nobody else had noticed. The owner was shocked. He announced that those were the only two that were not for sale. She had a genius for beauty. It was one of her greatest gifts. But her greatest gift by far, was her memory. Mitra could memorize an entire poem after hearing it a single time. Her favorite was Hafez: The Prince of Romance. She’d memorized two hundred of his ghazals. And whenever she found a verse that she loved, she’d bring it to me to read. We’d heard our voices many times before in arguments. But it was different when we read poetry. There was a softness, a delicacy. When you’re reading a poem, you must find the 𝘢𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨. Melody. The instrument is your throat. And the words are the notes. Some you strike suddenly, with a bang. Others you unroll gently, like a bow being slowly pulled across the string of a violin. Every word has life. Every word has its own soul. The word roar has a soul. 𝘒𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘩! And so does the word kiss. 𝘉𝘰𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘩. We were married in the traditional way. It was a small ceremony at the home of Mitra’s father. On the morning of our wedding Mitra and I visited a famous photographer in Tehran. We took a series of photographs standing side-by-side. She was so conscious of her crippled hand, she found a way to hide it in every photo. But she’d never looked so beautiful. When the session was finished, I suggested one final photograph. I could tell the photographer was annoyed, but he agreed. And it’s the photograph that still hangs in our house today. Mitra is sitting on a chair. And I’m down on one knee, looking up at her, holding her hand.”

 میترا هر چیز زیبایی را دوست داشت. در دفترچه‌های پُرشُمارش و بر هر برگی از آنها چیزی زیبا می‌چسباند: گُلی، پَری، بیت شعری. روزی میترا و من به عتیقه‌فروشی بزرگی رفتیم - فروشنده ما را به چالش کشید که گران‌ترین‌هایش را شناسایی کنیم. میترا نگاهی به پیرامون انداخت و به دو قطعه اشاره کرد. صاحب فروشگاه شگفت‌زده گفت که هیچ‌کس تا کنون به آنها توجه نکرده بود. او گفت که این دو تنها چیزهایی هستند که فروشی نیستند. میترا نبوغ ویژه‌ای در زیباشناسی داشت. یکی از بهترین توانایی‌های او بود. ولی برجسته‌ترین توانایی او حافظه‌اش بود. میترا پس از یک بار شنیدن شعر، ‌بسیاری از آنرا به یاد می‌سپرد. عاشق شعر بود. تنها زمینه‌ای که بر آن توافق داشتیم. شاعر مورد علاقه‌‌اش حافظ بود: شاهزاده‌ی عاشقانه‌ها. میترا بیش از دویست غزل او را از بر داشت. برخی را که دلپسندش بود به من می‌داد تا بخوانم. باور داشت که من آهنگ درست شعر را پیدا می‌کنم. صدای همدیگر را در بگومگوهامان بسیار می‌شنیدیم. ولی هنگام شعر ‌خواندن چنان نبود. حالتی از دلپذیری و نرمش. در شعر، حنجره ساز شماست. و واژه‌ها نُت‌هایتان. برخی را ناگهان می‌نوازی - با آوایی بلند. برخی دیگر را به آرامی، مانند کشیدن آرشه بر زه. هر واژه‌ ویژگی خود را دارد. هر واژه‌ را جانی دیگر است. واژه‌ی خروشیدن جانی خروشان دارد! همانگونه که واژه‌ی بوسیدن و بوسه، دلآویزی و آرامشش را! پیوند ما ازدواجی سنتی بود. جشن کوچکی در خانه‌ی پدر میترا. بامداد روز ازدواجمان، به آتلیه‌ی عکاسی پرآوازه‌ای در تهران رفتیم. میترا را هیچگاه به آن زیبایی ندیده بودم. چندین عکس ایستاده در کنار هم گرفتیم. در هر عکسی حالتی را می‌یافت تا دست چپش را پنهان کند. هنگامی که کارمان تمام شد، پیشنهاد عکسی دیگر دادم. عکاس آزرده می‌نمود اما عکس را گرفت. و آن همین است که تا امروز بر دیوار آویزان است. میترا روی صندلی نشسته و من یک زانو بر زمین نهاده، محو تماشای او، دستش را در دست گرفته‌ام

[shadamyheadcanons]

Headcanon #298

Cross-posted on AO3.

Sonic and his friends started a band when they were young. Sonic played guitar and sang lead, Knuckles was on drums, and Tails filled in the gaps on his keyboard. They put on performances here and there, entertaining other Mobians and any small animals who passed by.

The odd one out was, of course, Amy. Sonic hadn’t stopped running from her, and the others followed along, ensuring she never had a place. It was bad enough with just the main three keeping her out, but when Sonic welcomed Mighty and Ray to join in with bass and backup vocals while she was still locked out, the pain was too much.

Amy avoided music for years after that. Even after the others stopped leaving her in the dust, she never felt there was room for her in the band.

She was watching them rehearse one day, keeping quiet and feeling bad for herself. Her dejection was visible enough to draw Shadow’s attention. When he asked, she sheepishly explained the problem while the band obliviously played on.

She’d never forget Shadow’s reaction.

It was far from the first time she’d seen him seethe and glare up at Sonic with rage in his eyes, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

When his gaze fell upon her, however, his muscles relaxed instead. He stepped closer and lowered his voice to mutter in her ear, telling her he wanted to show her something. She agreed, and he teleported her away. The others didn’t notice.

The two of them reappeared in Shadow’s room with a flash. After peeking out of his door to make sure they were alone, he reached into his closet and retrieved two violins, both old but carefully maintained. He placed one in her hands and started demonstrating with the other without explanation, teaching her how to play by example. She was baffled at first, but his low, relaxing voice complimented the higher pitches of the instruments, and his fingers were gentle as he manually guided hers on the fingerboard. Even when he flinched from the occasional stray squeak of her bow, he provided her with nothing but patience.

After a few sessions, she coaxed out the reason for his behavior. Maria had always loved the sound of the violins from the records Gerald brought from Earth. He initially brought one up just for Maria, but she insisted that Shadow should get one, too. Gerald brushed it off for a few weeks, but she stubbornly put her foot down, refusing to learn until he could, too. Gerald had no choice.

Shadow picked it up quickly, but Maria struggled. He wished she could have had more time to learn and enjoy it.

If she hadn’t waited for him, she would have.

In less than a month, the massacre took Maria from them, leaving only Shadow, Gerald, and the violins behind.

Fifty years later, Shadow retrieved them from the ARK and continued learning in her memory, but he hadn’t felt comfortable sharing his talents until Amy was by his side. Touched by the story, she eagerly learned everything she could from him.

Amy felt none of the hesitation Shadow did and finally stepped up, confidently showing Sonic and the others what she’d learned. They happily invited her to play with them this time, encouraging her to take her place whenever strings were called for. When Sonic asked her how she’d learned to play so well, though, she playfully dodged the question, keeping Shadow’s secret at his request.

Although Amy loved joining in with the band from then on, she loved playing duets with Shadow in private even more. The two of them fell for each other with romantic music as the backdrop--all strings attached.

--

((From an ad for the Sonic Symphony:

...and “Play! Violin,” one of the Party Mode games from Sonic and the Secret Rings:

Every character can play it, but I think it suits Shadow best.))

[vignirek]

Wukong + Macaque headcanons (part 2) (edit: part one)

Wukong:

- Wukong's drawing style is akin to classic paintings, while Macaque's drawing style is anime + cartoony

- his body temperature permanently became warmer from the furnace and he became less susceptible to diseases bc the heat kills the bacteria before it can do anything + he has developed an immunity to most diseases due to his stacked levels of immortality (though maybe there's still a small percentage where he can get sick somehow)

- never saw the need to learn how to cook food bc fruits were available all the time (and he can also use his hair transformation + duplication powers whenever he wants, so he never lacks food)

- his clones are pretty much direct copies of him and function like a monkey hivemind in a sense

- whenever he feels really lonely, he rolls up a blanket and curls up next to it while he sleeps (and pretends it's Macaque bc in those moments he really misses him + they used to hug each other often in the past and he misses that as well)

- dancing was his and Macaque's mutual favorite activity (it's also the only thing he was able to do without stage fright getting in the way bc Macaque was there to keep him grounded); secretly he really wants to do it again but doesn't know how to approach Macaque with everything that happened

- Wukong is an extravert, while Macaque is more like an ambivert (basically an in-between or a combination of traits from both sides-)

- has kept Macaque's personal belongings from the past in very good condition to this day and still looks after them (in spite of how angry he is at Macaque, he can't even fathom the thought of throwing them away, so he just keeps them tucked away in safety instead)

- Wukong was pretty much Macaque's dance partner in the past very often, so consequently, Macaque frequently joined in to draw with him (and even posed for paintings on occasion)

- besides his standard outfit, he typically wears gender neutral clothes (and occasionally wears skirts) (monkeys have much less of a gender difference than humans so I doubt he'd care about which clothes he wears due to growing up with his monkeys)

- he and Macaque liked to give each other small gifts: Wukong would gift bird feathers and Macaque would gift flowers (Wukong preserved most of those flowers in tree resin, while Macaque made the feathers into necklaces or head accessories)

Macaque:

- knows how to play multiple musical instruments but his preferred picks are dizi (horizontally held flute) and erhu (two-stringed bowed instrument), though he hasn't gotten a chance to practice much in the present; he also sometimes practices his singing in private

(yes he typically gets headcanoned to have a love for theater- but I wanted to do something different bc technically Macaque never touches anything theater related ever again since "Shadowplay" in canon)

(also bc I like to imagine Macaque singing Alejandro Saab's covers of songs for silly purposes) (also i just like to think that he has a good sense of rhythm even without his ears)

- likes to watch anime in his free time (his artstyle is canonically anime-like so I think he'd like anime too- idk which series he'd like though)

- forced himself to learn how to prepare food during the years of not living on FFM (it's at least implied that post-resurrection he was absent from the mountain for some time and only came back there sometime before season 4); eventually picked up a more varied diet bc he couldn't afford to be picky and only eat fruits like he used to

- much more likely to get sick than Wukong due to him being more "mortal"

- his clones overall have distinct personalities to them, but Rumble and Savage gradually developed more than the rest and gained their own personalities and thoughts overtime (they just happen to look like shadow copies of Macaque) (though maybe they chose to shapeshift at some point and changed their own looks to suit their preferences)

- optional headcanon (a.k.a. one i like but not fully sure about): self-enforced (and a pretty bad) habit of covering/hiding injuries out of his need for independence (and possible trust issues)

- struggles with sleeping after all the things that happened since season 3 (and the events of S5 indirectly made his insomnia worse)

- optional headcanon 2: typically a confident person but his insecurities get to him during particularly bad days, he's often very quiet and prefers to hide under blankets during those times

- he usually goes through the day with his sensitive hearing just fine but can still get overstimulated in some cases

- would probably have a massive playlist of songs he likes if he knew how to use music apps

- usually prefers practical clothing, but he does like to wear accessories (scarves, bracelets, necklaces, etc.)

- Wukong gifted Macaque a few paintings during the time they were still close and Macaque has kept them to this day (like Wukong, he can't convince himself to get rid of them because they're still precious to him, no matter how bad their current relationship is)

[preciouslittlebhaalbae]

Indelible Imprints

Chapter 15

Word Count: 8.3k

Summary:

-They're in the goblin camp and they are straight-up not having a good time.

(My New Years resolution is to keep to a 2-3 week posting schedule from now on so pls don't be mad at me for how long this took. 😭)

As always, comments & reblogs are very appreciated!

Ao3

Previous Chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

Tag list: @roguishcat @thisisew @chaoticbardlady99 @bby-bel-art @beewilko

Please let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist!

Erin looked across the crumbling stone bridge that lead to the goblin camp. She could already see the large structure they’d occupied - an old temple, Wyll had said - behind barricaded entrance posts from where they stood. The place seemed livelier than she’d expected, music blaring from inside the courtyard entrance. The sound was deep and bassy, consisting mostly of drums and what sounded like a few stringed instruments that were not quite tuned, ringing out in dissonant chords whenever they were struck. She found herself bobbing slightly along to the beat as she brought her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle a yawn.

Erin

“My, my. Bored already? We haven’t even started,” Astarion drawled from behind her.

She snapped her head to glare back at him.

“Shut up. You don’t get to talk to me today,” she said before quickly looking toward the camp again.

Karlach snorted loudly ahead of them, and Shadowheart groaned, “Gods, not this again.”

Erin’s mouth dropped open as she stared back at the group indignantly.

“You’ve been sniping at each other all morning,” Wyll shrugged back at her.

“Pfft. More like she’s been sniping at me,” Astarion muttered.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what you were expecting after what you pulled this morning,” she snapped without looking back at him.

“Gratitude, maybe?” he all but growled at her back. “I seem to recall you begging me to teach you to shoot a bow and arrow not that long ago. Not to mention all the times you’ve said you can’t fight.”

She spun on him and matched his glare. “I asked you to teach me, not berate me for four hours straight and knock me on my ass over and over again!”

“Tsk’va! Enough!” Lae’zel interjected. “We approach our enemies and still you continue your inane squabbling!” She pointed a clawed finger harshly at Erin, “You are weak,” then to Astarion, “And you have weakened her further. Training the morning before a battle will do nothing for her. She would have been better prepared had she fully rested. Nothing more can be done. Move on from this tedious mating ritual and focus on the matter at hand,” the gith said simply before turning again, dismissing them.

Erin’s face reddened, but before she could protest, Shadowheart gave her a look that warned her not to say another word. She swallowed her words and embarrassment, trying to focus on the camp ahead of them.

Behind her, Astarion sighed. Speaking quietly enough that she almost didn’t hear, he whispered, “Gods forbid I try to keep her alive.”

It hadn’t been too difficult for Erin to focus on the goblin camp, as Lae’zel had suggested. There was far too much going on around them for her to continue bickering with Astarion. In just the short walk from the bridge, through the courtyard, and into the massive building, their group had already managed to poison half the goblins outside, convince them that someone else had done it, and rescue what Gale had informed her was an owlbear cub. She hoped the poor creature had gotten somewhere safe after they left.

* * *

But now that they were inside the ruined temple, her mind started to wander again. The group had decided the previous night that they’d split up to cover more ground. Karlach and Shadowheart went to speak with the priestess Gut, while Lae’zel, Wyll, and Gale determined that they would be able to quietly take down the remaining Goblins outside. Astarion and Erin were left to look for the druid from the Emerald Grove in the rooms the others hadn’t managed to investigate before.

They hadn’t spoken since Lae’zel had scolded them outside, and as they silently wandered further into the temple, Erin couldn’t stop from thinking about that morning with Astarion.

He had woken her roughly, jostling her shoulder and shoving her bow in her hands. She jumped out of bed quickly, thinking something was attacking camp.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We need to prepare for today.”

She looked at him through bleary eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them while she tried to make sense of what he was saying. “Today? It’s still night.”

“It’s early morning. It’ll be light in a few hours,” he said, looking at the sky as if to confirm his estimation. “We don’t have much time before we start heading toward the goblin camp.”

“Light in a few hours? Astarion, what the hell?” She let herself fall back into bed. Turning away from him, she curled on her side and threw her blanket back over herself. “I’m not like you, I need sleep. Come back when the sun is up.”

Cold fingers gripped her chin and she gasped at the shock of it on her warm skin. Her eyes flew open as he tilted her face up toward him.

His stare was intense.

“Get. Up.”

He spoke sternly, brooking no argument. The way he was looking at her made her feel strangely vulnerable, and she got out of bed just to avoid his gaze.

Then he took her to a spot in the forest nearby that he’d already set up with practice targets and began drilling her on her posture and aim, making her shoot at the targets until her arms were sore. It might have been fine if he hadn’t been insulting her the whole damn time, but he had a jab for nearly everything she did that morning. She was getting fed up.

“Gods, are you blind?” he spat, after she’d just missed the mark he’d made on the practice target. “The target is right there!”

He’d grown unimpressed with her general ability to hit the targets and had her practicing shooting for precision over the last hour, marking small spots on the target where he wanted her to hit. She’d only just missed the small spot he’d marked on the side of the neck, hitting the center of the target dummy’s throat instead.

“Why does this matter? I’m pretty sure an arrow to the throat is still a kill shot,” she argued.

“It matters because it’s sloppy. And being sloppy is a good way to get you killed.”

“Okay, you know what? That’s enough for today,” she threw her bow to the ground at his feet. “Probably enough for a month,” she grumbled to herself, turning back toward camp.

“You’re right,” he said. “Time for a different lesson.”

Exhausted, Erin groaned. “That’s not what I—

He cut her off, tackling her to the ground and holding a knife to her throat before she could finish.

He’d knocked the wind out of her, and she gasped for air. Nostrils flaring, she glared at him. “This isn’t funny, Astarion,” she said angrily.

“No, it’s not.” His voice was rough as he continued, “Imagine if you’d left yourself open for an attack like that while we were in a real fight.” His brows lifted, creasing in concern for the barest second before settling back into that unwavering gaze. “You’d be dead.”

He pushed himself off her, then tossed the dagger he’d been holding to the ground before her.

“Pick that up. You need to learn how to use it if you’re cornered.” He took on an offensive stance, pulling another dagger from his belt.

Her eyes widened in shock. “Are you crazy? Absolutely not!”

“You can trust me not to hurt you, darling. I’m very dexterous.”

“Well I’m not! I could accidentally hurt you!”

He barked out a laugh. “Please.”

It shouldn’t have upset her so much, but something about the sarcastic barb set her off. She’d had enough of having her inadequacies being rubbed in her face for the morning, and angrily lunged at him. Just before she made contact, he stepped to the side and simply pushed into her back, using her forward momentum to throw her face-down into the ground with little effort.

When she didn’t immediately get back up, he chided her. “You’re not going to get me from down there, darling. Get back up and try again. The dumb brute approach didn’t work, you’ll have to try something different.”

She pushed herself up. The ground was rough, and she tried to ignore the scrapes she felt burning her face. “Stop,” she said through gritted teeth.

“No. Pretend I’m a goblin and you want to attack me.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” she muttered, then swung her dagger toward him, this time without lunging.

He sidestepped her again and grabbed her wrist, holding her in place.

“A better attempt, but your swing has left you completely off your center. It would be so easy for you to be thrown aside,” he yanked her wrist further and grabbed her waist on the other side, twisting to shove her into the ground again. “Like so.”

Erin shoved herself off the ground again and shouted. “I’m getting a little tired of this, Astarion!”

“Only a little? Looks like we should keep going, then.”

“No,” she started to argue, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He turned for the briefest second to look back in the direction they had come from camp, and she took the opportunity to strike.

She charged. Ignoring her knife, she barreled into him, knocking him onto his back and winding him just as he had done to her. He wheezed, and a voice came out from where he’d been looking just before she tackled him.

“Do I want to know what I’m interrupting?” Shadowheart asked, and Erin turned to see Scratch trotting happily beside her.

“No,” Erin snapped. “I’m getting breakfast.” She got up, refusing to look at Astarion, and stomped back to camp by herself.

Wyll was right, they had been bickering all morning afterwards. It was the rudest wakeup Erin had ever had in her life, and she was pissed. And then Astarion just strolled back into camp, having the audacity to still look perfectly groomed, while she was scraped and bruised all over. Knocking him into the dirt hadn’t even mussed his hair.

He sat next to her while she ate the porridge Gale had quietly handed her. Gale gave her a concerned look and asked if everything was alright, and before she could even answer, Astarion laughed airily and trilled, “Oh, everything’s fine. I was just helping our dear leader with a sparring lesson.”

She clenched her spoon tightly and glared at him. “Is that what you call pulling me out of bed and beating the shit out of me for hours?”

Gale’s expression went from concern to disbelief. “You did what?”

“Oh, don’t get your robes in a twist,” Astarion grimaced. “She’s just sour because she couldn’t hit me without a distraction.” He turned to her and added, “You shouldn’t be, by the way. Use everything to your advantage. There’s no such thing as a fair fight. Do whatever you can to survive.”

“No,” Erin corrected. She focused on Gale, refusing to look at Astarion anymore. “I’m just sour because he’s been a huge dick to me all morning.”

“Excuse me?!” Astarion sputtered, “I try to help you and you—

“You weren’t helping me, you were being an asshole! Just leave me alone and let me eat!” Erin ignored Astarion’s dumbfounded expression and focused on finishing her breakfast.

The morning had consisted mostly of traded scowls and barbs between the two of them after that.

Erin couldn’t understand what had gotten into him, why he had acted like that. Yesterday he’d seemed fine, even pleasant. For Astarion, at least. She would have thought he was hungry if not for the small bite mark on her neck that confirmed he had fed on her last night. She wondered if it had been enough.

A desperate plea for mercy pulled Erin from her thoughts. They’d been approaching a corner toward the back of the temple where the stone walls arched and lead into a separate alcove from the main area. As they got closer, the pleas grew louder, and Erin sped up her pace to find the person crying out.

Astarion held out his arm, placing a hand on her forearm.

“Wait,” he said. “We don’t know what’s going on in there.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “They think we’re True Souls or whatever. We’ll just say we’re on True Soul business or something if someone looks at us sideways.”

He dropped his arm and followed her into the alcove.

There were two goblins standing in front of a man chained upright to a large wooden rack.

“Where did they flee to, you stubborn rat?” one of the goblins growled as he lifted a club, ready to strike at the man.

“P-please, stop!” the man on the rack cried. He was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises, clearly having taken several beatings from the goblin threatening him. Erin stepped forward and the goblin turned at the sound of her approach.

“’Ere to see yer friend, have ya? Come an’ join ‘im, if ya like,” he rasped at Erin.

She crossed her arms and fixed him with the hardest glare she could muster, making her best attempt at confidence.

“Is that how you talk to a True Soul?”

“A True…” the goblin balked. “’Pologies, Miss True Soul,” he said, immediately ducking his head in deference and signaling to the other goblin in the room to do the same. “Didn’t know who ya was.” He looked up, nodding to the prisoner, “Wanna have a go at ‘im? Weapons in ‘ere,” he pointed to the fire crackling beside the prisoners rack, eager to please.

Erin tried to hide the relief she felt, maintaining her stern glare as she responded. “I’ll take over from here. You can leave.”

The goblins rushed to leave, muttering to each other on their way out.

Astarion snorted behind her.

“My, my. What a pretty lie from our virtuous leader. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Erin ignored him and walked toward the man on the rack. “Are you alright?”

“Please,” the man pleaded. “I don’t know anything.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Erin said. “Let me find something to help with the chains real quick.”

“Don’t bother,” Astarion said, already pulling out his lock-picking tools. “But first…” He slid his eyes from his tools to the man in front of him. “Why were they torturing you? What information do you have?”

Erin scowled at Astarion for a moment, annoyed with his lack of tact. He was right, though. They needed information. She just wish he didn’t dangle the poor man’s freedom in front of him as leverage. She looked back to the man and added, “We’re looking for a druid. His name is Halsin.”

“Halsin… He turned into a bear, then… I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to him.”

“I believe you,” Erin said.

Astarion tsked and started unlocking the man’s chains. Once he was free, he thanked them and ran toward a small path in the back of the room before disappearing. Erin turned to see Astarion watching her with his arms crossed.

“What?”

“That was boring. He could have at least had the decency to have some useful information.”

“Sorry for the lack of entertainment,” she said sarcastically.

“I don’t know… seeing you lie was interesting.” He gave her a smirk. “Even if you were terrible at it. Luckily goblins aren’t known for their intelligence.”

Erin glared at him. “Whatever. You can just add it to your long list of things I’m not good at.”

She walked past him, heading into the adjacent room. She was ready for this day to be over. It had started far too early and she was exhausted already, but she was more frustrated than anything. She wanted to be more angry with Astarion than she really was, but she was tired of bickering with him. The truth was that she was angry with herself.

He’d been right in all his criticisms of her. As Lae’zel had put so bluntly before: she was weak. She couldn’t compare to the strength and skills of her companions, and it felt like it was only a matter of time before she slowed them down or got someone killed because she was in the way. Astarion knew it, and she assumed that was why he’d drilled her so hard this morning. He didn’t want her to get him killed.

She stepped into the next room to find a man wearing little but leather straps and a long black skirt. He had short white hair, shorn close to the scalp on one side, and he was covered in cuts and scars. In the corner of the room there was a stone table laid out with an assortment of weapons, and the floor was covered in blood. Aside from that, the room was mostly empty.

“Greetings, child,” the man purred. “I’ve met few aside from goblins here.”

“You’re not with them?” Erin asked, skeptical.

“I was… invited. To show them the true ways of pain,” he smiled, then paused, disappointment settling into his features. “Alas, they are crude and primitive. Pain should be administered by a loving hand. Don’t you agree?”

Erin paused, uncomfortable and uncertain how to answer. She didn’t think of pain as a loving thing, but it was clear that wasn’t what this man wanted to hear from her.

Chuckling behind her softly, Astarion chimed in. “Couldn’t agree more,” he said, smirking as he stepped beside her.

He gave her an amused look that made it clear was having fun watching her squirm in this conversation. Erin frowned at him, but then the other man spoke again.

“I must ask… would you care to participate in the worship of my goddess? She offers her blessing to those who please her, and there’s something…” he looked at Erin, appraising, “untouched about you. Pure. I, as well as my goddess, would be interested to see how you handle pain.”

Erin opened her mouth to flatly refuse, but Astarion laughed.

“I must see this,” he muttered.

He didn’t believe she would do it. That much was clear. And… he wasn’t wrong. She had been about to refuse. But she found herself hesitating. It would be nice to wipe the smug smirk off his face, and she was getting tired of hearing about all of the things he thought she couldn’t do today. And there was even a blessing in it for her troubles…

Erin looked at Astarion as she answered, throwing an imitation of his own smirk back at him while he cocked a brow at her change in expression.

“You know what? I could probably use any blessings I can get.”

Astarion’s eyes widened slightly in surprise and she was glad to have already gotten rid of his stupid smirk. She looked at the other man and he guided her to stand up at his altar at the end of the room.

He did say pain should be administered lovingly. How much could it hurt? She wondered as she stood.

It turned out, it could hurt a lot.

With the first sharp smack of metal against her back, Erin immediately regretted her choice. She cried out in pain, which only served to excite the strange priest of pain behind her.

“Your voice sounds so sweet, dear one. Keep going! The pain you suffer will cleanse you!”

What the fuck?

“A fine strike,” she heard Astarion clap from behind her.

Annoyed by his teasing, she pressed her hands against the cold stone in front of her, bracing herself.

He struck her again, and Erin cried again at the sharp sting in her back. She turned back slightly to see what he was hitting her with that could hurt so much. He was grinning wildly, gripping a mace tightly in his hand that was dripping with her blood.

Of course it hurts, you idiot. He’s hitting you with a mace.

She glanced back to Astarion, whose eyes were blown wide as he watched her. His nostrils were flaring and there was a tense set to his jaw. She wondered if he was angry with her, but the way his brows lifted over his wide eyes made him look almost… excited.

“You are doing so well,” the man cried. “Let Loviatar hear you! Do not give in now!”

Is he aroused?

Erin clenched her teeth and turned back to face the wall.

“Fuck!” she screamed as he hit her one last time. She turned around as the man groaned in enjoyment.

“Sweet child, you bore the pain like a true believer,” the strange priest praised her. “I am proud to have served you this penance. Loviatar herself found your performance inspiring. She has deemed you worthy of her blessing.”

He took a pinch of something that looked like sand from a pocket on a leather belt at his waist and sprinkled it over Erin’s head. Then, he bowed his head and muttered a prayer. Erin would have been outraged, but there was a sudden burst of red ambiance. The light surrounded her for a moment, before settling into her skin and disappearing. It did… something. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, but there was a slight tingle to her skin and she felt much less weary than she had before stepping foot into this room. For all she knew, it could have just been a rush of endorphins attempting to protect her from the pain of her more-or-less self-inflicted injuries.

“On a personal note…” the priest added as she turned to leave. “Thank you. That was positively divine.”

Erin rolled her eyes in disgust and rushed to leave the room as quickly as she could. Once she was out, she leaned against the stone wall and let the tears she’d been holding in fall.

That was so stupid. Why did she do that? To prove something to Astarion? What - that she wasn’t as weak as he thought? She was pathetic.

“Here.”

She turned to see Astarion holding out a small potion of healing. Wiping her eyes, she took it from him. Too embarrassed to look at him, she simply stared at the ground instead.

“Now, I know I enjoyed that,” Astarion started, “but I certainly didn’t think it was something you’d be into. I mean, I had my hopes, but… was I wrong?”

“No,” she sniffed, still looking at the stone beneath her and fiddling with the lid of the potion bottle in her hands. Whether it was the blessing or her body trying its damnedest to protect her from her own stupidity with adrenaline and endorphins, she didn’t really feel pain anymore. Just shame and embarrassment. “You weren’t wrong.”

“Then why do it? Don’t get me wrong, darling, I enjoyed the show but…?” He let the question hang, waiting for her to say something.

Finally, she looked up at him. He wasn’t smirking for once, wasn’t teasing her. His eyes searched hers for something, as though he really wanted to understand.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I guess I was just tired of feeling like shit for being so weak. I thought a blessing from a goddess might help.”

They were quiet for a moment, then Astarion broke the silence.

“You’re still bleeding.”

She looked back up at him. He’d turned slightly to the side so that he wasn’t facing her directly anymore. He looked uncomfortable, and she realized that he could probably smell her blood.

“Oh,” she said, looking at the unopened potion in her hands. Then back to him.

“Before I drink this… are you hungry?” She’d been wondering if he’d let himself drink enough from her last night. It was the only reason she could think for him being so irritable and annoying this morning.

Eyes widening in surprise, he looked down to the potion bottle, then back to her face.

“I- Are you offering?”

She shrugged. “You seemed hungry. I just thought it would be a waste to close up the wounds right now if you were.”

“In that case,” Astarion grabbed her arm, pulling her into the empty alcove they had originally come from before visiting the priest.

He guided her toward the corner of the room and she moved to untie her leather vest so he could have easier access to her bleeding wounds. He brought a hand to hers, stopping her.

“Allow me,” he said, as he unfastened the vest with a quickness she’d have never achieved.

He helped her shrug out of the vest, and she tried not to pay attention to the feeling of his fingers against her skin as he gently guided her to turn around and lifted her shirt to reveal her back to him. She held it up to expose most of her back and tucked it tightly against her chest, shivering at the coolness of his fingers caressing her hot, irritated wounds. He spent a moment delicately tracing the outer edges of each cut and gash, soothing the skin and sending tingles down her spine.

Then, his hands slid down to grip her hips as he leaned close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin. He inhaled deeply, and pressed his tongue to her back.

He took his time, swirling his tongue on her and mouthing at each of the wounds. As she felt his lips pressing into her skin and his tongue sliding back and forth over the wetness there, she tried not to remember the feeling of his lips and tongue against her mouth. Tried not to remember the fantasies that played in her head that night, and tried not to think of the way he looked in the lake yesterday, water dripping down his smooth skin. She tried instead to think of what a jerk he was this morning, how he tackled her to the ground with a knife to her throat. But then she was thinking of the weight of his body on top of hers and so she just tried to not think of anything at all.

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled his face away from her back and skimmed his fingers up her sides to gently grasp the hem of her shirt and pull it back down. Slowly, she turned around to face him, hoping she didn’t look as flushed as she felt. He was breathing heavily, and she noticed her blood was smeared across his lips. Before she could think better of it, she reached out and wiped the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

“Messy eater,” she teased, swiping the other corner of his lips while he stared at her.

He looked down to the potion, still in her other hand.

“You should drink that now,” was all he said.

“Oh, right,” she said before popping off the lid and drinking. She picked up her discarded vest and sighed.

There were gaping holes across the back where she’d been hit with the mace and she winced, worried at what her back might have looked like before she took the potion.

“I think I need new armor,” she said. “I can’t tell if it was stupid of me to wear it for that or not.”

Astarion smirked. “Considering he was hitting you with a mace, I’d say it was probably best you were wearing something. I’m sure we can find you something else to wear in this place. Come on.”

* * *

Astarion had been right. They’d quickly found new armor for Erin. She just hadn’t expected to find it on another person.

They had come upon Nightwarden Minthara while she threatened a goblin who’d just finished giving her some unsatisfactory report. She was a severe looking woman - some sort of an elf, with red eyes similar to Astarion’s, but instead of sharing his pale complexion, her skin was a dark tint of purple. She wore her hair in a loose bun, but she looked put-together in a way that screamed authority.

Erin felt Astarion at the edge of her mind.

Found your new armor.

Her brows raised.

What, you mean hers? I don’t think she’s just gonna give it to me.

She felt more than heard his amusement.

That’s what’ll make this fun, He responded in her head.

Before Erin could respond, Minthara addressed her. She felt another push in her head, but this presence was harsh and cold. The woman was probing into her mind.

“Another true soul. Good. Join me on my hunt,” she commanded.

“And who exactly are we hunting, again?” Astarion interrupted.

Minthara gave him a steely glare. “You will speak when spoken to, faerie,” she growled, and Erin bristled at the way she spoke to him.

“Answer him,” Erin demanded.

Minthara rolled her eyes. “The Absolute’s heart is more generous than mine, holding a place for the likes of faeries.” She looked back to Erin. “We hunt followers of a false god. We are in search of a weapon I’m certain they have, and we will find it amongst the ashes of their dead once we are done with them,”

Erin had felt Minthara’s violent intentions for everyone at the grove through their mental connection, and a rage simmered within her. All of the druids, the refugees, and the kids. She couldn’t understand how anyone would want to hurt such a helpless group of people. She clenched her fists at her sides and felt Astarion in her head again.

Careful, he warned.

Aren’t you the one who was excited to get in a fight? She sent the thought back at him.

We need an advantage, darling, he purred into her mind. Keep her talking, he instructed as he slipped toward the back of the room, feigning an interest in the books on the shelf behind Minthara.

Oblivious to their mental conversation, the Nightwarden continued, “The thief whimpering in our dungeon tried to flee to their sanctuary. We will continue to remove parts of him until he tells us exactly where it is. He’s been resilient, but he’ll talk.”

She was sure she meant the druid they were looking for, and felt relieved to finally have some good news.

“I could talk to the prisoner,” Erin quickly offered. “I can be very convincing.”

Laying it on a little thick, dear, she felt Astarion say as he took silent steps, inching closer behind the woman.

“Excellent,” Minthara nodded. “Be sure not to kill him before he talks.”

Erin felt Astarion itching for his dagger through their link.

Wait, she told him.

“Where is he being held?”

Once Minthara told her where the dungeon was, Erin sent the go-ahead to Astarion.

Do it.

And before the Nightwarden could take another breath, Astarion reached around her neck with his blade, slitting her throat in one swift motion.

As blood sprayed from Minthara’s neck into Erin’s face, she realized she hadn’t quite thought this through. She thought she’d be more horrified by the gore of it, or more upset at the act of taking the life of someone who didn’t appear to be a literal monster. But Minthara didn’t need to look grotesque and inhuman for her plans to be vile and evil. Erin didn’t regret her death. But she did regret being in the splash zone while the woman bled out.

Erin spat blood that had gotten into her mouth out and dry heaved over the ground, suddenly thankful she’d had a light breakfast.

“Oh don’t be dramatic,” Astarion laughed. “I’d love to be in your position right now.”

“Gross. We can trade places next time.”

“You’d slit someone’s throat just for me to have a good time? You’re such a sweetheart.”

“Ugh, I just meant I don’t want to be sprayed with blood. It’s everywhere! Did you have to kill her so graphically?”

“My dear, I’m disappointed you found that graphic. It was positively tame. Although, I do suppose it was a bit of a waste… But what would you have had me do? Stab her and cut a hole through your nice new armor?”

Erin sighed. “I guess not.” She looked at Minthara, blood pooling around her on the ground. “Might as well not let her go to waste, if you’re still hungry. I’ll look around till you’re done.”

When Astarion had finished drinking what blood was left in her, he helped Erin take Minthara’s armor and waited with his back turned while she changed.

“Oh that’s much better than what you were wearing before, darling,” he said when she told him he could look again.

“I’ll remind you that you were the one who picked out my last set of armor.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t put it that way. More like, ‘found the only set available in a shipwreck.’ It’s not like there were a lot of options.”

“Well at least it’s not shredded. Maybe that blessing did work.”

“Oh no, you’re not going to give the credit to some dubious blessing when I did all the work. You can thank me for your new armor, thank you very much.”

“Mmm, I don’t know, I felt pretty blessed in that whole exchange. Who knows what would have happened if I didn’t let the bdsm priest whack me a few times.”

“What?”

Erin only laughed in answer. “We should probably meet the others back at camp now that we know where to go.”

Astarion

Astarion waited while Erin talked to Volo. They’d found him on their way back and she just couldn’t resist helping the man and inviting home to stay in their camp until it was safe for him to leave. Typical.

It’s not as though he needed to wait for her. There were far better things he could be doing with his time. But she had been so cross with him all morning, by the time she started talking to him normally again, he was reluctant to leave her alone and let her change her mind about being angry with him again.

He really hadn’t meant to be unreasonable that morning.

After he’d fed from her last night, Astarion couldn’t bring himself to leave her side. While she was sleeping, everything felt safe, and he was enjoying her quiet company. Heat radiated off her body, and the bed smelled even more like her while she was in it. So he had laid himself beside her and watched her while she slept, telling himself he would leave soon. At some point, he had fallen asleep, and his dreams were cruel that night.

Astarion found himself on his knees, shackled and starving in Cazador’s kennels. Directly across from him, Erin was similarly restrained.

He watched in horror as his master, shrouded in the shadows of the dark room, moved to stand beside Erin and sneered at him.

“I would have thought that year in the tomb would have taught you your lesson, boy.” His eyes glowed red and cruel in the darkness, looking down at Astarion with disdain.

He turned his attention back to Erin. “A pretty thing,” he said, gripping her chin and turning her head side to side, as though inspecting chattel, while she whimpered. “And you believed she could be yours? When you belong to me?” He sneered. “Your foolishness knows no bounds, boy. You continue to disappoint.”

His grip tightened around Erin’s jaw, nails digging into her flesh as blood started to drip down his fingers.

“You are mine,” he hissed, looking at Astarion. “Any prey you find is mine.” He turned to look at her again, releasing her jaw and bringing his fingers, now coated in her blood, to his mouth. Maintaining eye contact with Astarion, he licked his hands clean, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. “Perhaps I’ll make her a spawn to remind you of that. I wonder, if I compelled her to flay you, would you still burn with this foolish affection?”

Astarion wanted to scream, but his throat was raw and restricted by his master’s compulsion. He watched in horrified silence as Cazador clawed his hand into Erin’s hair and yanked her head back hard. She cried in pain, and he laughed darkly as he leaned into her shoulder. Inhaling deeply, he slipped his tongue out like a snake and licked a trail up her neck before baring his fangs and ripping into her flesh. He bit into her viciously, tearing the skin from her throat, then pulling away to bite her again, shredding her into meat. Her blood sprayed and flooded down Cazador’s chin. Her throat was too destroyed for her screams to sound human anymore, and she rasped and gurgled and cried before him as Astarion watched, helpless.

Cazador growled, “Shall I make her your sister, then?”

And that was when Astarion woke up.

He jolted from where he’d been laying beside her, breathing heavy and panicked. He stood over the bed, staring at her.

She’s here. She’s here. She’s real, she’s safe, and she’s here. He doesn’t have her.

Astarion sat back down beside her, focusing on the rhythm of her breath and breathing in her scent until he was calm again. But he couldn’t stop the worry that now pervaded his thoughts.

She’s too fragile, and worse - she doesn’t bother to act like it, running headfirst into danger only to be bashful about it later. She’s alright with a bow, but he worries that his fib about the enchantment will make her careless with it, and she’ll miss the wrong shot. Sometimes, you only miss once.

Goblins weren’t necessarily much of a fight to be concerned about in normal circumstances, but it was the possibility of being overwhelmed by sheer numbers that concerned Astarion now. Their companions had said there would be hundreds of them. Too many for him to keep his eye on every potential sword, arrow, or errant magic projectile that made its way toward Erin’s heart. And who knows what other manner of creatures this “Absolute” had rallied together amongst them.

They hadn’t been in a serious fight since the hag, and Erin very easily could have died from that encounter. She very nearly did. And their fight with the shadow druids before that had nearly killed her as well. She was so frustratingly vulnerable. And she had the nerve to insist she’d protect him. She’d die in the attempt.

He needed her alive. Wanted her alive. She was likely the only reason he was tolerated in their traveling group, and he didn’t want to find out what would become of him if she ceased to exist. But it was more than that. He wanted more time with her. Before whatever was going to happen would happen, he wanted to spend more time talking with her, listening to her practice with the lute he’d given her in her tent, and watching her while she slept. She’d given him so much, and he didn’t want to lose that.

And if she couldn’t survive goblins, she sure as hells wouldn’t survive Cazador, and he needed her to be better in a fight than she was.

So he woke her up.

He could admit to himself now that he had gone overboard, waking her as early as he did and pushing her so relentlessly. But all he could see while he had her train was how the slightest misstep could get her killed. It had been so easy to tackle her, to throw her to the ground and render her helpless. He could visualize her being taken down too clearly. It seemed too real a possibility, and it made him feel desperate and panicked.

So he pushed her, tried to prepare her. And she’d gotten angry with him for it. His focus had been so singular that it came as a surprise when she’d yelled at him over her breakfast. It annoyed him, once he was over the shock. It had been the first time he’d bothered to concern himself with someone else’s survival in well over a century, and this is what he got for his troubles? Her ire? Hadn’t she been the one to ask him for help in the first place? So what if he chose an early hour to do it? Better she was tired than dead. If she couldn’t appreciate that, well then, damn her.

But then he wondered if she would be done with him after that. She was too kind to completely abandon him or make him leave, but what if he’d gone too far and she decided to only tolerate him from then on? Once she was done with her snapping at him, would she talk to him at all anymore? Or only when it was strictly necessary?

He didn’t know how to make her forgive him, didn’t really think he’d done anything that warranted needing forgiveness. She was being unreasonable, and it frustrated him.

But she seemed different after Lae’zel yelled at them both. She hadn’t said anything, but he saw the way her face flushed with embarrassment when the gith had called their arguing a mating ritual. He wanted to tease her for it, but she had stopped snapping at him, so he decided to wait a while.

By the time she seemed to be tired of being angry with him, she happened to be bleeding, and he could hardly think straight enough to tease her.

His mind drifted to the memory of his tongue in her wounds, and the feel of her soft skin when he let his lips skim the places she hadn’t been hit in between the gashes that marred her back. She didn’t seem to notice when he paused in those places, pressing his lips to her skin for moments probably too long between drinking from her injuries. Her heart had been racing, and despite her holding her breath, he could see the way her skin tingled at the contact. She held her shirt so tightly against her front, as though she could somehow make that moment any less intimate by preserving her modesty in front of him.

A shout from where Erin had gone off to talk with Volo in camp pulled him out of the memory.

He was there in an instant. Erin had her hand clapped tightly against her right eye, and he smelled the blood before he saw it.

Gods, she’s always bleeding.

“Volo, what the fuck?!” Erin yelled before Astarion could ask what happened.

“It’s only a bit of cosmetic damage, my friend!” Volo put his hands out in a placating gesture, which might have been more convincing if he hadn’t been holding a bloody ice pick. Noticing the error, Volo sheepishly tucked the hand holding the incriminating tool behind his back.

Astarion’s nostrils flared as he growled at the man. “What did you do?”

Erin pushed past his question to continue yelling at Volo.

“Cosmetic? You took my fucking eye out!”

Glancing nervously between the two of them, Volo looked as though he were considering how to escape the situationship he found himself in. Then, eyes lighting up, he tapped the satchel sitting against his hip. “Not to worry, I do have a spare!” He plucked a shiny glass eye with a brilliant blue iris and gold embellishments out and held it out toward her.

Astarion had gone to where Erin sat, attempting to get a look at the injury. She still clutched at her bleeding socket, and he looked to the ground and saw that she hadn’t been exaggerating. Her eye had been dropped unceremoniously into the dirt beside her.

He growled at Volo, “What have you done?”

“I must be going now!” Volo set the prosthetic eye he’d offered Erin at her side and ran off. Astarion considered running after him to rip his limbs apart but Erin grabbed his wrist.

“Leave him,” she said, picking up the eye Volo had set beside her up and looking at it with the one she still had in her head. “It’s my own damn fault.”

Astarion couldn’t believe it. Her little display of penance to Loviatar earlier had been one thing, but this? She’d just trusted this random fool to take a pick to her eye? He was incensed by her continued recklessness, especially after he’d spent so much time concerned with her continued survival.

“What were you thinking?” he hissed.

She shrugged. “That it would be really nice to not have a parasitic tadpole in my brain.”

His eyes widened, and he brought his head further back to stare at her.

“You were trying to-��� he stopped, disbelieving. She was trying to get rid of the tadpole? The one thing that connected them to each other? He knew that was generally the plan for the group, but he hadn’t expected her to pursue it by herself. They knew so little about their parasites, and they were clearly special - he’d been beginning to wonder if removal was even necessary.“ Did you even stop to think about how we wouldn’t be able to communicate if you’d gotten said tadpole removed? You said it translates for us. What was your plan for when we no longer understood each other? Interpretive dance?”

She hung her head before admitting, “…I guess I didn’t have one.”

He scoffed, “I refuse to feel sorry for you right now.”

“Will you help me with the new eye?” She held it out to him and he recoiled.

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m not the one in camp with a prosthetic eye. You should go to Wyll. Besides. I’d rather not look into your empty, bloody socket.”

“Please?”

“No.”

* * *

After she’d gotten help from Wyll, Erin had gone back to her tent for the night. Astarion didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say to her, but he knew he didn’t want to risk leaving the day on a sour note with her. Really, he just wanted to make sure she was alright.

He ducked beneath the flap and into her tent. She was laying on her back, staring at the roof of the tent with such a despondent look on her face that he almost took a step back. It was weariness that she’d never really revealed before. Despite everything, she always managed to seem so bright around everyone else. He almost expected her to scold him for the intrusion, but she only slid her eyes to look at him, her face unchanging, before she slowly turned back to the ceiling again. Perhaps she was too tired to care.

“Well, it’s a pretty new eye, at least,” he started, but she turned back to look at him and then pulled something out of her ear. It was the device she’d shared with him that night so long ago. She hadn’t heard him.

“Hmm?” She stared at him.

“Oh, nothing,” he said. “Are you listening to something? Like before?”

She nodded, looking back up. He noticed her phone clutched in her hands above her head while she rested on the floor.

“What are you listening to?” he asked.

She only held out the bud she’d taken out of her ear toward him.

He paused before taking it from her and placing it in his own ear and lying on the ground beside her.

The song was slow, and the singer’s voice was low and slightly raspy.

He started to ask,“What is she saying?” but Erin stopped him.

“Just focus on it with your tadpole. I’m too tired.”

So he did. And he didn’t know if it was the tadpole alone or the tadpole along with his connection to her, but the words started to make sense.

Feeling like a deadbeat Everything is incomplete I don't think you know What it takes for   Looking at the feeling I know that you're missing Take it away I've gotta let go   Why don't you go back To falling apart? You were so good at that You're one in a million now You don't wanna take the time You just gotta be alright

He felt the weariness in the song and in her heart, and he turned to face her. She was still staring at the ceiling, and a tear streaked straight from the corner of her eye, down her temple and into her hair. He reached out and wiped it away for her and she finally turned to look at him again as they lay facing each other. He brushed the tears from her other eye and cupped her cheek as he looked into her eyes, the new one sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

She nodded, curling into him.

“I just want to go home,” she whispered, voice trembling.

He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her hair, as they fell back into silence, listening to the next song. It was sweet, almost like a lullaby, and he was pleasantly surprised to hear her singing along this time.

If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky You can hide underneath me and come out at night When I turn jet black and you show off your light I live to let you shine, I live to let you shine   But you can skyrocket away from me And never come back if you find another galaxy Far from here with more room to fly Just leave me your stardust to remember you by   If you'll be my boat, I'll be your sea A depth of pure blue just to probe curiosity Ebbing and flowing and pushed by a breeze I live to make you free, I live to make you free   But you can set sail to the west if you want to And past the horizon, 'til I can't even see you Far from here where the beaches are wide Just leave me your wake to remember you by

“I like that one,” he said.

“I’ll try and play it for you on the lute sometime,” she yawned into his chest.

He smiled into her hair, and they fell asleep as the song finished softly,

Just leave me your stardust to remember you by   Stardust to remember you by.

[ender-cloud]

!!SPOILERS FOR THE ITHICA SAGA!!

it will be under the cut

-The Challenge-

Anyone else hear Anna’s voice and immediately start tearing up, I think it’s because of the journey that lead up to this and hearing her voice at the start of the saga… it’s just so beautiful.

And it’s different from the Sirens too, in the challenge her voice is filled with Grief and then hope, her instruments are strings, and it pulls more of a sad emotion.

But with the siren’s, her voice is energetic, the instruments are synths, it’s very digatalized.

This makes hearing the challenge hit straight to the gut right away, it’s different, this is the Real Penelope, how much she’s been taken iver by the grief for Ody.

Up till now we have been hearing what ody thought/last heard of his wife. A happy, confident voice, its such a stark contrast

(Also its a shame they couldn’t get the stream working last night, but I know Jorge Will make sure we get something)

-Hold them down-

Also in the Challenge Penelope says “Her husbands OLD bow” while the suitors say “The OLD kings bow” showing how she knows Odysseus is still alive while the suitors could care less of his life

Brooooo why is antonius’s voice so good ON HOLD THEM DOWN LIKE

-Odysseus-

ODYSSEUS (The song) HAVING THE BOSS BATTLE MOTIF????

Also it brings back the villians he has fought as he becomes the monster, “i’ve been hurt enough” similar to Polythemus’s “You’ve hurt me enough”

He trapped them in his palace, just like Circe. And, an obvious one, aimed for the torches, just like Scylla

He’s ruthless, no longer even attempting to reason with the suitors, no, he’s done doing that, he knows that the only true way they will stop if if He makes them!

Even when some of the Suitors try to reason with Odysseus, one even using THE line “Let’s have OPEN ARMS instead” Odysseus still says no, even if Antonius is dead, they went through with his plans.

Odysseus has held onto the line Open arms since the beginning of the show, hearing the Echo of it whenever in hard times, and now he’s pushing it aside, perhaps not liking hearing a suitor say something so close to his heart, but mostly because he has fully embraced Ruthlessness

Also!! THIS IS TELEMACHUS’S FIRST IMPRESSION OF ODY BTW, you can hear his legendary Motif before he appears.

Telemachus Trying be the one who reason’s the suitors, trying to get them to stop and maybe his dad would spare them (not knowing the truth) and then, just like his father, is met by it not working and him getting captured instead

ODY’S VOICE IS SO DIFFERENT??? JORGE???? “You’ve filled my heart with hate” IM NOT OKAY

Also im glad Jorge didnt just ignore that the suitors were trying to 🍇 penelope and brought it up, instead of just letting it be in one song like some other musicians might do

Cant wait to see animations where Telemachus has to watch All of this brutality:D haha…

-CANT HELP BUT WONDER-

LIKE THE CHALLEGE JUST IMMEDIATELY PAIN

ODY???? “Used to say id capture wind and sky for you” Which he did to see his son again,

This song breaks me, the way the music is orchestrated, its just, I cant explain it

ATHENA PLEASE I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE

BRINGING BACK THE “Show yourself, I know you’re watching me show yourself” TOO WHICH HAPPENED WHEN HE WAS A BOY OH MY GOD

Also she’s still alive, thank god!, Jorge scared me

-Would you fall in love with me again-

“I am not your kind and Gentle husband” ODY

As soon I heard the bridge I immediately started sobbing

Penelope proving that ody is still him with the bed is so clever not even he caught ut, a man taught by the goddess of wisdom himself

DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE ENDING FOR NOT ONLY WOULD YOU FALL IN LOVE BUT ALSO THE ENTIRE SHOW

ITS SO BEAUTIFUL, COMPLETING ODYSSEUS GOAL HE HAS HAD SINCE HIS JOURNEY STARTED, HE IS HOME WITH HIS FAMILY

Also i imagined the beats in the song as flashes to Ody’s journey up to now, as a way to honor the actors and the other sagas, I don’t know if thats what Jay attended but its what I believed

[si-nemo-me-reminiscetur]

either 18 or 21 for the dearest most darling-est Ginger Snaps

26 for Chameron

(Meeks voice) Yes, sir! <3

Answers to this ask game, everyone feel free to send me more!

Content Warnings: implied self harm [ginger snaps] | blood, stabbing (metaphor) [chameron]

18 — ginger snaps; kissing for encouragement

Steven watched Cam carefully, how with trembling hands he snapped open the violin case and looked at the instrument for a moment. The cave wasn't a stage, was not music class, but it also wasn't the privacy of their dorms, the common room even. It was something open and cool even near summer.

The others were talking, waiting, joking. Their voices muddled together to a current that ran right past Cam's silence. The motion of taking the violin out of its case had something eager.

"You can do this", Steven said, his hands repeating, mirroring the words. "I know you."

"Well, maybe know me a little less." There was a laugh in Cam's voice. "I'm doing this for you and Pitts, not myself."

"I don't believe that." Steven watched Cam inspect the bow, retune the strings—as if he'd ever let them sound anything but perfect—and place the violin under his chin. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't want to show off at least a little."

Cam laughed again and Steven grinned up at him. With a sigh Cam put down the violin again, not ready yet, waiting. He didn't call out for attention, a habit Steven tried to break for him. Middling success.

He took the empty hand—Cam's music rested in the other one—and kissed his knuckles. The skin dry and almost split open. Another bad habit, hot water over shaking hands. He kissed him again, felt the trembling fade, felt callouses on Cam's fingers. Music had left his skin blemished, but it was just a testament to his devotion.

"Good luck, maestro."

"I don't need luck", Cam said, leaned down for a kiss. Daring or bold or just careless to display his pride like that, but if this boy had something to be proud of, it was his music. "I have you."

Steven kissed him back.

26 — chameron; kissing as an apology

Charlie Dalton would consider himself rude for never saying thank you or please or I'm sorry, but most people didn't deserve these words anyway.

He had no one to thank for in life but himself.

No one to ask for something.

No one to apologize to.

Or so he had thought.

Cameron had carefully shaken him awake every day for the past week, no words spoken, just two taps on his shoulder, shaking, a step back to see if it worked. It had, every time. As if Charlie's body was just waiting for the signal, the impact of gentle kindness.

He didn't deserve it, but Cameron didn't understand these things. He didn't get the rage Charlie felt, he just had to suffer it.

No more.

It had been enough suffering on both sides, no words spoken, only a gentle touch and Cameron folding the laundry and Charlie making both their beds whenever he could. The cold smell of smoke hadn't left in what felt like years.

Charlie didn't remember how they had found themselves staring out at the lake, but it didn't matter. He apologized with a fire in his voice that had been smoldering for years and Cameron thanked him with a voice that came from the bottom of the ocean.

"We're going to regret this", Charlie said. He wouldn't, he just said it. Because he knew Cameron would, Cameron was someone driven by his heart and looming shadows (shame, guilt, fear).

"I don't believe you." Cameron turned to him, his chest exposed and the knife already stuck there. Charlie carefully put one hand next to the wound. This is going to hurt us both.

He pulled ... him closer. The kiss should have tasted like ash or salt or something rotten, but Cam's lips were sweet and coppery, addictive.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. The words had to be transferred heart to mouth to mouth to heart, they weren't the same when spoken aloud.

"Thank you", Charlie said in the microscopic space between their lips, his breath caught somewhere distant. Choking on something. Blood perhaps.

"I'm sorry", Cameron whispered before Charlie finished speaking as if they've reversed their roles, an exchange happened unknown, unwilling, unwanted.

Then the fire came back to Charlie, something warm not scorching this time. Cameron must have understood this, right? He was the only person Charlie had ever had to apologize to, properly.

He kissed him again. And Cameron allowed it, open chest, heart, sky.

[asherloki]

Until I found you

Sherlock x reader

Word count:- 815

Fluff

"oh how wonderful indeed" I exclaimed as I touched each string of violin in order with my index finger, making it buzz. Sherlock was still stuck with his microscope, examining the specimen he's been given by Hopkins recently. This officer, Stella Hopkins, she's a huge fan of Sherlock and to our surprise Sherlock doesn't mind her, he says "this young officer has potential". I took his violin as no response came from the man with the microscope. Imitating how Sherlock holds his violin I took the bow in other hand. When I let it touch the strings, it made an awful sound. That's when I turned and found out the detective lifted his head from it.

"You didn't hold any chord did you?" he enquired getting up from his chair, leaving the kitchen table as it is, messy.

"I don't play violin detective, so I don't know the chords" I replied putting the violin down. As I turned back again I saw my man was walking towards me or was he walking towards the violin?

"perhaps you'd be interested in learning it?" he offered as he stood infront of me.

"how many times have I offered you to learn a bit of piano from me Mr Holmes?" I teased him and I was delighted at how he pouted at my teasing. Whenever we visit my mum's I always play my old piano, perhaps I've asked him to play it a thousand times and he didn't agree to do so for once. Even though I caught him once or twice admiring it, as he pressed a few keys with his index finger.

"I'm not a pianist, sorry Mrs Holmes" him referring me as Mrs Holmes has never failed to make me giggle, "guitar, Ukulele, all the instruments you own" he said walking past me and grabbing his violin, "I'm fascinated by you" he praised holding his violin over his shoulder, then spinning the knobs as he tuned it.

"you were?" I enquired, sitting on the arm of his chair as he faced the window.

"wrong" he replied taking the bow in hand, "I still am, very much fascinated".

I smiled, did he smile too? who knows. Even after being his wife I can't always tell what's going on in his head, the mystery that he is, the man that he is.

"I always wanted to learn violin next" I said for I've always been drawn to how wonderful this musical instrument sounds.

"why didn't you?" Sherlock asked staring at his dearest violin.

"here you are" I replied, the only musical instrument I knew not how to play, my husband does, and he does it wonderfully, "you can, maybe one day I'll have enough courage to ask you to teach me too".

He gave me a hum in response, as if he wondered 'when will you be genuinely willing?'

"what will you play Sherlock?" I enquired, wanting to know if he has prepared anything, he loves to compose sometimes, he did one for me, the day we were married, three years ago, twenty second November, he made a rather happy melody for me. It was so joyous that everyone asked about it, like what is the inspiration behind it. He replied "my sunshine", he named it so as well. For he says he's never truly been happy, until I came one day, while he was playing with Rosie, John's daughter. He says he felt as if the sunrise for which he waited for a long time, rose that day.

"something my wife would love" he replied turning a bit to me, his smile indicated he will play my favourite song. A song that sounds beautiful when he plays it for me. And then his bow touched the strings, and the buzz was perfect, for the man held the right chords, unlike me. With Swift movements of his fingers, as if they were dancing on the chords and the bow sliding over the strings he started the part that goes,

heaven, when I held you again....

I smiled widely as my guess was correct, the song he says is ours, for he never fell in love, true love, in his entire life until he found me. Seriously though, the cold, grumpy detective, melted for someone like me, immature they say, childish too, young, alot younger than him, but then, I love him, so does he.

"would you mind humming with me?" he asked turning to me, with a nod I agreed and started singing,

"I would never fall in love again until I found her" he hummed as I sung then the next line, he joined me,

"I said I will never fall unless it's you.."

"I'm falling to" I continued,

"I was lost within the darkness" we sung together, looking at eachother, for we dedicated these lines to one another, "but then I found her... I found you..."

[trenchcoathunnybee08]

Play My Strings and Watch Me Bleed

Chapter 2: The night we met

Matt Murdock x Latina!Reader

‼️Trigger warning ‼️ - Attempted robbery, mention of parent death, mild stalking? (Its just Matt being down bad and in denial about it), physical violence (Matt kicking ass), threatening with a knife.

Note: I already made a post about this but I’ve decided to make reader Latina. I don’t see much rep for it in fanfiction so I figured I’d fill the gap. She speaks a little Spanish later so I just wanted to explain. Enjoy. 😉

[last chapter]

————————————————————————

Once again I was out on the rooftops when I heard it. The sound of a violin rising from deep within the city.

I’d caught short moments over the last couple of weeks when the sound of her playing found its way through the rest of the noise. She’d played for two other events at the club. One a dinner party, the other an engagement.

I’d hear it sometimes during the day, her voice carrying on the wind, the sound of her violin following suit. That’s when it was always hardest to figure out where it was coming from.

Sometimes I could tell it was from a street corner, others it drifted down from an apartment far above. More often than not though I would only catch it for a few seconds before losing it again.

Like a leaf on water, even the slightest breeze would sweep her away from again leaving me to wait till she drifted back to shore.

Tonight though I had the advantage. I’d been waiting, listening for a call to help. Sifting through the infinite voices and sounds of the city had become a near nightly ritual. I would pick out the places that seemed to need my help the most and focus my time there.

I had just settled to make my way towards fifty-seventh to see if there was anything I could do there when her gentle song had found me.

I’d told myself I wouldn't go looking, I’d keep my distance. It was on the way though so I’d have to pass anyway. I’d just cross from tenth to eleventh a little later. It’s not out of my way so it wouldn’t be a problem.

There was a brief moment where I thought I had lost her but as I got closer her violin began to sing again. This time she hummed the words to the song as she played.

The melody started soft as she plucked each sting. It was like listening the the gentle pattering of rain, each beat a drop hitting the ground. I pictured the streets crowded with people coming home from work, their umbrellas held close trying to keep the wind away.

She was in a studio, the large room seeming to be filled full of different instruments. There were a handful of other people in the building but she was the only one playing. From what I could tell it was a community center of sorts. The distinct smell of acrylic and oil paints from canvases mixed with mop water and window cleaners from the janitor in the room across from hers. A couple of kids were in one of the back rooms watching a movie and laughing loudly.

I was surprised I’d never noticed the building before.

I knew I should have kept moving but as she started to sing I couldn’t help but stop to listen. It was just barely more than a whisper but I had never been able to ignore her voice.

“Take me back to the night we met,

And then I can tell myself

What the hell i'm supposed to do”

Even when we were kids I couldn't help but listen whenever she played. There would be days where I’d be in class but all I could hear was her down the hall, the plucking of strings, the slide of the bow, the sound of her voice.

“I had all and then most of you,

Some and now none of you.

Take me back to the night we met”

Music has always been a comfort to me, even before the accident. My dad would turn the radio on on late nights where it was just us at Fogwells while he trained. I still have the distinct memory of him one night listening to Queen and trying his hand at a Freddy Mercury impression.

“When the night of full of terror

And your eyes were filled with tears

When you had not touched me yet

Oh! Take me back to the night we met”

After he died there was this immense comfort I found in listening to the quire. Singing the hymns during service, the little melody’s the sisters would hum throughout the day.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do

Haunted by the ghost of you

Take me back to the night we met”

From the first moment I ever heard her play I knew I would look for her in every service after that. Nearly every Sunday for four years I would search for the sound of her violin and nearly every Sunday for four years she would be there.

As her voice trailed off and she played the final notes I again found myself feeling lighter. Again that weight in my shoulders had lessened and the ache in my hands dulled.

When she began to pack her things I decided I’d wait till she left before continuing with my night. It was only a few minutes before she walked out onto the street, her violin case in hand.

When she started heading up the street I followed. It was the same direction I was heading anyway.

Several of the street lights were out and I could hear a couple of heartbeats in the alleyway.

The rattling of bottles and plastic came as she passed. I caught what was happening just a few seconds before she did but I still wouldn’t be able to move fast enough.

Two men stepped out, one holding up a kitchen knife in front of her, the other coming to stand behind her.

“Hey there, pretty lady. You know it really isn’t safe to walk the streets this late by yourself.” The man with the knife said. “Why don’t we take that off your hands? That way you can get around a little easier.”

Her heart was racing but without missing a beat she replied. “Vete a la chingada pendejos. You want this?” She held the case high above her head with a shaky hand. “Fight me.”

“Sounds like a challenge.” The other man said.

“It is.” I said, bolting from the alley and grabbing the man just as he began to charge at her.

“Move!” I yelled as the second man ran for her and she managed to dodge into the street at the last minute.

“Get the fuck off me!” The man said, bringing his knee up into my side. Hitting him twice I managed to get him down long enough for the one with the knife to come at me.

I blocked his first two slashes. Then as he moved to stab me I grabbed his wrist, broke his grip on the knife, and used the momentum to throw him over my shoulder and onto the ground.

He let out a strangled gasp as the hair was knocked out of him. Flipping him onto his back I twisted his arm using my boot to pin him to the ground. “Shit!”

The other man staggered to his feet. “That bastard broke my fucking nose!” He yelled, the scent of alcohol thick on his breath.

“And I’ll break a whole lot more if you don’t get out of here.” I said, twisting his friend's arm further forcing a yelp from him.

“Come on Jack, you can take him.” He gritted out trying to break my hold. I pressed my boot harder into his back forcing him back into place.

It was then I caught the sound of a cop car at the end of the block. It turned down the street and we would be in its lights within seconds.

Pushing off of him I dropped the man’s arm and dove back into the alley. Seconds later the lights on the car illuminated the scene.

The man was still pulling himself up from the ground as the other turned and ran back down the street.

“What’s going on here?” The officer asked, getting out of the car.

“They tried to rob me.” Her voice finally spoke with a shake.

“And you did this?” The officer asked, his hand coming to rest on his gun.

“No. He did.” She said pointing to the top of the fire escape. It was only then I realized the building on the other side had bright enough lights to give me away. Shit.

The officer's heartbeat quickened and he drew his gun. Raising it up he placed his finger on the trigger. His hands however shook and he could barely keep aim.

He wouldn’t take the shot.

“I’d recommend cuffing him before he gets away. His prints will be on the knife.”

He turned to look at the man still on the ground.

“If it keeps that phyco away from me.” He said. She tried to hide her laughter to little success as the man raised his hands waiting for the officer to cuff him. “I know who that guy is. I’m not down with that energy.”

The officer looked hesitantly between the two of us before finally lowering his gun. As the officer placed the man in the back of the car she came to stand at the front of the alley.

Her heart was still racing. Taking in a sharp breath she spoke. “You’re him. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.”

I don’t answer.

“I… I’ve heard stories about you.” She looked around hesitant. “Thank you.”

I needed to get moving. The longer I stayed the more likely the officer was to try and get to me. I stood ready to leave when she spoke again.

“You saved my fathers life once. He was at the Bulletin the day Bullseye attacked. I prayed I’d get a chance to tell you myself.” She said abruptly. “Thank you.”

I paused, the memory of that night still bitter in my mind. “… you’re welcome.” I say, climbing back into the shadows.

I didn’t hear her again for nearly three weeks. Not till the party.

[galpalaven]

WIP Whenever

someone give me the motivation and creative burst to go back and finish this fenhawke fic

The first time Fenris feels himself begin to fall, he’s holed up in a corner table in The Hanged Man, slightly drunk on cheap beer and surrounded by people he has tentatively come to acknowledge as his friends.

It’s been a strange few weeks at this point. Hawke had gotten back from the Deep Roads about a month back, and had since spent most of her time moving her things from Lowtown to the estate she’d bought with all of the earnings from the treasure they’d recovered. He’d even helped a bit with some of the larger things, to which she’d laughed and offered him something that was deliciously fried and coated with cinnamon and sugar as a thank you. But she’d been spending most of her time in Hightown, busy with things for her mother or out purchasing new furniture for the estate, and so he hadn’t seen her nearly as much as he had in the weeks leading up to the expedition.

Tonight, though, everyone had come out for their first real get-together in a while. He wonders if it’s the holiday season creeping up on everyone—as Harvestmere draws to a close, Satinalia is nearly upon them. The city has begun to decorate for the celebrations that will likely cover the city. Sparkling twine wraps around the lamps on streetcorners, ribbons and glittering ornaments following suit, hung from strings tied across entryways and even across the streets themselves.

He has vague memories of Satinalia in the Imperium, but most of them were unpleasant. Holidays meant that Danarius would host grande parties for the other magisters, and parties meant that Fenris would be paraded about in as many unpleasant ways as Danarius could concoct in that despicable head of his. 

More than once, Fenris has found himself wondering what it will be like to experience the celebration of the holiday like other people experience it. He’s almost apprehensive about it as it draws near.

“Hawke!” calls a stranger’s voice, somewhere on the other side of the room near the bar. She turns from where she’d been leaning against the wall beside him, laughing at the story Isabela had been regaling them with, and the stranger waves. “Play us a song, will you? You’ve not been here in months!”

A song?

Fenris frowns as he looks over at her, only to find her rolling her eyes.

“With what fiddle, Gideon?” she asks dryly, leaning on the table and raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t bring anything with me!”

“I keep one in the back just for you,” answers the bartender, producing an instrument seemingly out of nowhere.

Hawke just laughs as the bar erupts in cheers, the bard up on the stage seemingly excited at the idea just as much as the rest of the crowd. Isabela shoots her a grin, shoving her shoulder playfully as Varric laughs and says, “Better give ‘em what they want, Hawke! I don’t think they’re gonna take no for an answer.”

“They never do,” she sighs. Fenris glances at the faces of their other companions, but they all seem to be smiling knowingly, like this is something he should know about as well.

Well, they’re all smiling except for the newest addition to their group—an elf that the ex-Warden apparently knew from his time in the Wardens and, if you believed her, a hero of the Blight. He’s still trying to decide how he feels about her after finding out she’s a blood mage from one of the refugees in Darktown, but from what he’s gathered, she’s far more on guard about spirits than the Dalish elf Hawke had befriended, and though they’ve only spoken a bit, she seems far angrier about the state of the Imperium than either of the other mages in Hawke’s company.

His reverie is cut short as Hawke sighs, shooting him a bright smile as she stands and crosses the room, snatching the instrument and a bow from the bartender as she goes. He watches as she steps onto the little stage the bards use, fitting the instrument under her chin in such a way that it almost looks second nature. Her fingers settle against the strings, and she draws the bow across them idly, testing the sound to see if it's tuned.

The sound the instrument produces is beautiful—there’s no other word for it.

The room erupts into more cheers, and the new Warden, Surana, shares a bemused look with him as Hawke rolls her eyes again. 

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Hawke calls, raising her voice to be heard over the room. “What song am I playing you lot? I’ll only play a few tonight—I came here to drink, not perform.”

Chaos breaks out as voices call out the names of songs Fenris has never heard of—though he’s aware that isn’t exactly a feat—and Hawke laughs in response, tossing her head back in mirth. The movement bears the length of her throat, long, dark hair cascading over her bare shoulders in waves from where she’d pulled her braid loose earlier in the night. 

It… does something strange to his stomach, the sight of all that beautiful, tan skin on display. 

The tips of his ears feel suspiciously warm, and he hides part of his steadily warming face behind his hand, resting his jaw on his palm. 

“I’ll just pick, then, shall I?” she says, humming thoughtfully. “Ah, I know.”

She murmurs to the bards standing beside her, on the drums and the lute, and they nod eagerly in response. One of them begins to count softly, and the drummer starts to play. The two bards begin to hum, the patrons breaking out in excited murmurs. He watches on, intrigued, as some of the patrons begin to dance, while others start to sing along in a language he doesn’t recognize.

The sound of the fiddle breaks the stuffy bar air, singing loud and clear over the clatter of boots on wood and raucous laughter, and Fenris finds his eyes snapping right back to Hawke.

Kohava stands tall on the tiny stage, fingers running lithely over the neck of the instrument. She seems far more comfortable than he’d have expected, dark eyes glittering in the lantern light as she watches the patrons dance and sing to her music. Her full lips are turned upwards at the corners in the ghost of a smile as she takes in the sight—

—and then her eyes catch his, and something in his chest squeezes painfully.

The way her face brightens shouldn’t make him feel like squirming in his seat the way he does. She grins at him, biting her lower lip as she plays a little more passionately, leaning into the performance, swaying with the movement as the music builds to a crescendo, leading into a fiddle solo. Her eyes shut as she plays, eyebrows lifting towards her hairline as she draws the bow across the strings in time with the beating of the drums.

When her eyes open again, she seeks his gaze out immediately—and Fenris desperately tries to convince himself that the flustered flush on her cheeks is nothing more than the flush of the heat in the full bar.

Hawke stays up on the stage for another half hour, playing songs with the bards and laughing at the antics of the drunken patrons. At some point, Anders pulls Surana into a drunken jig with some of the other patrons. The atmosphere is warm and bright, and Fenris almost feels like he’s watching the entire thing through clouded glass. It doesn’t feel real in the sense that much of the last ten months or so hasn’t felt real.

This tiny, tentative life he’s built in Kirkwall feels like a fantasy—a bubble, ready to shatter at any moment. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for everything to come crashing down around him like it always has, but…

…but as Hawke slides back into the chair next to him, grinning and breathless, bumping her knees against his under the table, he finds the feeling slipping between his fingers. 

He’s smiling back at her, in a way that feels almost foreign on his lips, when his eyes catch Isabela’s a seat over. Isabela, who is grinning at him in a way that very much says, I saw you looking and I know what you’re thinking.

Fenris glares at her, to which she just smirks more and winks, but he can’t stay annoyed for long.

Not when Hawke is sitting next to him looking like that.

—————————————

“Andraste’s tits,” Kohava hisses, groaning as she stretches her hands above her head and several joints pop in her spine, “is it already last call? Ugh—I still need to walk all the way back to Hightown. I hate walking home this late by myself.”

“I can walk with you,” Fenris hears himself say before he even properly thinks to say anything. Hawke’s eyes open lazily, looking over at him curiously. He clears his throat, straightening in his seat and trying to appear slightly less intoxicated. “I mean, I live there, too. We can walk together.”

Her answering grin is easy, and it makes it easy to smile back. “You’re such a gentleman, Fenris,” she sighs, pretending to swoon a little, fanning herself with a hand. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sure he’ll like whatever you think of,” Isabela murmurs, smiling when Hawke laughs and Fenris shoots her a Look.

“Mm,” Hawke hums, rising to her feet. Fenris follows after her as she sighs, “Suppose we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

Fenris rolls his eyes, ignoring the quiet laughter of the two women as he strolls towards the door. He’s glad that he isn’t too tipsy that walking a straight line is impossible, unlike the few times he’s seen Isabela stumble off to bed, swaying so severely one would think they were in the middle of the sea. He pauses when he reaches the entryway to the bar, turning to look over his shoulder while Hawke says her final goodbyes to their friends.

His eyes catch for a moment too long on the lacy stockings hugging her thighs, visible in the gap between the hem of her inner skirt and the tops of her boots. His already alcohol-addled mind supplies him an image of his own hands tracing the flowery designs in the lace, the soft flesh of her thighs dipping beneath the press of his fingers. He’s just started to tear at the lace in the vision when Fenris manages to drag himself back to reality when Hawke slows to a stop beside him, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet to smile up at him.

“Ready?” he asks, just to have something to say.

[their-destinys-writer]

ML Secret Santa 2023

Merry Belated Christmas @charlietheepicwriter7! I was your Secret Santa for this year's @mlsecretsanta event! Since I was already doing Felinette for another Secret Santa, I decided to go with Lukanette for yours. Hope you like it! Once again, huge thank you to the team behind the @mlsecretsanta page, who have always made this wonderful event possible. Still my favorite event of the year of the fandom! You guys are amazing and deserve all the appreciation in the world. (Also on Ao3)

Can't Help Falling in Love

Playing up Paris’ reputation as the city of love for tourists was something Luka hadn’t expected to do in his lifetime. But as he played his violin under the Eiffel Tower, he soon realized it was a good gig to lean into during the holidays. Tourists loved to gather around, and it seemed to bring a spark in them. A sense of magic in their travels. It also gave him a few extra euros that he could use to give Christmas gifts to his favorite people.

Luka closed his eyes as the bow stick slid across the strings, moving from one song to another. When he opened them again, amongst the crowd, he saw his favorite face in the world. The beautiful features of the woman he loved, just in time for his last song. As he played a violin rendition of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’, he watched her pink lips spread in a smile across her face. As if she knew he was secretly dedicating the song to her.

With every note he played, she slowly swayed to the rhythm, tightening the hold on her coat. Whether it was to imitate someone holding her or due to the cold, he wasn’t sure. But the way she closed her eyes made him think it was the first one.

As the song finished, he received a round of applause from the spectators left in the evening, and some approached the open violin case to throw several euro notes. After thanking them and announcing his departure, Luka started gathering his things.

“Hey, Rockstar,” the voice of Marinette spoke behind him.

“Hello, Melody,” he greeted, turning to give her a light kiss on the lips.

“Wanna walk home together?”

“Always,” he responded with a smile as he closed the instrument case and picked it up.

Together, they made their way away from the Eiffel Tower, in the direction of the Trocadéro. It was a slight detour on their way home, but Luka knew it was Marinette’s favorite place in Paris. As they walked through the gardens, he watched her from the corner of his eye, her hands rubbing together, as if attempting to fiddle her fingers through the mittens.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing one of her hands, “are you okay? Are you cold?”

“Oh, I’m f-fine,” she responded, in a tone that was not very convincing. He squeezed her hand, hoping it would reassure her, that she could talk to him whenever she felt ready. They stepped up the stairs and reached the plaza, emptier than usual. Most likely people were hiding from the low temperatures.

“Hey, Luka?” Marinette suddenly spoke.

“Hm?”

“I-I have a confession to make.”

Luka’s brows furrowed. “What is it?” he asked, his heart unsure whether to worry or not.

“I, um… I found the ring.”

He stopped on his tracks, Marinette immediately following suit. Her bluebell eyes were gazing away, in shame. Luka thought he had been careful in hiding it. Then again, he shouldn’t underestimate Marinette’s ability to figure out when there was something amiss. Something must have tipped her off. Or, like many other times, there was an accident that resulted in her finding out.

“Are you okay?” he asked, worried that she thought he wanted to rush things between them.

“W-Why are you asking me?” Marinette finally turned to him, her eyes wide. “Aren’t you upset I ruined the surprise?”

His head tilted. “Why would I be upset?” he questioned. “Aren’t you feeling like I’m moving too fast in buying a ring?”

“Luka, we’ve been together for over a year, and we’ve known each other for far longer,” she explained. “Why would I think us getting engaged at this stge is too fast for us?”

“I thought you said you weren’t ready.” He fully turned to her, wondering if he was hearing correctly.

“Well, no, because I hadn’t perfected my wedding dress, but I’m absolutely ready to be engaged.” Marinette instantly bit her mitten, like she hadn’t intended to let him on to that secret.

The smile that spread through Luka’s face was hard to hold back. This whole time he had thought she wasn’t ready in general. Yet it seemed he had misunderstood what she was saying. He couldn’t help but grab her around the waist and twirl her around, making Marinette let out an initial squawk, followed by giggles as they made several circles.

“Does that mean it’s a yes?” Luka asked, finally stopping and placing her back on the ground.

“Of course it is!” Marinette laughed.

“Wait!” he suddenly said, letting go of her. She gave him a look of confusion, but nevertheless, Luka carefully placed down the violin and took out the small box he had been carrying around for almost two months already. He heard her gasp as he dropped down to one knee, excited to finally say the words he had been wanting to say for so long.

“Oh my gosh, you’re doing this now?!” she yelped.

“Why not?” Luka breathed, still smiling widely. “You love this place, there’s few people, it’s snowing, and you look gorgeous. I can’t think of a more perfect moment than this one. Can I?”

Marinette made a giddy laugh as she nodded, her eyes already filling with tears of joy.

“Marinette—”

“Wait!” With rapid movements, she pulled on her mittens and stuffed them in her coat’s pocket. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Luka chuckled. “Marinette,” he started again, his tone quieter, “we’ve known each other for years. I have loved you for almost as long, but I know you’ve only loved me recently. I have been ready to ask you to spend the rest of your life with me for so long, but I didn’t want to pressure you. Even so, I have held onto hope that you would be ready someday, to share more than just a living space with me, but a lifetime.

“Now that I know where you stand,” Luka opened the box, “Marinette, my Melody, would you be willing to spend that lifetime with me?”

“YES!” Marinette practically yelled, tears of joy finally falling down.

Luka’s smile widened as he took the ring out of the box and delicately placed it on her finger. As soon as it was properly placed, Marinette grabbed his face and pulled him up to a kiss. He gladly returned it, rising to his feet for a better position to properly hold her in his arms.

“You were right,” she sighed contentedly against his lips. “This place and moment really were perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he hummed. “Do you want to go home, or do you want to grab dinner to celebrate?”

“Dinner actually sounds nice.”

“Anything in particular you’re craving? My treat,” Luka announced.

“How about Italian?” Marinette suggested. “That restaurant by the park we always say we’re going to try out. I think this is the perfect moment for that.”

“As you wish,” he said softly, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

Gently, she laced her fingers with his as he took back the violin to continue their walk. The smile wouldn’t leave Luka’s face. And with the cold, he wondered if it was possible for it to remain stuck that way. As he rubbed a thumb against Marinette’s hand, he noticed something.

“Aren’t your hands cold?” he asked.

“I’m not hiding my new ring just yet,” Marinette responded with a skip in her step.

“Okay,” Luka laughed. “But please put on your mittens if it gets too cold.” She hummed to signal she heard him. Changing the subject, he added: “I’m sorry you didn’t get to finish your dress before getting engaged, though.”

“Don’t worry, I already did.”

Luka tilted his head, a lopsided grin forming on his lips again. “When did that happen? I thought you were still working on it.”

“After I found the ring,” she explained, watching him from beneath her lashes. “I felt very inspired and finished it in less than a week.”

“Wait,” his brows furrowed, “when did you find the ring?”

“About a month ago,” she said with a shrug, yet a mischievous smile curled her lips. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but you were taking too long to ask me.”

A laugh blurted out of the newly engaged man. “You really are full of surprises, Ma-Ma-Marinette.”

“You know it, Mr. Therapist.”

Luka gave what felt like the tenth content sigh that evening. “I swear, every day I fall more and more in love with you.”

“And I promise you, you’re not the only one.”

With a content hum, Marinette wrapped her arms around one of Luka’s, but he decided to wrap an arm around her instead, allowing her to be as close as she wanted. Snow continued to fall as they made their way to the restaurant, yet Marinette hadn’t touched her mittens, not once.

As he looked at her pink face, he could stop thinking about what awaited them. He was already looking forward to start planning the rest of his life with the most amazing woman the universe had to offer.

[thatlesbiancrow]

i want to do literally EVERY questiom but i will settle for 5:

2,3,11,31,34

LITERALLY SQUEALING IN DELIGHT EEEE <- me :3

what sort of music would they like? have you thought about what genres or bands do they lean towards? do they have a favorite song?

Having a crisis because tbh I've never considered this before. I'm dreadful at making playlists or the like so I had to think of this one a bit, and idk if I ended up with the best answer WHOOPS

Aurora is a big fan of waltzes. Whenever she goes to the main city, she tries her best to watch any kind of concert or recital. She'll stop in her tracks to listen to a street performer. She's a big fan of strings. I don't think she'd know much about music though. If you'd ask her what her favorite song is, she'd probably hum the last piece she listened to.

Ben's not super into music. Her current boss's son plays an instrument (I KEEP FLIP FLOPPING ON WHAT) and she likes listening to him. She tends to prefer when he's practicing a song for his wife. He wants it to be perfect, so Ben gets to overhear it being played well while she works. If you asked her, she wouldn't be able to give you many details other than it sounding "romantic"

weapon of choice? any particular reason they chose their weapon?

Ben is formally trained with both sword and bow. Out of those she prefers a sword, so that's what she would say. An old friend from school (Peter? Percy? I can't decide his name other than the first letter.. first two letters?) anyways he taught her how to use throwing daggers, and that is her real preference. She would take a while to realize it's an option though- she sees it more as a hobby.

Aurora is trained in nothing in this regard, so there's no true answer here. If she was presented with every option available she would grab a dagger- It's the least intimidating to her and she wouldn't be afraid to simply HOLD it like other things. (If it's worth anything, she much prefers when Ben uses a bow. She finds it VERY attractive)

what do they have in common with you? how are they different? would you get along with them?

My OCs definitely fall into "I am them, I want to be them, or I want them"

Aurora is silly because she started as a Miitopia OC! I just made her for fun to roleplay her being my lookalike's girlfriend haha. As time went on and I started to imagine her as an actual character, she definitely started to become more like me. I wouldn't call her a self insert- but there's a lot of me in her. She's a very deeply dependent person, she's horrible at navigation, she's a seamstress because it's a passion of mine (she used to be a songwriter, but that hasn't stuck) she's not all that ambitious as an individual, she can be a bit slow to a joke or innuendo.

I feel like I just listed a bunch of flaws haha. I love this girl you have to understand! It's awkward to talk about a character's kindness and be like "oh just like me!" most of these traits are heightened from how they are in me!

her differences are harder for me to pinpoint? She's not JUST like me. hmm. She's more prone to lying and worse at lying than I am, but she THINKS she's good enough at it. Girl you are NOT fooling anyone. She's much more of a stationary person. She's lived in one small village her whole life (the opposite of me really) which has really supported her tendency to be less self reliant. She hates cooking (she learns she's fine with it once she cooks with nice sharp knives for the first time)

I think I'd get along with her alright!

BEN! ok so she falls under "I WANT HER" she's not all that similar to me at all. She's independent, competent, outgoing, believes in herself a little TOO much- not in a cocky way, but in a more internal way. She's not very expressive despite being very kindhearted. A smile is rare, but she's quite the happy individual. Her words are kind, but her tone is dull (which is more like me on a tired day that i cant bring myself to mask. I consider myself a pretty expressive person otherwise) She is a very driven person- even if she doesn't have a particular goal in mind. She's hardworking, but a bit too ready to drop something if she deems something else "More Important" she was fired from a more official job because she would drop everything to help someone in depth too frequently.

Like me, she has a good amount of respect for her boundaries and is quick to go "nope not dealing with being treated like that" in her case, it's largely why she's okay to not keep close contact with her parents. I think she'd be less willing to be the person to offer an olive branch than I would be.

I would be intimidated by her.

do they like receiving gifts? giving gifts? what is their ideal gift?

Ben's alright on both ends. She would feel awkward to get a gift on a non special occasion, but she'd enjoy them on special occasions. Her ideal gift would be something practical. Later on in the timeline, I imagine Aurora's mentor gifting Ben a quilt and she'd call it one of her favorite gifts. Something she's able to use EVERY night? Oh it's perfect! She's fiiine at giving gifts. She struggles keeping track of what people are in need of (what she considers to be the perfect gift) but KNOWS their character well enough to get them something they'd like

AURORA *LOVES* GIFTS. She's a big fan of knickknacks, little cute things, pretty fabrics, and flowers. She's not all that picky. One of her dads (she's got 2 dads and a mom) is a jewelry maker (her older sister used to be one as well) so receiving it from anyone else feels odd. Ben asks him to make their engagement ring and wedding bands. when Aurora recognized the craftsmanship she cried for... a bit longer than necessary (she was very touched) She does handmade gifts!

how would your character describe themselves? it doesn't have to line up with how they really are.

Aurora would describe herself as timid and goal oriented. She'd brush off her abilities "Oh no no I'm still learning!" (it's good to want improvement- but give yourself more credit Aurora!!) she'd describe herself as someone who easily opens up to others (just because you're a crybaby does NOT make that true)

I think Ben has a good idea of herself, but isn't good at articulating it. I think she'd call herself "Free roaming" and a "jack of most trades, damn good at a lot of them too" She knows she's the "guy" whenever someone says "I know a guy"