#wondrous weasels

[scattergoriesofevil]

Burrow’s End party names

Episode 1: Stupendous Stoats

Episode 2: Mystical Mustelids

Episode 3: Excellent Ermines

Episode 4: Wondrous Weasels

Episode 5: Vicious Varmits

Episode 6: Preternatural Predators

Episode 7: Invasive Investigators

Episode 8: UnCommon Carnivores

Episode 9: Little Guys

Episode 10: Stupendous Stoats

Aabria you did such a good job!

[the-random-phan]

Danny Fenton has 1 (One) Nerve Left, and it is Almost Fried

WC: 13,865

Ao3

Summary:

“Boss?” Asked FRIDAY. Tony looked up from the hologram he’d been staring at for the last two hours. “Yes?” He replied. He grabbed a smoothie from DUM-E's waiting claw, checked it for motor oil, and took a sip. It wouldn’t be the first time he made that mistake. “Danny Phantom has entered the building.” She informed. Tony grinned. “Let’s get the show on the road then, yeah?” Tony had a personal intern to coerce to and a tour group to stalk. aka; A re-imagining of the "Stark Industries Trip" trope starring a very anxious half-ghost :)

Read the first chapter below the cut!

“I have great news!” Mr Lancer was unusually cheery for a Monday morning. Danny certainly was not feeling the same.

Danny's feet dragged as he stumbled into class, fifteen minutes after the bell. Desiree had decided to go on a wishing spree during lunch and he had to track her down. She was easy enough to defeat- just wish she would go into the thermos- but this time she had taken to wearing earmuffs so she couldn’t hear him, and he had to knock those off first.

It was a hassle he had not been looking forward to this early on a Monday.

Lancer sent Danny a scathing look, but it was quickly wiped away and replaced by a smile. 

…weird.

Tucker looked concerned as Danny as he took his seat with a slight limp. But Danny waved the concern away. He was fine. Nothing he hadn’t suffered through before. He’d just taken a hard landing. Totally his own fault.

“Well, there is a touch of bad mixed into this news. The senior trip to Washington DC has been canceled.” Lancer announced. A chorus of complaints rang out. Danny was relieved. He hadn’t been looking forward to spending a long weekend away from Amity Park. No, he did not have attachment issues. (Lie.)

“Sh-Shh! That’s not all!” Lancer looked vaguely annoyed. The class barely quieted down at all. He seemed to resign himself to the chaos he’d created.

“It has been replaced.” Oh, no. That couldn’t be good. What, were they gonna go on a field trip to the Ghost Zone or something?

…

No, no. Danny could see that actually happening. He wiped the thought from his recent memory, pretending it had never existed in the first place. Best not to tempt fate, for it was cruel.

“A wondrous chance has arisen.” Said Lancer, sounding like he’d walked right out of one of Shakespear’s poems. Or wait, was he a poet? Or did he write something else?

Danny had sat through far too many of Lancer’s classes with raging concussions to remember such minute details.

”Instead of Washington DC, we are going to New York!” Lancer grinned. The class broke out into whispers yet again. Though they weren’t really whispering anymore. Lancer seemed to have given up. He collapsed into his desk chair, head cradled in his hands. If he was already this defeated, how would he handle this many teenagers in a whole other state?

‘That might be even worse than the Ghost Zone.’

See, Danny (Phantom) and New York did not mix very well.

New York was the home of superheroes, and well, that was really the most accurate title for Danny and his ‘ghostly protector’ MO. It wasn’t really all that likely he’d stumble upon an Avenger on the street, but he didn’t want to chance it. He had no interest in being a part of that band. Or worse, they might think he’s a criminal like the GIW do. His inner, childhood Iron-Man-fanboy wouldn’t be able to handle that.

Maybe with the change of plans Danny could fake an excuse? His parents had already signed the Washington DC permission slip, but they hadn’t checked off on this one yet. He could still weasel his way out.

Paulina raised her hand.

“You mean, like, New York, New York, right? The city that never sleeps?” She asked. Danny could hear the stars in her eyes. Lancer seemed relieved to actually be being paid attention to.

He nodded vigorously. His widened smile was almost disturbing.

“This school has been giving the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to actually tour Stark Tower! The base of operations for Stark Industries in New York!”

‘Oh Ancients, kill me now.’

~linebreak~

“Moooom! Daaaad!” Danny called down the lab stairs. There was no response, but Danny wasn’t really surprised. The GAV was in the driveway, so his parents had to be home. And he could hear their heartbeats in the lab. They probably just had hearing protection on.

Danny’s footsteps echoed heavily as he descended. (On purpose.)

Sure enough, there were his parents. Dad had on a welding mask and earmuffs, and was loudly yelling. On the other side of him was Mom, who sat on a rolling stool that was pulled up to a workstation. Danny could feel that she was buzzing with annoyance.

The portal glowed dimly from the other side of the room. Danny tried his best to avoid staring at it for too long. The eternal swirling and dance of ectoplasm had a mesmerizing effect. He’d lost hours of his life right after The Accident, fixated on the surface of the portal and yearning just to touch-

“Honey!” Mom exclaimed. She slid past Dad and wrapped Danny up in a hug.

“How was your day?” She asked. Which clued Danny in to the fact that something was definitely up. She never asked him anything like that. Usually they just shooed him out of the lab when he paid them a visit. It had been a hassle to get them to sign the original permission slip.

“...what’s going on?” Danny asked. His suspicion was plain to hear.

Dad finally removed his earmuffs.

“Oh,” He chuckled sheepishly. 

“We have good news!” Mom said cheerily. After the day he had, Danny didn’t need any more ‘good news.’ Not to mention that what was ‘good’ for his parents was usually ‘horrifically bad’ for him. Usually it had to do with new inventions. And if they were this happy, it had to be something especially dangerous and/or lethal. (Either worked.)

“We’re chaperoning your trip!” Dad exclaimed. Mom shoved him playfully.

“You weren’t supposed to tell him yet!” She chided. But the smile didn’t leave her face.

Danny’s first thought was, ‘I’m going to die (again) on this trip, aren’t I?’

“The New York trip?” Danny was already traumatized. And they hadn’t even gotten on the bus yet.

Dad nodded his head. His smile was shockingly similar to the one Lancer had been wearing earlier.

“They sent out an email last night, asking parents not to spill the beans. They also asked for any chaperones, since your entire grade is going. So we volunteered!” Mom looked up at Dad and he shared her grin. 

Dad wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Danny begged his knees not to give out under the force. Sometimes his Dad forgot his own strength.

“Aren’t you excited?”

Danny tried not to let the terror show on his face. Not too much, at least. He’d never been very good at telling his face what to do.

“Yeah!” His voice shook.

“Sure- sure am. Can’t wait.” For this to be over already.

~linebreak~

Which was how Danny ended up here.

He and his classmates took up a whole two cars on the Subway. Why the school decided to stuff a bunch of teenagers on public transport was beyond him. Mr. Lancer was having a hell of a time trying to navigate. He squinted down at an app on his phone and tried to figure out where they needed to be going. He’d already led them astray twice. They must’ve traveled under half of New York by now. 

Oh, and they were officially ten minutes late for their tour of Stark Tower. Would they cancel the tour if they were late enough?

Dad stood behind Danny, taking up the entire width of the doorway. He looked queasy, and was holding onto a pole for dear life. Mom was trying to comfort him, but he looked like he was gonna hurl. They drove the GAV over curbs and took out cones like they were bowling pins, how did this make them sick?

The subway car screeched to a stop and Dad’s face turned a sickly shade of green.

“Next up is our stop, everyone!” Lancer announced suddenly. There was about a… 17% chance of him being right. If Danny had to guess. Just picking a random number.

Classmates around him buzzed into action, collecting their things and themselves. Dannywas surrounded by laughter and smiles. Kids happy to be away from their parents and home, with their friends.

It was a stark (heh) contrast to Danny’s own loneliness.

Tucker was having a big family reunion- the first in years- so he couldn’t come. He would’ve been able to go to DC, but there was a date change and he couldn’t just ask all of his family to cancel. And his parents wanted him there to help out and socialize.

Sam’s mother Pamela had just straight-up refused to let her go- “to that rubbish bin of a city! What could happen to my little Sammykins?! So far away from home!”

It probably didn't help that Pamela wasn't allowed to be a chaperone. Not after what happened last time at the Zoo.

Danny shuddered at the memory. Giraffes could be surprisingly vicious.

Valerie was the only familiar face around, but things were still iffy between them. Danny had finally come clean to her about his identity last fall, but ever since then things had been… stiff. Awkward. When they were both out ghost fighting at the same time they’d work together, but aside from some fight banter they’d barely said a word to each other.

Which was fine with Danny, usually, but he was finding himself wanting someone to talk to that wasn’t his parents.

They weren’t very good conversationalists, unless he asked about ghosts. But he wasn’t in the mood to hear about all the ways they’d tear his ghost half apart ‘molecule by molecule.’

Danny had tried to sneak off at the last moment before they got on the bus out of Amity Park, but it was Sam and Tucker who convinced him to go. They had shown up to see him off. Which he greatly appreciated, seeing as the sun hadn't even risen yet. It was a nice gesture. If a little inconvenient, because Tucker showed up with his new-and-improved ‘Foley Gauntlets’ and physically refused to let him go. It was the most evil hand-holding he’d ever experienced.

His best friends- no, traitors- weren’t about to let him dip. They said he needed a break and some time off from being a ghostly protector. But how was spending half a week in another state with his parents supposed to be a break? If anything, it would be more stressful than staying home. But they seemed to be convinced that this was best for his well-being, and they wouldn’t give up.

Sam and Tuck assured him that things would be fine, and they could handle any ghostly threats. Danny wanted to have faith in their abilities. After all, they’d been at this just as long as he had. But he couldn’t help the worry, the nagging feeling at the back of his head.

Danny weaseled them into promising they’d give him a call if things got out of hand. It was only a two-hour flight! He could probably shave off 15 minutes if he really pushed it. But Danny didn’t really trust them to alert him. His idea of safety and theirs were vastly different. And yes, Danny knew how hypocritical that was. But he couldn't find it himself to care enough to change it.

Danny had already checked the Amity Park News a dozen times since he got on the bus.

All of this to say, Danny was alone. Alone and with his parents, to be exact. Danny took a picture of Dad looking ready to puke and sent it to the group chat titled ‘Loser Trio.’

The doors opened and everyone around Danny hopped into action. Welp, here it went. Danny slipped his phone into his pocket. He hoped nothing disastrous happened on the tour.

He probably just jinxed himself there.

Ugh.

~linebreak~

“Boss?” Asked FRIDAY. Tony looked up from the hologram he’d been staring at for the last two hours.

“Yes?” He replied. He grabbed a smoothie from DUM-E's waiting claw, checked it for motor oil, and took a sip. It wouldn’t be the first time he made that mistake.

“Danny Phantom has entered the building.” She informed. Tony grinned.

“Let’s get the show on the road then, yeah?” He clapped. Tony had a personal intern to coerce to and a tour group to stalk.

[songsaa]

RETALIATION ‼️‼️‼️‼️ @grease-weasel

+ Extra

My courier guy is very appreciative about the lovely, MAGNIFICENT, AND WONDROUS DRAWING, and will literally do a dance for you to show his gratitude and glee

[fillingthescrapbook]

Let's Talk About: Burrow's End and the Last Bast

Say hi, wondrous weasels! (I can't wait for what moniker Aabria is going to whip out next week.)

I just have stray thoughts this week because my internet connection was shitty and I had to keep refreshing Dropout, so any train of thought I might have had got derailed thirty minutes into the episode.

Ava, Tula, and Thorne know what the greatest love of all is--because they taught those children well and then let them lead the way.

Stoats have sashes! They can have "clothes." Also, I love that Lila tried to fashion one into a hat for Viola.

Jaysohnn and Lila are definitely AD and HD stoatified.

Rashawn's "Girl…" had me laughing out loud. As well as Brennan's "Yeah, what did she do?" as an interrupting response to Bennet's "That's your mother--"

I realized I stopped naming MVPs… But it's really hard to pick one player when they're all so very good. Also, I couldn't pick the best thumbnail this week because there were so many cool moments! I cut them down, but I have three that I'm hiding behind the cut. This truly is the season of just being exemplary.

[digitaltariq]

Ricky Stanicky Stars Jermaine Fowler and Andrew Santino Snort It Up

Abstract - Jamie Foxx sang 'Blame it on the alcohol,' however now it is all concerning the imaginary good friend in Zac Efron's movie. - Ricky Stanicky ensures laughs with Peter Farrelly directing and real-life comics as Efron's friends. - Interviews with stand-up comedians introduced laughs, aiding performances & comedic timing within the movie. There's nothing like a very good scapegoat — till it stops working, in fact. Jamie Foxx as soon as crooned, "Blame it on the alcohol," however in a brand new Zac Efron-starring movie on Prime Video, the saying ought to as a substitute go, "Blame it on the...imaginary good friend." Sure, the title for Ricky Stanicky, as anybody who's seen the movie's promotional trailer can affirm, derives from a made-up particular person {that a} trio of lifelong mates use to weasel their approach out of any variety of "sticky" (pun meant) conditions. With Oscar-winner Peter Farrelly on the helm, plus real-life comics enjoying Efron's friends, Ricky Stanicky ensures a great deal of laughs. We not too long ago caught up with the movie's scene stealers — in addition to John Cena enjoying the outrageous eponymous persona — in an interview in Los Angeles to study what went into crafting a kind of throwback, slapstick comedy within the trendy period. Andrew Santino (Beef) and Jermaine Fowler (Coming 2 America) additionally dished to MovieWeb about working alongside Efron and their different tasks within the works.

'My God, Was It Boring" — Not!

Ricky Stanicky Launch DateMarch 7, 2024 StudioFootloose Productions, Michael De Luca Productions, Rocket Science What's one benefit to interviewing acclaimed stand-up comedians? The interview itself is sure to garner some laughs. Ricky Stanicky has its justifiable share of hilarious sequences, each on bodily and verbal ranges. It will need to have been a thrill for the actors to shoot these scenes, so we requested Santino and Fowler if they might affirm our suspicions. "Not likely. No. You'll assume so, however my God was it boring," Santino joked to us, in typical deadpan-comedy vogue. "They paid us in hugs, which is a bit demeaning." To which Fowler replied, refusing to let the joke die, "You'd assume with all of the superb individuals we had on set, it would be good." For the reason that pair are execs with regards to comedic supply, it is secure to say this actually aided them in fleshing out their performances on the massive display. "It undoubtedly helped. Simply timing, comedic timing," stated Fowler. "It helps give your rhythm." Then, Santino could not assist himself however flip our query right into a gag once more. "And even typically, should you're ok, you possibly can end one another's..." he stated, ready for Fowler to conclude the sentence — which Fowler, in fact, refused to do. It was actually troublesome to maintain a straight face throughout all this banter! On the matter of real-life stand-up expertise, Santino is preserving busy together with his profession exterior of appearing. "I am ending up a tour with my good good friend Bobby Lee," he informed us. "We do a 'Unhealthy Buddies' tour."

Associated Ricky Stanicky Assessment: The Wondrous John Cena Cannot Fairly Save Peter Farrelly's Uneven Comedy Oscar winner Peter Farrelly follows up Inexperienced Ebook with a pair of Zac Efron tasks, the newest feeling all too foolish and fails to make the most of the actor. Followers of FX's hit collection Dave will acknowledge Santino as Mike, a.ok.a. Lil Dicky's supervisor within the present. Sadly, the present's star Dave Burd recently confirmed he will likely be taking a protracted hiatus from the present. "It is simply post-strike. I believe they're shifting on to different stuff," Santino informed us after we requested concerning the current announcement. "That is type of what occurs." Watching Cocaine Bear With Efron Going again to Ricky Stanicky, it is arduous to pinpoint simply which of the ridiculous scenes was maybe the funniest. We requested the pair if that they had a choice, wanting again on the top outcome. "My favourite a part of the movie was truthfully the bris scene. It was most likely probably the most enjoyable, silly, free, goofy," stated Santino, with out revealing too many spoilers. "It took 4 days as a result of it was such an enormous set piece, and to observe all of it come collectively after we noticed the screening was wild." "Yeah, the film involves that time, like, all the things we have labored for comes at that time," Fowler stated, piggybacking off Santino. 4:43

Associated Unique: Peter Farrelly and William H. Macy on Embracing Hilarity With Ricky Stanicky The Oscar-winning Inexperienced Ebook director and the Oscar-nominated Fargo star spoke to MovieWeb about their Zac Efron and John Cena comedy. Fowler and Santino play the friends of Dean, the movie's true protagonist, performed by the little-known actor Zac Efron. "He is great. He actually is," stated Fowler. "The dude is simply straight up a cool-ass dude. Most occasions, we might hang around at his Airbnb or simply play beer pong and pay attention to sit back music, play ping pong, films. I watched Cocaine Bear at his home after considered one of our days on set. That was hilarious." Santino continued, on Efron: "He is a very good dude, very simple to work with and actually type of wished to stay within the comedic moments. And I do not know methods to say it with out sounding bizarre, however he type of wished us to cleared the path for a few of the comedic moments and actually type of allow us to do it, and adopted go well with a bit bit." Because the chief of their little trio, Efron's character Dean is perpetually in misery, as he tries to juggle the lifelong lie that's "Ricky Stanicky" whereas sustaining some kind of blissful marriage to his spouse Erin (Lex Scott Davis). "He was battling a lot, his character had so many lies he needed to sustain with," Fowler informed us, in pondering extra concerning the Dean persona. "So you possibly can see within the movie, the best way portrayed his character, he was boiling. It was actually cool to observe him type of strike that steadiness." Try the efficiency for your self. Ricky Stanicky is now streaming globally on Prime Video. You may watch it via the hyperlink beneath: Read the full article

[katiefratie]

Hiiii wondrous weasels!!!

[reidslibrarybook]

Lit By Love

​​Pairing - Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings - language, SMUT (MINORS DNI, 18+), oral (male and female receiving), fingering, face fucking, unprotected penetration, slight overstimulation, use of pet names (darling/good girl), slight hair pulling, sorta dom!spencer and sorta sub!reader, not proofread (lmk if i missed anything lmao)

Summary - You come over to Spencer’s apartment hoping to help him during a storm and power outage. Your attempt to help him through his fear of the dark developed into something more than you had planned, leading to an unrevealed confession.

Category - fluff, smut (18+) MINORS DNI

Word Count - 6.1k

A/N - lmao i cranked this out today and i’m kinda proud considering i’m sitting in my lab rn waiting for some tests and i’m rlly hoping this shows up in the tags lmao. big big big thank you to @samuel-de-champagne-problems for helping me with this, ily <3

masterlist || lmk what you think || join my taglist

——————————————

Spencer always felt like he was on display, people watching him as he juggled a circus act of walking on a tightrope.

He couldn’t count the vast number of his peers waiting for him to tip over and fall down beneath, surrounded by nothing but failure. It was a fate that haunted him constantly, a never-ending fear that he believed would inevitably come true one day in the future.

What they didn’t know was the envy that bubbled inside him. He coveted the normalcy they so desperately wanted to get rid of. He wanted the ease of being a regular person and the effortless finding of their other half.

He didn’t understand why people wanted to be in his shoes knowing what others thought of him but what stumped him most was why you wanted him.

After weeks of borderline stalking you, Spencer decided to leave well enough alone— dropping the unachievable dream of being yours. Much to his surprise, you approached him with just as much enthusiasm that thrived inside him when any thought of you weaseled its way into his frontal lobe. He managed to work up the courage to ask you out on a date and the rest felt as easy as it was to fall for you.

It was a rollercoaster of emotions: infatuation, fixation, adoration, passion.

He was addicted to you, a fact he had known since the moment you called him yours— your Spencer. It was almost as if his heart was trapped and fumigated with your intoxicatingly sweet scent and wondrous smiles he would never be able to rid himself of, a nightmare and fantasy he could never quite forget.

But at some point, something felt off. There was always something left… unsaid.

Every single goodbye felt like a sentence that was unfinished.

He tried to figure out what it was but he could never find the missing piece to his puzzle, stuck in a prison made of his own incapability. The lightbulb never magically turned on, nor did the answer finally click— he was left to remain in a state of confusion and emotional disorientation.

His internal debacle stuck with him since he first noticed the odd hanging feeling after each reluctant departure. There was nothing he could do but wait until he could put his bright mind to good use.

Spencer ran his fingers through his hair hoping to brush out the little droplets of rain resting between each strand. He was able to avoid the raging weather in Virginia for the last couple of days, staying in sunshiney California for a case. He never liked thunder or lightning or any kind of weather that had the potential to develop into a raging storm, it always created an unsettling atmosphere he had no intention of enjoying.

With each passing moment marked by the sound of thunder and the flashing lightning, he thought of the only person that could comfort him in that very moment— you.

He had been hesitant to call you after discovering his newfound problem that may be the little seed of doubt that had yet to be unsown, instilling a sense of hopelessness inside him. It was an inkling of pessimism that believed in his undismissable demise, too stubborn for him to rid himself of.

The keys dropped from his hand into the little dish beside the front door with a loud clank. He made his way over to the couch, plopping himself down as the weather outside expressed its rage through howling winds and rampant rain.

His phone slid out of his pocket the further he sunk into the piece of furniture, almost as if the world was urging him to call you. He wanted to oblige, he wanted to call but a little piece of him was afraid of the unknown. He couldn’t figure out what was irking him, something he believed would potentially severe his only lifeline.

His finger brushed up against the cold surface of the device, chuckling as he reminisced on the time you stuck little stickers by each button detailing what each did. He had the mind of a camera but he couldn’t seem to remember how to work a tool of the modern age.

Spencer jumped slightly right as the sound of the roaring thunder outside filled his living room. He was a grown man but he never really got over his fear of storms of any kind. The situation was made worse by the flickering of the lights above him, the indecisiveness of the bulbs eventually gave way when the lighting was abruptly stolen.

He sunk further into the faux leather under him, clutching the tiny black box close to his chest while he tried to work up the courage to call you. His finger migrated to your contact and hovered over it, a war of thoughts in his mind clouded his decision.

All the bad memories he thought he had gotten rid of started to flood him again.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to wish away the dark just as he did as a child. Spencer itched to hear the monotonous ringing followed by the sound of your voice picking up the phone, he was just too afraid to make an objective decision.

Right as he was about to hit the little green button under your name, a quick succession of knocks sounded from his door. There wasn’t one bone in his body interested in indulging whoever was on the other side, leaning his head back against his couch as he stared at the painfully lit screen surrounded by the darkness around him.

“Spencer?”

His ears perked up when the sound of your voice registered in his brain. Maybe it was a sign to get over a problem that may very well be an imaginary obstacle constructed in his troubled mind.

“Spencer,” you yelled louder than before, knocking harder on the only thing keeping you and him separated, “Spencer? Are you there?”

Without thinking, he shot up and stumbled over to the door in the dark. He raced to get to you, his heart pounding against the walls of his chest to be in your arms once again. He was foolish to think that he could ever stay away from you for as long as he thought he would.

The little problem he perceived could stay unresolved for all he cared, it didn’t matter as long as he had you.

“Spencer!” You knocked even harder, “Spence-”

You were cut off when he opened the door and pulled you into his chest. You smiled as he placed small, eager kisses on your face and shut the door behind you with one kick.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your skin.

You smiled, giving into his tight grasp and hugging him back. He snuck his head into the crook of your neck and wrapped his arms around your waist, mimicking the strength of a cinched corset. He could already begin to feel the cloudy, gray feeling begin to fade just by touching you.

“I missed you too.”

“Wh- why are you here?” He pulled away, shivering as the temperature decreased by the minute.

“The power went out in the whole city while I was driving here,” you tucked a piece of his hair behind his ear, removing the fallen strand to reveal his concerned face, “I didn’t want you to be alone in a storm.”

“I hate storms.”

You giggled, pulling him into you while rubbing his back soothingly. “I know,” you comforted.

“I hate the dark.”

A little piece of you broke hearing him say that, knowing that the dark wasn’t what he was so afraid of. He was afraid of the feeling the dark reminded him of, all those nights spent by himself without anyone there for him— the feeling of being alone.

“I know, that’s why I’m here,” you replied, running your fingers through his hair as all the strangling thoughts washed away with the downward motion of your hand.

“I- I was going to call,” he pouted slightly, his fingers continuing to dig into your waist as he held you.

“Why didn’t you?”

He shook his head, quieting his voice to match the eerie atmosphere. “I didn’t want to bother you,” he admitted.

“You’re never a bother, Spence,” you kissed his cheek, “Never.”

He nodded, hurriedly pulling you into him once again once another flash of lightning struck with the sound of thunder following shortly behind it. You giggled into his chest, partly amused by his irrational fear.

You reached into your bag, struggling to find what it was you were looking for. You smiled as soon as your fingers felt the faint outline of the little things you brought to distract him from his fear of ‘the inherent absence of light’.

“What are those?” He followed you as you placed what looked like cylinders of plastic on top of his tables and stacks of books.

You flicked the switch on the bottom, illuminating the room with a soft glow. “They’re battery-operated candles,” you said, walking around and turning more of them on until his once gloomy apartment was lit with artificial light, “I know you don’t have any real ones because you don’t want anything to happen to your books so I bought these, you know, for a rainy day.”

He laughed, helping you turn the rest on.

“Sorry,” you giggled, running into him in a particularly darker corner of the room and moving out of the way to continue lighting up the spaces that were consumed by darkness.

There it was again, the nagging feeling that something was missing. He could feel every physical reaction to being with you— the usual racing heart, sweaty palms, incoherent stuttering, and rosy cheeks— but he could never put them together. He was sure there wasn’t anything he was missing, recounting every feeling that had surfaced when you were around, he just didn’t know what it meant.

It was like there was a broken connection somewhere inside him, unable to piece the logical and emotional together. He knew what you did to him, he just didn’t understand why he always felt like some things were incomplete.

“That’s better,” you took a step back to look at his dimly lit living room. The little candles didn’t do much to help. He still couldn’t see a thing but the thought of having some form of light was comforting compared to the all-devouring darkness that made it impossible for him to distinguish you from the lamp nearby. He continued to tell himself that the lights that once radiated from the ceiling were superfluous when he could rely on his sharp memory to see you— every aspect from your face to your body ingrained in his mind.

Thinking about you was the only thing that could keep him calm amidst the torrent weather that mirrored his thoughts.

He nodded, turning on the last candle before walking over to you and wrapping his arms around you once again— a habit he didn’t plan on growing out of. You returned the embrace, locking your hands around his back while reaching up to give him a kiss.

Before you could, a loud rumble of thunder scared Spencer’s inner child— sending him tumbling backward with you in his arms. He tripped on a little pile of books and landed right on his carpet. You laughed into his shoulder as he squeezed you tighter than before, still shaken up from his sudden journey towards his floor.

“Spence,” you lifted your head to see his slightly distressed face, “What can I do? How can I help?” He was stuck thinking back on the times he hid away under his bed as a little kid, afraid of the claps of thunder and flashes of lightning that sent his mother screaming.

“I- I think I need a distraction,” he gulped, “Like um, something that’ll take my mind off of what’s going on outside.”

You got to your feet, offering your hand to help him up. “What kind of distraction?”

“I don’t know,” he huffed, “I- I just need something, anything.”

He could see the gears begin to work through the distinguished look in your eyes. Maybe he put too much on your shoulder, piling his mountain-high problems on your grounded back. The tension in the air was thick with a medley of feelings that didn’t help lift the already desolate mood.

It was quiet and timid but all he could seem to focus on was you. You were a distraction in itself, constantly luring his focus into a trap with your inescapable laughs and blinding beauty. The two of you stood there without an echo of sound or a blink of an eye.

“I-” he struggled to come up with something to fill the silence, “We could-”

He stood still, eyelids paralyzed as he felt your soft lips press up against his. Spencer was motionless as he was stunned by the sudden spontaneity of your behavior, the tension in the room suddenly shifting to one filled with dizzying desire.

You pulled away to look at him, afraid that you had gone too far. His lips were parted slightly, glistening with evidence of where your lips were two seconds ago.

He could hear your labored breathing, wanting more but too fearful of his reaction to take another step towards him. At that moment, there was no decision for you to make. The taut thickness in the air was taken away right when he leaned down to connect with your lips once again, fully prepared for the addicting events that would unfold.

You ran your fingers in his slightly knotted hair, tangling each golden brown strand the more you tugged from your eagerness. He moaned into your mouth with each tug you gave, his hands running up and down your body to intensify every surge of energy with the friction caused by his rubbing. You could feel yourself shiver under his touch with each passing moment his hands were on your body. Spencer continued to grab and grasp and pull at your clothes, frustrated that such constricting pieces of fabric were the only thing keeping the two of your bare bodies separated.

All the thoughts about the storm had vanished completely, the little doors that were opened back to the bad memories he had of his childhood were shut and closed the moment your hands made their way to his body. You licked his bottom lip and waited until he parted them slightly before you slipped your tongue inside as he quickly pulled you towards the couch.

He landed on the bottom while you moved to straddle him carefully, already feeling how incredibly hard he was from the kiss you had only intended to last for a minute that had drawn on for the next thirty.

Every second and every moment was filled with an unmistakable passion he felt every time he was with you. Your kisses had never been so hungry, so starved like they were then and so many times before. He never detected the fluctuation before but the change had never been so apparent as they were then. Spencer could feel how every part of him yearned to be yours on a molecular level as the energy in your body electrocuted him with every touch.

Your hands slid up his chest, landing on the very top button you rushed to undo. He smiled against your lips at your greedy fingers quickly unbuttoning each little rounded piece of plastic on his shirt. You finally finished undoing the last one, expecting to feel his bare skin beneath your palms but you were sorely disappointed when you felt his cotton undershirt instead.

You sighed, frustrated.

“Impatient,” he teased, sliding off his dress shirt and pulling off the white one underneath with a single swift motion. Each flash of lightning lit the room as you saw his chest in short increments, already feeling your underwear dampen.

You started to believe that you had actually initiated this whole thing more for your pleasure than for his, but it didn’t seem like he was too bothered— completely focused on sucking away at the tender skin of your neck. He enjoyed losing himself in you, gladly taking part in a distraction while being able to make you feel how much he enjoyed you. His nimble fingers worked away to help you shed off your layers, helping you shimmy off your outer coat leaving you in your thick knit sweater. Under normal circumstances, Spencer would revel in how beautiful you looked but he could barely see a thing— another reason why he hated being in the dark. He couldn’t see you and your body was everything he wanted, you were everything he wanted.

You began to rock against his hard dick that was confined by the fabric it strained against, desperately trying to break free from the expensive material of his pants to find you. He threw his head back at the added pressure as the tightness in his chest began to grow and spread to the rest of his body, moans falling from his swollen lips— all red from the sucking and biting it went through with you.

Your skin felt so hot against his cold hands, the discrepancy in temperature left the feeling of little pin-pricks where his hand ghosted over the side of your body. Slowly, he slid your sweater over the top of your head to reveal your lacy bra. From the little flashes of light that seeped through his uncovered window, it was black with little embroidered flowers in a metallic purple thread.

Your lips pressed up against the top of his chest as your hands caressed his arms and rested teasingly on his belt. Your thighs began to loosen their grip on his hips, making your way down until your face was level with his dick. “You don’t have to,” he whispered, leaning down to speak to you. “You need a distraction,” you kissed his cheek softly, “I’m more than happy to be just that.”

“Are you sure, b- because we can stop right now if you don’t-”

You kissed his lips as your hand cupped the side of his face. “Spence, I want this. I want to do this for you.”

And once again, the mystery returned and reminded him that there was something missing. Your words hung in the air right as he realized what it was. The world around him stopped turning, the bullets of rain that shot down from the sky paused in the short moment the glimmer in your eye solved what he worked so hard to figure out.

He loved you.

That was the answer.

His heart knew before his mind had been able to process the mere idea of being in love with you. But in that moment, where your eyes paralleled the shining stars in the sky and his heart bloomed with a mysterious feeling he never truly acknowledged until you came to him, he knew that the missing piece was right in front of him the whole time.

Spencer should have known, it was a given since the moment he met you. His love for you was preordained and he should have come to that conclusion when he first recognized the problem. It wasn’t about the sex or the fact that you sitting there about to suck him off, it was about how willing you were to make him feel better despite his irrational, childish fear and how he was just as willing to do the same for you… if not more.

He couldn’t explain how he knew, he just did— the ground beneath the cliff he hung off of appeared just as quickly as he fell.

Your hand pushed him back onto the couch while you unbuckled his belt. He lifted his hips slightly, cooperating with every motion you prompted him to do as you unzipped his pants and pulled them down along with his briefs in one swift motion.

The darkness, aside from the occasional flash of lightning, stunted your vision so you saw through touch. You smiled, your hand making its way around the base of his dick. He bit his lip, hands gripping at the side of his couch with his nails scratching at the expensive faux leather in his frenzied state.

His mind was blurred in a haze of physical and internal pleasure. He could only focus on the way your hand wrapped around him, thumb swiping at the tip which led him to suck in a sharp breath— the last he’d take if you kept going so painstakingly slow.

You giggled, taking how frequently he bucked his hip into your hand as a desperate plea for you to continue. You obliged and used the precum that had collected at the top of his dick to slick the rest of him, placing your lips onto him as you sucked lightly— easing him into the first of many waves of pleasure.

You began to bob your head, taking him in your mouth slowly as your hands followed the rocking motion of your head. Every moan and whine of your name sent a rush of electricity down to your core that waited impatiently for him. He relished in your adamant pace, rushing to get him to his high without thinking about yourself.

You opened your eyes and looked up to see his face fully flushed, hands roaming across the couch not knowing where to grab to release the pent-up energy brought about by the pleasure. You moaned just thinking about how hot he looked sitting there completely wrapped around your finger while you were wrapped around his dick. He was yours, a simple fact that was practically written in the stars despite the rain clouds that covered them.

His heart pounded against his chest as the waves of pleasure washed away the horrid thoughts that clung onto him before.

He needed you.

Spencer began to thrust up, fucking your face as you complied by hollowing your cheeks. He continued to use you, hitting the back of your throat as each thrust into you brought him closer to where you worked so hard to get him to.

Before he could finish, Spencer wrapped his hands in your hair and pulled you off of him. He used his finger to wipe the trail of spit that tied you to him, confusion written all over your face. He was so carried away by the fleeting spurts of satisfaction that he forgot all about his uncovered feelings.

“Spencer? You stopped me before you finished,” you spoke, concerned that he regretted what happened.

It wasn’t the first time the two of you had had sex, but it was the first time he finally unearthed his love for you that was embedded deep inside him.

He stopped himself before he could expose his new finding, afraid that he’d scare you off while the two of you were in such a vulnerable state.

“Let me take care of you,” he cooed, a soft look of love on his face. He helped you to your feet, brushing the hair that stuck to the side of your face behind your ear.

“No, this is about you,” you tried to reason with him, thoughts whirling from his touch.

He shook his head. “No, this is about us.”

His hands went down to your pants, sliding them off sensually as he leaned down to kiss your neck with nothing but love and adoration each time he came in contact with your skin. You wrapped your arms around him, leaning into his touch and allowing him to take over your body.

“Let me take care of you,” he mumbled against your skin, fingers working to undress you quickly. He slid your pants down your body, using his hands to lead you into his room. The two of you giggled every time you bumped into a wall, finally landing on the edge of his bed.

Instead of joining you on top of the mattress, he slid to his knees and began to kiss up your thighs. You gasped while his hands roamed your body to chart the uncharted, to explore the body he loved the most with a newfound mission.

You were everything to him and he needed to show you.

His fingers played with the waistband of your underwear as he slowly made his way to your core on his directed route up your inner thighs. Every kiss, every touch had you melting into him— your hands moving to his head and playing with hair to distract yourself from the painful build up of anticipation.

Instead of discarding your underwear on the floor like he usually would, Spencer moved it aside as he continued to kiss up towards you. He finally reached his destination and kissed your clit, a loud and audible moan fell from your lips.

You pulled tighter on his hair which only encouraged him to continue, sending him deeper into you as he licked up the wetness that had built up earlier. Without hesitation, he slicked his fingers with your arousal and slid two fingers inside you while he sucked at your clit.

You wrapped your legs around him in a visceral reaction to the delightful buzz of ecstasy that stemmed from where he was pumping his fingers inside you. You couldn’t help but pull him closer into you while you rocked your hips into his lips that worked tirelessly to pleasure you.

His one free hand snaked around to your back, skillfully unclasping your bra from behind and sliding it off of you. He immediately wrapped his hand around your breast, taking your nipple in between his fingers to amplify the immense sensation of paradise.

You were beautiful inside and out, he didn’t need any light to see that. Every motion of his hand, every placement of his lips worked to show you how much he loved you whether or not you knew it. He couldn’t contain the overflowing feelings inside him, trying his best to convert the unfathomable depths of his love into something tangible.

Nothing else mattered, not the storm or the power outage— the only thing that mattered to him was what was gifted to him by the divine, you.

You arched your back when he began to curl his fingers, hitting your g-spot and stimulating you from the inside out. He didn’t need to try hard to get you to your climax, you were already fast-approaching your high when you kissed him.

“Spence,” you moaned, “Spencer…”

He groaned into you, the vibration almost tipping you over the edge of your tightrope. He knew you were almost there, quickening his pace to send you over the edge with passion and lust. Before you knew it, the end had arrived to catch you convulsing with your seismic orgasm.

He continued to fuck you with his fingers despite your already-reached climax, his fingers using your cum to move deeper inside you without any resistance. He lifted his face from your clit, seeing you with your head buried in his sheets as you seethed with lush euphoria.

“Sp- Spencer,” you struggled to get the words out, delirious from the overstimulation, “P- please.”

“I know, darling. I know,” he comforted, running his hands across your stomach to soothe your multifaceted pleasure, “One more time for me, show me how good I make you feel. Can you do that for me, hm?”

He waited for your answer which came in the form of a frantic nod, hands pushing him back towards your throbbing cunt. Spencer smiled, going back to sucking and nipping your clit lightly. His fingers didn’t let up as they continued to thrust into you at a fatal rate.

All the air was sucked out from your lungs, barely being able to breathe as the thoughts of him overtook your body. He was all you could think about, making you feel like no one else ever had. The intensity of your orgasm had been heightened in the dark since you were unable to see or anticipate his next moves, only feeling him hit you with every lecherous move as they came.

You writhed in his grasp and grasped at his soaked sheet as you reached your second orgasm of the night. You tried to stifle your moans by biting your lips but the overwhelming rapture scared away all the logic in your brain, the lewd sounds falling freely from you to Spencer’s satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he cooed, removing his fingers from inside you, “I knew you could do it.”

As your consciousness returned to your body, you pulled Spencer up to you. He planted his lips on yours, the addicting taste of the both of your mixing on his tongue. He wrapped his arm under you and pulled you up further onto the bed while sliding off your underwear he had previously left on. Working his way up your body, Spencer left fiery kisses that burned your skin with a scorching heat that crept up to your face.

No words were exchanged, the feeling of both your bodies flush against the other was enough to communicate the need for one another. He couldn’t brush away the thought of saying it out loud, saying that he loved you out loud. It was a dream and a gamble he wasn’t sure he was willing to take. Was it enough for him to keep quiet until he was sure that you felt the same way, or was he too impatient to wait— having to give in to the all-consuming and loving sentiment that tormented his heart?

He had never felt so anxious to say something seemingly so trivial. Everything he did told you that he loved you but why wasn’t it enough for him?

“Spencer,” you huffed breathily, pulling him closer into your body until he could feel the longing beats of your heart clearly through your breast, “I need you.”

He laughed, “I know, baby. I’m getting there.”

He used his fingers to slick his dick with your cum, pumping a couple of times before lining himself up with your entrance. He met your eyes, propped up on one of his hands and supported by your touch. You were ready for him, the same butterflies that were in his stomach when he first met you reappearing in such a crude situation.

You nodded as he entered you slowly. He silenced you with a kiss, absorbing the loud sound of your gratification with his mouth.

He thrust into you slowly at first, picking up his pace with each passing moment. His rhythm was greedy, increasing in speed at a crazed and animalistic rate as he tried to quell the part of him dying to let out a secret that wasn’t deemed his to keep.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, allowing him to fuck you deeper with each passing stroke inside you. He groaned into your ear, biting slightly to repress the urge to blurt it out. Your nails raked across his back as you processed the feeling of him inside you.

“Look at you,” he moaned, “You’re so pretty, fuck, taking my dick so well.”

You nodded as he kissed the tears away from your eyes, his heart breaking at the sight of how helpless you looked beneath him. How could he keep it in when all you did was take down every single defense he put up with nothing but a glance in his direction.

Everything in that moment stopped, nothing else mattered. It was just you and him feeling the other in a timeless act that worked to dispel the fears and plaguing feelings of the real world. You were his fantasy, a break from the terrors of real life— his compelling fiction in a world of nightmarish reality.

He placed his forehead against yours with his cock slamming into you, torn to shreds by the passion you instilled inside of him. The feeling of your clenching around him, wet and hot, defeated the restraint he had worked so hard to keep. All the rain in the world, all the darkness and thunder could never scare him away from you as his surroundings blurred— the only clarity in his life was provided by his love for you.

“Fuck,” you screamed, shuddering beneath him with your nails carving your unadulterated pleasure into his back so he’d never forget— they were scars he didn’t mind keeping.

Tears pricked your eyes after reaching your third high, pushing his hair out of his face. He moaned a slew of profanities right as his release surged through his body in an unrelenting abruptness that challenged that of his pace.

He collapsed on top of you, the warmth of his cum inside of you helping you come back to yourself after your otherworldly experience. You kissed his cheek, effectively waking him up from his short-lived break from what took so much out of him. He rolled over to lay beside you after gently pulling out, grabbing a tissue on his nightstand to clean up the mixed mess of your arousal before it had a chance to slide down your thigh uncomfortably.

“That wasn’t what I expected when I said I needed to be distracted,” he laughed, hoping to aerate the tension that built up after the intense sex you just had.

You giggled, “Did you want me to do something else?”

“No,” he admitted shyly, “I don’t think I’d want it any other way.

The air was quiet, stilling, contemplative. He looked into your eyes and wondered how he ever thought he could walk away from you, his treasure in a sea hidden among the ordinary.

“I never stood a chance,” he whispered, hands wiping away the bead of sweat that ran down your forehead and tucking your knotted hair behind your ear.

You furrowed your brows. “What do you mean?” You asked, brushing your fingers up against his jaw which only added a pink tinge to his cheeks.

“I thought that I could ignore my curiosity when I first saw you and then I thought I could keep things casual when we started going out, but I never stood a chance… not against you. There was no way I couldn’t love you.”

“Spence…”

He smiled grimly, preparing himself for the rejection he knew he’d face. “You don’t have to say it back, I know it’s really soon and you may not ever feel the same way. I just needed to tell you that I-”

“I love you too, Spencer.” Your words lit a little ember inside him, fueling the dangerous hope that resided in his heart.

“You don’t have to lie.”

You shook your head. “I’m not,” you cupped his face and leaned in closer to give him a kiss, pulling away and looking into his eyes with a truth that shined brighter than the sun, “I promise. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he laughed, pulling you into his chest and kissing the top of your head. You wrapped your arms around him, giggling at how unsure he was when you had felt that way for days on end— trying to figure out a good way to confess your feelings.

The mystery was solved, case closed like the many he tackled on his job, except this one was much harder. He had never been so blinded by something so simple.

He loved you and he wasn’t afraid of the dark, no longer quivering alone like he did as a child.

Spencer realized that he really didn’t need any light to see, not when he had you…

His darkness lit by love.

——————————————

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[merakiui]

I was wondering I read the Xiao x a sucidal reader and I was wondering if you could do a imagine for that if this is too much please don’t and stay safe drink water and eat and please enjoy your day ^^

Lantern Rite Wishes

xiao x (gender neutral) reader cw: suicide, depression, angst note - somehow the imagine became longer than intended (・・；)

He was just going to get some fresh air and then he’d come right back inside. There was absolutely no way he was looking for you because it was a beautiful night and the lanterns lit up the sky like pieces of sweet, wondrous dreams—

Xiao shakes his head to dispel such thoughts as he steps out into the open, surveying just how empty Wangshu Inn has become. Everyone who isn’t obligated to work is down at the festival, spending time with friends or taking in the sights as a couple. He was going to watch from the balcony, where he’d be alone and unbothered by the usual hustle and bustle of Wangshu. All those plans seemingly evaporate the moment he notices your figure balancing on the ledge, one foot extended outwards.

He’s not sure what overcomes him when he rushes forward, seizing your arm and roughly pulling you backwards. A yelp escapes your dry throat. Just moments prior you were teetering on the edge, teary-eyed and wondering if anyone would miss you. Now you’re falling into someone’s chest as they wrap their arms around your trembling frame in a bone-crushing hug. Your stomach drops when you finally hit the floor, the wooden boards creaking under the combined weight of two people.

For a moment, you struggle to escape Xiao’s hold, but he remains unyielding. It’s during your hiccuping sobs that you finally hear him.

“Why?”

It’s the only word Xiao can utter. Over and over in a confused, pained loop. The thought of watching you fall to your death hurts him, and even though he can’t fully grasp the reasoning behind that feeling he knows it must be a result of your suicide attempt.

“I...don’t know.” Words weigh heavy in your mouth, and your tongue trips over itself in an attempt to explain yourself. But you truly can’t. Why did you do that just now? Were you actually going to jump? “I’m just tired.”

Tired. A word that holds so much meaning. Tired of work. Tired of mundane schedules. Tired of the disconnection between positivity and depression. Tired of life. It’s all so exhausting and the only solution would be to die. That must be it, right?

“You don’t know?” Xiao’s still holding onto you when he mutters that question, his expression clouded in grief and anger. “Why not? You’re a mortal! You should value your life a little because you won’t get another.”

The harshness to his tone startles you and it prompts more tears. Under the lights of thousands of lanterns, the scene should bring happiness and peace. But you’re just sad and tired and absolutely fed up with life.

“I’m sorry, Xiao. I didn’t—“

“Don’t apologize.” His grip loosens slightly and it’s as if his own composure follows. “Just...don’t do it again. If you’re not going to value your life, I’ll value it instead. So don’t do stupid things you’ll regret.”

It wounds your resolve to hear him refer to impulsive desires as stupid and foolish, but it also warms your heart to hear him say he’ll value your life. And you can’t bring yourself to argue. Had you jumped and avoided his outstretched arm, you wouldn’t have had any time to regret the action. Would Xiao have saved you even as you were falling? You’d like to think he would, but even miraculous fantasies remain within one’s mind. And in this reality a dozen alternate scenarios could’ve happened. For instance, Xiao could’ve avoided the balcony and you would be dead.

Your fingers dig into his backside as you finally return his hug. “I’m just tired. I didn’t know what else to do...” A heavy sigh escapes you in that tense moment. “I wish I didn’t feel so lost.”

Xiao realizes he’s been holding you for quite some time and he pulls away in a barely composed fluster, his cheeks reddening ever so slightly. In an effort to change the direction of the conversation, he latches onto the thought of wishes. “Well... I was going to watch the lanterns from here, but then I saw you. I guess we could go see the festival together—if it’ll cheer you up, that is.”

You look at him in mild shock, not having expected him to take the initiative to invite you. “Oh...”

“But you’re probably still scared after what just happened. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Mortals and fear...”

Your breathy laugh startles him. He’s always referring to you as a mortal, as if that’s all you are in his eyes. Although you’re still shaken after your attempt, you feel a little safer knowing he’s with you. And while you may just be another mortal, the fact that he saved you must count for something. Xiao can go on and on about how useless mortals are, but to step in when one was about to commit suicide—perhaps he does have a heart.

“I should thank you for doing that. For stopping me before I could actually do it, I mean.” Your heart hammers in your chest as you prepare to spill your emotional guts in front of the adeptus. “Truthfully, I haven’t been well in a long while. And I don’t think I’ll get better anytime soon, but...I want to forget about tonight. So maybe seeing the festival with you will chase a few bad thoughts away...”

Xiao’s staring. He realizes he should blink and actually say something, but the words won’t form. You’ve always been an honest person, but he’s taken by surprise at how quickly you agree to see the festival. It’s an ideal distraction, isn’t it? All sorts of negativity muddles his brain and he wonders why you’d want to see the festival with him. He’s not exactly a cheery person and you’re not mentally well either. For some reason, he feels compelled to weasel out of this situation—to deflect and avoid it before he freely allows himself to experience this pathetic thing humans call ‘fun.’

“Actually, I think making a lantern would be nice. I could write so many wishes on it. It might even make me feel better, too!” You’d like to think that a simple lantern wish will solve all of the murky depression in your life, but it’s just wishful thinking. “And you can make one with me! We’ll write our own wishes.”

“I guess...”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.” You stand on unsteady legs—legs that would’ve broke once they made contact with the ground—and offer your hand. “You can’t get out of this one, Xiao. I’m going to drag you there whether you like it or not.”

He deadpans as he begins to regret his own decisions. But his hand still finds yours and he allows you to pull him up from the floor. Your smile might not shine as brightly as it did before, but it’s still a step in the right direction. And you’re a resilient person; you’re bound to bounce back after this. It just takes time and patience to heal—two things he can easily spare for your sake.

Xiao won’t make any wishes for himself. Rather than selfishly wishing to erase centuries of karmic debt, he’ll scrawl something unlikely on the surface of his lantern. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he’d let you fall, and so he hopes that his wish will come true.

And when your lanterns join the others in the inky sky, Xiao feels relieved to have you by his side, your warm hand gripping his and an infectious smile pulling your lips upward. Your life has so much meaning. It’s just a little foggy and you can’t see it, but Xiao will shine a light through that dark fog to help you reclaim that meaning. In due time, you will find happiness and he’ll be there to guide you to it on a bumpy path.

Without realizing it, his love for you blossoms and it’s a quiet flower shrouded in its own darkness. 

No matter what happens, give (Name) the happiness they deserve. That’s all I’ll wish for.

[graymatters]

Triptych

M | 1.8K | On AO3 | Veela!Draco, body horror, blood, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mild sexual content 

Many thanks to @corvuscrowned for the beta work 💚 and to @floydig for all the horror chats 😂

i.

The spine of a single feather, sleek and wet with blood, erupts from the thin skin draped over my collarbone. It mocks me in the bathroom mirror, unsightly and pale quills stained pink. My shoulders droop, and my spine rounds, a weary folding beneath the weight of an unsurprising development, as a crimson droplet runs smooth down my ribs.

“Babe, are you ready to go?” Harry calls from the bedroom. He’s taken to calling me babe lately. The word knocks about in my skull, overstaying its welcome.

“What’s it called when little birds shed their feathers?” I ask my reflection, arching forward until my breath fogs the glass. My nose wrinkles at the stench, prompting a swift snatch of my toothbrush from the plastic cup on the sink.

“Er…” Harry ponders as he waltzes into the bathroom, running an aimless hand through his hair. In the reflection, I watch him smooth over my naked back and bum with heavy-lidded eyes, lips tugged upward in an appreciative grin and glasses crooked on the sunburnt bridge of his nose. I think he might be perfect, and it terrifies me.

“Mulching?”

Almost, my dear, but not quite.

“Molting, I think,” I murmur around my toothbrush, scraping the frayed bristles violently against my gums.

“That’s what I said.”

“No.” I spit, frowning at the bright blood tinting the frothy toothpaste. “Molting. Not mulching.”

“Oh,” he says, eyes widening as he looks at my chest in the mirror. And I mean looks, not the passing glance that you toss at the empty glass that’s sat on your end table for three days, not the glassy gaze of a Seeker fading into auto-pilot above the pitch. No, I’m talking about the undivided attention afforded to a tragic train derailment with dozens of fatalities, the careful pondering over a loaf of bread that may have gone off, the terrifying and wondrous stare of finding your enemy naked in your bed.

“Draco, are you bleeding?” He moves to grip my shoulders but stops when he gets a closer look, hands held mid-air as though his puppeteer got bored, hung his strings on the hook, and took a smoke break. “Is that a—”

“I never could tell if Mother was serious about the Veela blood.” I frown as Harry still stands, unmoving but for the tremble in his fingers. “Harry, why are you shaking?”

Harry doesn’t answer as I lean across the sink, poking at the delicate spine with my fingertip. He just stares dumbly at my reflection, mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers. I huff a laugh through my nose, feeling the universe’s sick sense of humor settle heavily over my bloodied chest.

“I wonder if I’ll molt.”

Read ii. & iii. below the cut.

ii.

Harry’s left the cap off the toothpaste again, leaving it to ooze onto the bathroom countertop. I could easily dismiss the caked-on paste from the porcelain. All it would take is a snap of my fingers, a muttered jumble of pseudo-Latin under my breath to make it disappear. However, a crescendo of unfortunate events through the week culminated in a Ministry-issued number that replaced my name, a reminder of the creature that replaces my identity. The thought numbs my limbs, rattles my nerves, and prickles at the remnants of my fleeting patience.

“Harry!”

“Did you say something, Draco?” he shouts from down the hall. I wait, listening for footsteps that don’t come.

“Harry! Will you come here for a minute?” A rustle of irritation blooms beneath my skin, scaly skin and ivory feathers shifting restlessly, eager to surface. With a forced sigh, I snap my eyelids shut, concentrating on pulling the musty bathroom air in and out of my lungs.

“What is it, babe? Is everything all right?”

I open my eyes, meeting my own steely gaze in the mirror. The skin over my neck, my collarbone, my temple, crawls with the anxious magic that pulses underneath, like a spider’s trapped beneath the surface. I can almost see the iridescent shimmer of that scaly skin that lurks somewhere between the delicate dermal layers that cover my neck. Harry catches my stare, his gaze soft and a sleepy smile plastered on his face. He looks at me like there isn’t ruinous blood in my veins, like the war in my body doesn’t seep out of my pores, infecting the air between us like the stench of a rotting corpse.

“Draco, what’s wrong?”

I don’t deserve him. I don’t deserve him, but he’s looking at me like he doesn’t know or doesn’t care. And this week has been so very long.

“Nothing, love.” My eyes fall to the open tube of toothpaste as I reach an unsteady hand out behind me, softening once I feel the slide of Harry’s fingers between mine.

He moves to stand behind me, wrapping his hands over my ribs and dotting honeyed kisses along my neck and shoulders like he can’t see the rustle of feathered plumes tucked deep in the sinewy fibers. Though guilt twists in my gut, strangling my lungs and wringing my heart, I ignore it, instead melting beneath Harry’s touch.

“You’re so gorgeous, Draco,” he murmurs behind my ear. “Look at you,” he whispers, softly gripping my neck beneath my jaw, forcing me to stare myself down in the mirror as his other hand dips beneath my waistband, palming my cock. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Thoughts blurred, I gasp as he ruts against my arse, as I thicken in his hand and a heady rush soothes the irritable magic that bristles beneath my skin. I groan against the pressure of his palm over my throat, feeling the vibration in my chest.

He catches my eye in the mirror, raising a brow in silent question. I nod in answer, preening at the satisfied smirk that overcomes Harry’s face as he slips a spit-slicked finger inside me, a delicious mix of pain and pleasure.

“So fucking beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

And then I hum, a pleased and pathetic whimper of a song, because I know he’s right.

iii.

The heat of the shower burns my skin, painting my limbs and the tops of my feet in a pink, watercolor flush. I let the water strip away the remnants of the evening, the cigarette smoke that clings to my hair and the grease and salt lodged beneath my fingernails. It doesn’t wash away the memories of the Weasel’s grimace, or the distasteful curl of Granger’s lip. Instead, they linger, trapped in the clouds of steam like a bird’s wings, wet with oil.

“Draco? Are you here? Awfully nice of you to run out on me like that. Ron and Hermione are sure to love you, now.”

A single, vehement beep pierces the thick air of the bathroom, cascading into a series of agonizing tones as the fire alarm protests the steam of the shower.

I look up from my spot on the tile floor, entranced by the flashing red light on the screeching machine.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Harry bursts through the door and yells over the blare of the alarm. “How long have you been in here?” He clambers onto the countertop to reach the horrid device, fumbling with the buttons before finally ripping it from its base on the ceiling. It falls to the floor; a smattering of dusty plastic shards decorates the floor on impact.

“Draco, are you even listening?”

I nod, feeling the itch of magic over my palms, the roll of frustration between my shoulder blades.

“Draco?” He opens the shower door, eyes following the stream of water that falls from the tip of my nose. “What’s wrong?”

My vision blurs, the yellow bathroom light, shining stellate over the grungy shower tile.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, eyes wide and incredulous as an unhinged laugh crawls out my lips. “Are you seriously asking me that question?”

A curl falls in his eyes, damp from the humid air. His gaze is soft, aching, like he wants to wipe away the malicious glances, the tainted blood in the rotten chambers of my heart, the ink on my arm.

Loving him is too much.

Anxious anger burns a trail starting at the tips of my fingers, drawing claws to break through the skin beneath my nails and a black, tarry flush to creep towards my elbows like my arms have been dipped in soot. I roll my neck at the feeling of hundreds of feathery needles piercing through the skin of my collarbone, my neck, my shoulders. A flash of pain, lightning hot, grips my spine as a set of wings punctures the surface between my shoulder blades, hanging low in the tight space of the shower.

The water runs red, my back hot from the wash of blood.

With a guttural roar, I whip towards Harry, wanting to squeeze his ribs between my disfigured hands and feel the stutter of his breath.

But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t turn to walk away. In fact, rather than a look of fear or disgust, Harry watches me the same way Mother watched me when my pet Kneazle died, devoured by the Nepenthes. Like I’m still a child who doesn’t know what to do with his hurt.

“Draco, I’m sorry—”

“You’re in love with a fucking monster, Harry. Why are you even here?” A heat burns beneath my palms as I grip the frame of the shower.

Harry sighs, taking a slow and careful step forward to shut off the water, leaving a slow trickle to caress the smooth surface of my wings.

“Come here, Draco,” he whispers, gesturing for me to step out of the shower. “Come on, babe; I’ve got you.”

Loving him is too much. Too much to weather. Too much to resist.

I tumble into his arms, catching a blood-stained, ivory wing on the shower door and jostling Harry’s glasses. As the fog of the mirror clears, I watch as my face appears, nose elongated and eyes pitch-black, the skin of my neck and arms cracked where the feathers have broken through the layers like an iceberg piercing the sea. With a stuttered sob, I grip Harry’s shoulders and tuck my face into his neck, unable to contain myself anymore.

I’m not sure how long we huddle on the bathroom floor, cramped between the toilet and the shower. Long enough for the feathers to recede beneath my skin, for my wings to fold in on themselves and lie soft against my back. The sun has long set, shrouding the bathroom in darkness, as Harry still runs his hands through my hair, untangling the knots as he whispers lovely reassurances into my ear and presses kisses over my jaw.

“Draco, I love you, you know that?”

“Of course, I do.”

“What do you need, Draco?”

“I don’t know.”

“Need me, then. It’s that easy. Draco, just—need me.”

I nod, a trembling and stuttered admission, because I know he’s right.

Also on AO3.

[voidsentprinces]

Danse Macabre

What a glorious spectacle! What a wondrous sight of gold, white, silver, and silks. Meshing among the others like a fine royal blend! What a triumph! What a celebration! The room opened wide in anticipation of its guests, a great theater hall set aside for such the occasion. And what an occasion it was, the job well done. A heist well plundered. Now those who would be named thieves mingled with those who one could only describe as nobility, as royalty, as the rich. Their bellies fastened by their dress shirts and overalls. Their bosoms on display from corsets and dress tops. The curtains and banners hung with equal importance!

A flurry of gallantry, of magnificence. A masquerade among the joyous and sinister. A parade to fill the senses and blind the eyes. All metallic objects and colors ranged fully. Bronze with rouge, silver with blues, gold with beige. An absolute revelry there that can only collasce among the finest and highest of houses, there could be no doubt. Each moment a delight for the senses.

And what sense to delight! The wine flowed freely, to inebrate and loosen the tongue. The finely fermented grapes only from a vine of the highest order. Causing gaffaws and jovial laughter among its partakers. The savory delights of roasts, hamhocks, winter stews, spring greens, summer fruits, and autumn produce. All on full display, a buffet of the highest order. Parfaits, sponge cakes, pies, cookies, biscuits, pastries all a cornucopia of rainbowlic splendor. Each bite jolting the senses from tooth to gum from gum to throat from throat to stomach.

The meats a spice and tender affair. Beef falling from the bone, stew thick as paste but consistency of broth! The poultry stuffed with nut, vegetable, and slices of even finer meat! A splendidly polished set of silverware gleamed welcoming besides them. Grab a plate, take a bit, or three, or four, or eighty. Stuff yourself until your fill to your gills and your gut bursts. Gluttonously fall upon this feast! Oh what a wonderful experience indeed it was! And that was just for taste and sight! My, my!

The air was thick with the scent of delightful cedarwood, mixing with frankincense, lavender, and rosewater. Such a suffocating, more fog than oxygen one would wager. But none dare open a window for it was the very air penetrating nostril and filling lungs that allow such other actions as smoking cigar without fear of ruining the mood. And so it was and shall ever the mixture of scents fighting appropriate a war for the space of lungs.

And the sounds! THE SOUNDS! Above the chatter, the gossip, the rumor mongering, the exchanging of information, cards, photos, numbers, names, organizations and, of course, deeds done in service of such things. A grand band finished its first sixteen minute piece of music! The crowd applauded, cheered, whistled, and rose a toast to the orchestral ensemble. Flutes, violin bows, clarinets, and the hands of harpists waving in reaction.

A great boar of man turning to a far thinner, far fitter, and far younger converser, his voice booming with joy, “Aye, I say I never doubted you for a second lad! Didn’t I?” He man moved and nodded towards a deeply serious man who had more in common with a weasel in features than a human. His eyes burned with resentment but his demeanor didn’t shift an inch. The boar of a man ignored the look of hatred as he turned to show of the man of the hour, “No vault stands in his way, I say, and then pin prick offered up doubts and jeers of the more insincere manners. But you and yours found a way, didn’t you lad!” His great meat hand slapped the younger man on the shoulder.

He could only wheeze out in response, it was the seventeenth one that evening. One would think he would of build a tolerance, but the old boar was a boxer in his age and those hands of his lost none of the strength in the following years. Catching his breath among, the dense fog of perfumed air, he was able to gather strength and proceed with conversation.

“By all means, my lord. The marquis had every right to deny us a boon. The vault you set us on was no easy fix. I hadn’t seen something so ancient nor devices so well entrenched.” He gave half smile but gave a shrug, “However, we proved more than a match for that. So I shall welcome any praise from previous onlookers all the same!” He nodded his head toward the Marquis, whose already narrow eyes, somehow narrowed even further without closing completely.

“Right joke that is,” Swaggered with a red bearded individual. His dress suit not as proper as the other man’s. Somewhat ragged and ill fitting while also having no few number of wine stains on it. His speech slurring appropriately to match such a look, “The vault nearly took ya head off, boss. Would of been lucky if he made it out with his arse in tact.” The man let out a loud laughter that their boar sized employee responded with a great guffaw of glee.

“DID HE NOW!? You do not say, m’boy!? You’ll have to excuse us, Marquis! I do believe we have much to talk about then. Let me know all of your exploits in this ancient bankery, wine?” The employer offered the dishelved man.

“Only if its free, good sir.” The two of them gave another loud series of laughter and moved away from the couple left over. Which soon became one, as the Marquis silently excused himself from the entire mess slipping away to equally weasly looking bankers among the crowd. Huddling together and whispering in hushed tones like a group of vultures. The remaining man could only sigh and shove his hands in his pockets. Turning like a great penguin, a great leg stretch and turning to wander to the buffet table. All this talking makes a man starved.

A fine, young woman dressed in a silver satin dress quickly moved over to him as if waiting for him to be available, “I don’t like this,” She insisted, hadn’t she been insisting this since they entered that Vault? The man thought as he served himself from ham stuffed chicken, “We weren’t suppose to be in there.”

“Look,” The man sighed, he had had the same conversation with her over the past four days, “We find a job, we take a job and the Lord was paying more than a fortune for the coin we found within it. But now that we’ve done the job, we can retire early, right?”

The woman grasped his shoulder, “Its too good.” She insisted.

“Its an old vault, people from the Empire delve into those all the time and they are less worse for wear. It was high time we street rats got a slice of the pie.” Oh, pie, he thought as he grabbed a slice pecan pie.

“The military delves into crumbling old tombs, that places was too clean for it to be abandoned.” She tightened her grip on his shoulder making him pause and look up from his foot gathering. His lips becoming a thin line as motioned generally with his hand.

“Fine, find. Look, I’ll ask the Lord about it tomorrow and see if he’s playing us for a fool.” Tenseness left her grip, it seems she could accept that conclusion. He smiled and she tried to return it before her eyes were suddenly transfixed over his head. A furrow of his brow and turn to the stage.

The band had stopped playing mid-way through their next piece. They were still as statues. The entire crowd that had gathered for the event had come to a stand still as well. They had taken notice of the silence. Just as it was. Silence and nothing more. Clinking of glasses, conversations, and drinking. All stopped. Even their employer and his new found drinking partner had come to stand still. The circle of vultures heads rising from their circle like ostriches.

After a long pause and no movement, a loud sound cut through the quiet like a cannonball landing among a field of soldiers. The clock struck midnight and there was suddenly movement from the side of the stage. It was a man.

A tall man had entered from stage right. Thin in his build, cloaked in a war tattered hooded robe. Its ends frayed and yet flowing around him like a plume of ink in water. A beard’s skeletal bear poked from just beneath the hood obscuring half his face while the other was enshrouded in the the rest of the outfit. The only other distinguishable feature was his bare pale feet which peaked out visibly with every swift movement as he came to the head of the orchestra. His movements were mesermizingly claim, like the ebb and flow of the ocean reach up to the short and falling back into itself.

A singular pale hand emerged from beneath the robe, thin and faint in color. Its long twig like fingers transitioned seamlessly into long sharpened nails. The thumb and index finger gently pinching against his beak. The robe swirled and twisted before bursting into smoke and dissipating quickly. Leaving behind a funeral master’s suit. Straightened tie, shined black shoes, and a clasp on the breast. His hair revealed itself from the sudden transformation. Falling well past his ankles and stretching out across the floor like silken milk.

If only milk wasn’t the color of bleached bone. The color of which complimented the man’s facial features. Though the top was still obscured by the skull of a large bird fashioned into a mask but with not visible straps to speak of. The bottom half revealed itself. A long, handsome face, untouched by time or weather. Not a single scar, blemish, or wrinkle to be found on it. Lips as pallid as a corpse drained of blood. Shape cheek bones that could slice that bone and meat both. A jaw set in such a way that even with the mask, one could tell it was unyielding, unmoving. Like a porcelain doll or a statues’ the expression was set in place.

One could simply nod in agreement that perhaps it was a magician hired for the party. But another detail made all in attendance freeze in place. Above the mask were fragments of bone forming at the crown of this man’s head. Poking out from beneath the head of white. Like spires through a foggy night.

When the man had arrived at the center of the stage, he had drawn attention of one and all. Twisting himself to face the band, he gave elegant bow. As, before everyone’s eyes, a fiddle blacker than the blackest night formed from nothing and settled in his hands. Turning back to the crowd there was no movement.

Then, as if awakened from a dream. As in synchronization with the newly arrived individual. The orchestra also took up new playing positions. The harpist started them off.

A soft, lovely piece, the plucking gently soothing the crowd. As the string section matched the tone. A sigh of relief fell over the audience as they were enchanted by such a soft sound. Like a floating on a cloud. The harpist stopped and the string began to pluck at their instruments like the foot steps of a jester prancing across the ground.

The man took up the fiddle and played a shrill noise, causing the entire crowd to be broken from their dreams. Suddenly they all shot up and straightened their posture in unison. The shrieking noise moving two long, two shorter, ten short rhythmatic and the orchestra plunk leading to the opening act.

Suddenly the audience on the floor of the party were pulled into a circle. Like marionette’s. Forced to claps hands as they began to prance along like sheep in the meadow. The flutist giving a soft rhythmatic sound as he blew in short soft movements. The feet of the audience caught in skip and low as they moved. The strings following the same beat as the flutist provided. The harpists providing a lovely plucking to compliment the sound. After they finished copying the flutist’s tune. They all stopped for the man to take the lead with only the strings to provide support.

The man began to play his fiddle similarly to the sound the flutist had provided but in a mocking manner. The crowd stopped prancing and encircled in hands once more they sway to the fiddler’s tune. The flutist repeated the fiddler’s tune and the fiddler’s the flutists. The crowd bouncing between prancing gayly and swaying. Completely at the mercy of their new task masters.

After the second time around, the fiddler began to sudden sharp notes. At which point, the women of the circle exited it and hurriedly ran to the buffet tables, grabbing the sharp carving knifes and running back to the dance without skipping a beat. At the end of the fiddler’s sharp notes, the orchestra exploded. As the women proceed to plunge blades into the male dance partner’s backs as they ran away in circle. Each stab meeting the new bravado of the next movement of the lively orchestra.

The men could not scream, the women could not stop. Around they went, the men prancing along like sheep in the meadows. Their coats drinching with red as the women just as fervantly chased and stabbed their backs.

As the strings picked up once more, the audience at the rooms balconies began to take each other in a waltzing pair. And spin around the small room they hand. Knocking over tables, chairs, and glasses. But dancing on to the movement of the strings. Unbothered by what was transpiring below.

The fiddler played his tune and a partner left the waltzing group grabbing forks as their dance commanded. Facing their partner with hands clasping their forks behind their back. A skip and hop as they danced around each other coyly. A xylophone clacking along like the ribs of a skeleton as they pursued this predator’s dance. A pleasant sight to see one another, eyes locked beneath masquerade masks. Smiles all flashing, but inevitably this kindness would end. And after another short harsh notes, there was a burst. The forking wielding partners digging their tools into the other’s forks. The victims falling back to hang over the balcony. Having stopped working like wind up dolls. Their partners heedless of their injury went to the curtains and began to spin and dance with them instead.

The group below meanwhile had stopped merely running and stabbing but, to the rhythm of the beat. Playfully stabbed and ducked the attempts on their lives. Crimson pools growing at their feet but despite such a screen they just kept dance, around, and around, and around they went. As the orchestra proceeded with the piece. Building in intensity as the brass began to join the song. Reaching what one might think was another bursting point only to fall back to softer tones. Backed by the soft tapping of the drum’s hi hat.

Like a hawk hunting a mouse, the game continued as it was. Softer moments, building to what seemed to be a burst before falling back to softer beats. The anticipation filling the room like the perfume fog. As the fiddler went along with such moments. Unpreturbed by the dance he was causing. The harpist and wind instrument joining him as they delved into another soft moment.

The crowd slowing as well, taking a gentle walk around the red floor. Their shoes not faltering for a moment against the well soaked carpeting. Arms clasp behind their back as they skipped along in a circle. Smiles polite, this wasn’t a simple man’s party but one of friends and colleagues. Show them love even if the agony and the fear are hiding beneath the surface of the eyes. Pleasantries to be presented for a short while. Though this brief respite was even briefer than that.

The orchestra began to whirl their noise and just as, they began. The top and bottom groups too began to twirl on the ground and in their leaps and bounds. The intensity building once more, the game of hawk and mouse was back on. The brass joining once more with the rest. UNTIL! Another tactical retreat in the hunt. Winding down, the cackling of the xylophone tormenting its prancing muses as they went along all the same.

Waltzers in the balconies twirling with their curtain partners, languidly. Their fork struck exes rising up from their rests upon the rails. Each half twirling with the ends of the curtains and slowly making their way to the ledges. Typing the cloth in love knots. The circle below exiting to grab forks, knifes, and spoons. As the whirling down granted them moments to do so before rejoining their groups.

Fiddler sounding the intermission as the victims all swayed falling to their backs, knees in the air. When suddenly, they were given rise with music. The intensity building more and more AND MORE! The twirling growing faster, the circle growing wider, each partner armed and prepared as they picked up the pace. HERE COMES THE CRESCENDO! THE SOUND BURST!

Bodies thrown from the balcony! Curtains used as dead man’s nooses as nobility and thievery paid the final price for the heinous plunder. Knifes diving into shoulders, forks into throats, plates bashed over heads, men and women leaping upon their partners to deliver blows of repeated bloody retribution!

What a glorious spectacle! What a wondrous sight of gold, white, silver, and silks. Meshing among the others like a fine royal blend! What a triumph! What a celebration! The room opened wide in anticipation of its guests, a great theater hall set aside for such the occasion. And what an occasion it was, the job well done. A heist well plundered. Now those who would be named thieves mingled with those who one could only describe as nobility, as royalty, as the rich. Their bellies blooded and bound by their dress shirts and overalls. Their bosoms on display from corsets and dress tops as they ripped through one another. The bodies with curtains and banners hung with equal importance!

Running, prancing, skipping, stabbing, hanging, garroting, crushing, bashing, drowning, suffocating, beaten, twisted, torn, and more! The orchestra played on and demanded MORE! Bodies moved as the melee and chaos worked itself within the wicked movements of their master’s music. Gluttonously fall upon this feast! Oh what a wonderful experience indeed it was! Bodies falling into the center of the circle as the hurried tempo whirled. Another burst, another blow, another falls, and another, another, another, another, nother nother nother!

A dinner gong. The flutist follows, the dance has ended. The strings instruct a bow. The remains of the dancers do so. Before falling among their fellow companions. Not a single survivor.

The violinist plays a somber tune, mourning the souls lost this day to the dance. Though retribution was visited upon thieves and nobles both. This was no celebration, lives had been lost this day. A moment of contemplation was in order. A boar like man slumped over a table beaten and gutted. The beard of a drunk fellow stained a different red. The worries of a woman now seem so far away. A young man’s search for glory and riches, ended so soon. And a circle of vultures now made for the circling of the vultures. The mood is low...

Until...a rising note! A brief joining of the string. The fiddler wandered over to the dead boar of a man. Digging into his pockets and producing the two coins stolen from the fiddler’s vault. He gently placed it over the man’s vacant eyes. A turn of the heel. A wink and nod. Poof! Both the fiddler and the band vanishing on the last note.

[grailfinders]

Fate and Phantasms #216

Now that we're finally out of the cold, let's celebrate with some Summer! Like Summer 2, Summer 3 also comes with it's own theme, but thankfully making everyone good at drawing manga is way easier than making racecars.

Starting off the event is the saint of Orleans, Jeanne d'Arc (Archer). Jeanne is a Beast Master Ranger to summon up Reece and a Strength Cleric to cheer on the other servants as they turn your enemies into paste.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Next up: One of these days... BANG! ZOOM! Straight to the moon!

Race and Background

Jeanne is a human to be sure, but we have to face facts. In a post-lostbelt world regular humans might not be enough to keep up with DW's power creep. That's why this Jeanne is a Mark of Handling Human, giving her a dragon mark that'll bestow wondrous powers. Those powers include +2 Wisdom and +1 Dexterity, Wild Intuition for an extra d4 on all your Animal Handling and Nature checks. a Primal Connection to animals for one free casting of Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals per long rest. You also get Spells of the Mark added to your spell lists, but we'll go over them when we talk about your regular spells.

She's Jeanne, she's still an Acolyte. That's Insight and Religion proficiency.

Ability Scores

You're still Jeanne, so crank that Wisdom up as high as it'll go. After that is Charisma. You're really convincing normally, and you can literally hypnotize people into being your little sibling now. Somehow. Your Dexterity is also pretty good, you fight in nothing but a swimsuit. Or that dress... thing, but it's still not armor. After that is Constitution, all-nighters can take a lot out of a person. Your Strength isn't great cuz we just don't need it, so we're dumping Intelligence. You don't know how to read, and it's summer. Nobody thinks in the summer.

Class Levels

Cleric 1: At first level, clerics get proficiency with Wisdom and Charisma saves as well as Persuasion and History skills. You also get Animal Handling from being a Strength Domain cleric. Worshipping a giant snake isn't really in character, but turn it into a big whale and... that's still not in character but at least it's closer to the theme. Anyway, starting off you're an Acolyte of Strength, giving you a free druid cantrip. Grab Druidcraft for the most powerful divination in the game, the ability to tell what the weather is. Unlike other divination spells, your DM can't weasel their way out of this prediction with "changing circumstances". If they say it's gonna be a nice day at the beach then by god it's gonna be a nice day at the beach. You also get proficiency with Heavy Armor, but you're not really strong enough to use that. First level clerics also get Spells, which they can cast and prepare using their Wisdom. You can swap them out on long rests so we won't go into too much detail, but basically: stuff that buffs the party? Good. Stuff that heals the party? Good. Giant laser beams like Sunburst? Good. For cantrips, pick up Guidance to cheer on your party members as they perform their next skill check, adding 1d4 to the roll. Also grab Mending to fix up your book if it gets wrecked in a freak space cop accident, and Thaumaturgy to project your voice. Sound doesn't travel far in the water, and if you want to talk to fish you'll have to get bassy. As a strength cleric you get Divine Favor and Shield of Faith on your Always Ready toolbox, giving your allies an extra bit of radiant damage when they attack with the former and +2 AC to one creature with the latter. I highly suggest using Shield of Faith on yourself, your AC is only 12 if you're playing to character. Last thing in level one, I swear. Your dragon mark gives you a couple extra spells for your list, Animal Friendship and Speak with Animals. You talk to Reece, it counts. These aren't always prepared and do count against your prepared #, but it's always good to have friends, even if they spend most of their time below the waves.

Cleric 2: Second level clerics can Channel Divinity once per short rest in one of two ways. Turn Undead forces a wisdom save (DC 8 + your proficiency + your wisdom modifier) on all undead near you as an action, and if they fail they have to run away for a minute or until they take damage. Alternatively, you can perform a Feat of Strength when you make an attack, check, or save using your strength. This adds 10 to the roll. We aren't investing in strength, but you can act like you are. Once per short rest, at least.

Cleric 3: Third level humans get a boost to their mark abilities, and for you The Bigger They Are the bigger they hug. When you use Animal Friendship or Speak with Animals you can target Monstrosities if they have an intelligence of 3 or lower. You also get second level spells. From your subclass, Enhance Ability and Protection from Poison. From your mark, Beast Sense and Calm Emotions.

Ranger 1: So we got ways to help our party, but our party isn't full yet. Not until we get Reece. Bouncing over to ranger will help, but first you start off at level 1. Multiclassing into Ranger gets you proficiency with Athletics so you can keep your balance on the whale when you ride it. You can also point out your Favored Foe to add 1d4 to your first attack on it each turn when you hit it. You can mark a creature this way Proficiency times per long rest, and it lasts up to a minute with concentration. You're also a Natural Explorer of the Coast, giving you doubled proficiency on intelligence or wisdom checks on the beach. You also get a bunch of traveling perks, but there's a lot of them so read up on them yourself. At least you'll never get lost on your way to the artist's alley.

Ranger 2: At second level you get a fighting style, and as a Druidic Warrior you learn more druid cantrips, specifically Shillelagh and Resistance. We're not investing in strength, but we're not investing in dexterity either, so if you want to hit anyone Shillelagh's the way to go. It'll make a stick magical, bump up the damage to a d8, and you can use your wisdom instead of any other ability to attack. On a related note, second level rangers can cast spells. Your ranger spell list is also grown by your mark, but you can prepare those spells? So why bother grabbing them here? Grab Absorb Elements to protect your allies and Beast Bond to share a special connection with Reece. He should be able to understand you anyway, but some times you need to make sure he knows he's a good boy. Since we're multiclassing spellcasters, check the PHB for the relevant table.

Ranger 3: Third level rangers get a Primal Awareness of the natural world around them. You already have Speak with Animals, but now you can cast it once per long rest for free. Well, twice, your mark also does this. Regardless. You're a Beast Master now, so you get a Primal Companion. A Beast of the Sea is the closest thing we have to a Reece, so grab that. (There are actual dolphins too if your DM doesn't like the Tasha's Ranger, but BotS has a walking speed.) Stat blocks are big and boring to write out, so check those out on your own time. You can also make the beast attack instead of you on your attack action, and you can use your bonus action to take its own turn. If your beast is dead and it's been less than an hour you can spend a spell slot to resurrect it a minute later, or just grab a new one for free at the end of a long rest. Also grab Goodberry. It's a great support spell and it singlehandedly destroys all survival games.

Cleric 4: Okay, we got Reece, we got the servant cheer, there's just one last thing we need to pick up and this build is 100% online. Use your first Ability Score Improvement to become a Prodigy, bumping your Wisdom up by one to round it out and giving you proficiency in both Performance and Calligraphy. You're now an official mangaka, congrats.

Cleric 5: Fifth level clerics can Destroy Undead when they turn them, instantly killing any zombie of CR 1/2 or lower when they fail the save. Also, you get third level spells. Haste and Protection from Energy from your subclass, Beacon of Hope and Conjure Animals from your mark. Sadly a whale is still a bit too tough for this spell, but you can get a Hunter Shark for a Reece 2.0.

Cleric 6: At sixth level you can Channel Divinity twice per short rest, and you get another CD option with Rhonas' Blessing. Use your reaction to give that +10 bonus from Feat of Strength to another creature, preferably one with a positive strength modifier.

Cleric 7: Fourth level spells! Dominate Beast and Stoneskin from your subclass, and Aura of Life and... Dominate Beast... from your mark. Woops.

Cleric 8: Use this ASI to max out your Wisdom. Also, your Destroy Undead hits creatures of CR 1, and you gain Blessed Strikes that add 1d8 radiant damage to the damage of one of your cantrips or weapon attacks each turn. I don't know if Shillelagh counts as a cantrip or weapon attack when you use it, but now it doesn't matter.

Cleric 9: Ninth level clerics get fifth level spells. Destructive Wave gives you the big wave without the whale (or with the whale if you wanna flavor it that way), Insect Plague isn't in character at all, but Awaken will let you raise Reece out of regular dolphinhood and make him smart enough to give people unwanted advice. When you awaken something it's charmed by you for 30 days, at which point it'll choose whether it wants to keep hanging out with you. But I mean Reece is a bro, I'm sure he'll be cool with it. (Actually as a beast of the sea Reece already has an intelligence of 8, but you can still awaken other fish if you want to. Even if you go with a regular dolphin they're still to smart to awaken.)

Cleric 10: Tenth level clerics get Divine Intervention... sometimes. When you try to use it, roll a percentile die. If you roll lower than your cleric level you're in luck. It's basically a hotline to your god, who'll help you out with your problem if you spend an action begging them. If you fail you can try again after a long rest. If you succeed, you have to wait a whole week. You can also Spare the Dying, I guess? You have tons of cantrips already.

Cleric 11: Destroy Undead hits CR 2, and you get sixth level spells. Sadly your freebies all ran out, but you still get some cool stuff! Sunbeam's great for turning yourself into a holy weapons platform!

Cleric 12: Use this ASI to bump up your Constitution. A lot of your spells rely on concentration, and also your AC is still 12. At level 12.

Cleric 13: Seventh level spell time! I know Conjure Celestial is supposed to be for celestials, but honestly? Your DM knows your theme by now, and a whale is a big downgrade from a celestial. If your DM is that dead set against you getting a whale I don't know what to tell you.

Cleric 14: Destroy Undead hits CR 3 creatures. Yep. That's a level.

Cleric 15: Eighth level spells, that's more like it. Sunburst time baby!

Cleric 16: Use your last ASI to get Tough for 38 extra HP now and 2 more when you hit level 20. Again, you have an AC of 12. If you survived this long, congrats. It's about to be all worth it.

Cleric 17: At seventeenth level Destroy Undead hits CR 4 creatures. Also, you're an Avatar of Battle now, giving you resistance to physical damage types from nonmagical attacks. Oh yeah, you also get ninth level spells. I don't think any of them are super in character except for the healing spells, but you can pick them out as you please.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

So the good news is you're a healer with a ton of HP, nearly 200 by the end of the build. Also, you have resistances to physical attacks and spells for resistances to other kinds of attacks, so that'll last you even longer than you'd think.

You also come packing tons of ways to support the party beyond healing, with spells like Enhance Ability and your channel divinity options to help out with skill checks and combat.

The action economy is key in D&D, and having an extra party member like Reece around is super helpful. Especially since most of his features grow with your proficiency bonus, so multiclassing isn't quite as painful as it used to be.

Cons:

The one thing Reece has that doesn't scale with your proficiency? His HP. He's only got 20 HP, that's a single turn for most fighters to cut through.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, you have a ton of HP, but almost no AC. It's still 12 if you're playing to character. You can just slap on medium armor, but nobody said being a saint was easy.

Missing out on the cleric capstone is so painful it's worth mentioning. Guaranteed Divine Intervention is just way better than a dolphin that dies in one hit, I'm sorry.

But Summer isn't about powergaming, it's about friendship. Make friends in the ocean, make friends at the con, make friends damn near everywhere you go because so little of what you picked up is ocean-dependent. Just try not to pick too many fights early on, I got a feeling this is going to be a long summer.

[orbitariums]

winter with a weasley | fred w. + black fem. reader

i was tired of searching high and low for hp imagines with black readers so !! here goes my own :) send me recs of hp writers who write for black girls!!!

reader is a black woman and a ravenclaw!

happy holidays <333

word count: 5k

     The pitter patter of snow could be heard from inside the dimly lit library, wet snowflakes streaking down the window panes of the large window beside you. The night sky was falling upon you, twinkling stars forming around the top of the castle. The air was clear, no fog to be seen, but your eyes were glazing over as if you were in the midst of a fog storm anyway, your nose buried deep in a copy of “Winograd’s Wondrous Water Plants.” You blinked away the sleepiness clouding up your eyesight, stifling a yawn. The candle in front of you threatened to burn out, and you flicked a lazy finger towards it, the flame rising once again. You were grateful for the cozy, thick sweater Luna had knitted you, protecting you from the slight chill that was penetrating the glass window. You pulled it closer to you, though its warmth threatened to make you fall asleep. 

     You had hardly realized that your cheek was dragging against your palm, and that your eyes were feeling droopier than ever, until you were jolted to a start when you heard Harry Potter’s voice from beside you. He was standing at the side of the otherwise empty library table that you were sitting at, a book clutched beneath his arm. 

     “There you are, everyone’s been wondering where you were. Well, mainly Fred,” Harry admitted, his eyes glancing at you, hunched over your book with nothing but candlelight in front of you. “What’re you doing in the library anyway, exams are over.”

You pushed your shoulder blades back, relieving some of the tension in your body from being curled up with books for hours after classes had ended for the winter break. You were slightly relieved to see Harry, as you were starting to get sort of a headache from all the words jumbling up together on the page. You replied with a small smile.

     “Just doing some after-exam review, that’s all. I want to see what I missed, if anything. 

That way I’ll know what to study harder for next time, that’s all,” you shrugged, and Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face.

     “Just like Hermione,” he noted. “I’m only in here because I’m returning a book. Fred will think you’ve gone mental, studying after exams.”

You chuckled to think of the pink-faced, tousle-haired Weasley twin. He was crazy about you, and everyone knew it. You, on the other hand, were far too focused on your studies to pay him any real attention. He was a distraction, and a horrible one at that— you’d never ace your exams if you were with him, he’d probably have you helping set up him and George’s next prank. Your playfully unamused demeanor towards his advances didn’t stop him anyway, he still teased you and flirted with you every chance he got, because no matter how much you told yourself you shouldn’t have a boyfriend, he always caught how bashful you became at his flirtatious remarks.  

     “Well, he’ll survive, won’t he?” you shook your head playfully, and Harry nodded in the other direction, out of the library.

     “Take a break, we’re having a little party in the common room, you should join us,” Harry suggested, and you took one glance from your books to the lanky boy in front of you before sighing and closing your book. Why not?

     When you clamored through the entrance to the common room after avoiding the Fat Lady’s attempt at a poor rendition of Deck the Halls, you were met with all the holiday cheer you’d ever need for a lifetime. The Gryffindor common room, already in the Christmas spirit with all its red furniture, was draped in Christmas lights and holiday wreaths. The sound of holiday music blasted through the room, bewitched so that it was unable to be heard by passersby, in the hopes that no one would break up their little party. 

     The smell of baked goods wafted past your nose as you entered, and you found your stomach growling— you’d spent lunch studying, hardly eating a thing, and you’d skipped out on dinner to huddle up in the practically deserted library. In the corner of the room was a tree that changed colors each time someone passed by it, and you could see aggravated gnomes shuffling about on one of the window sills, griping about how they were forced into itchy, tiny holiday sweaters. The room was warm and full of Christmas cheer, and you could even spot a student with a permanent drizzle of snow over their head, covered in a coat and a beanie with white flakes spotting the top. 

     You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, covering your mouth with your hand. You were glad Harry had gotten you out, otherwise you’d probably still be in the library half-asleep. This was much, much better, and you weren’t just saying that. You could see Hermione and Ron approaching you, broad grins on their faces.

     “There you are! We were hoping you’d show up,” Hermione gave you a hug, followed by Ron.

     “Harry says you were in the library. Honestly, I don’t understand you two,” Ron said, meaning you and Hermione. 

Hermione rolled her eyes while you just chuckled, though you were promptly distracted,

     “Well, I’m here now. Is that treacle fudge?”

You headed over to the table of food in a hungry daze, your mouth threatening to water the closer you got to it. You were stacking on food onto a holiday themed plate before you knew it, chicken legs smothered with gravy, greens, cornish pasties, pumpkin sandwich cookies, and treacle tart. You were about to grab utensils, your eyes focused on the table below you, until you were barricaded by two all-too-familiar figures on either side of you. You sighed in exasperation, looking up at Fred Weasley, who was in front of you, then turning to George Weasley, who was directly behind you. 

     “Fancy seeing you here!” George exclaimed, a wide grin on his face. 

     “Really, would’ve thought you were gonna be a no-show!” Fred cupped your shoulder with his hand, spinning you to face him.

     “Though, how could he miss you?” George started, making you turn again to face him this time.

     “You positively light up the room when you walk in,” Fred answered George smoothly, spinning you by the shoulder yet again for you to face him.

You were dizzy from the amount of times the twins had you spinning this way and that, but you steadied yourself in enough time to wag your finger disapprovingly at Fred, the main culprit in all this,

     “Must you always surround me?”

You reached for a fork and a knife, but Fred conjured both from his robes pocket, teeth sparkling as he grinned widely at you. 

You rolled your eyes, but took the fork and knife anyway, muttering a thanks.

     “Really though, where were you?” Fred asked, following you even as you walked away, side by side. 

     “The library,” you answered shortly, and Fred stared at you, shaking his head in clear disdain,

     “Honestly, woman, don’t you ever take a break?”

You turned to face him, snickering as you rolled your eyes and took a bite of your treacle fudge,

     “Don’t you ever take a break?”

Fred smirked, poking underneath your chin with a coquettish finger,

     “Not from you.”

You couldn’t help the heat that flooded your cheeks even if the response was corny. Fred Weasley was always quick on his feet, and never one to back down from a challenge. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like him in the way he so obviously liked you. It was so amusing to watch, even if it could be annoying— no matter what, Fred was shamelessly, devastatingly in love with you. He wasn’t embarrassed to be turned down, or to show it in the only ways he knew how: through poking fun at you and using the most annoying, yet memorable pick up lines in the book on you. 

     “I’ve noticed,” you cocked your head with a smug expression, and Fred only shook his head, gearing up to say something just as smug as you until he was interrupted by the soft hum of Luna Lovegood’s voice as she zoomed up behind you, happy to see you wearing her sweater.

     “YN!” she exclaimed, her voice wispy and cheerful as usual. 

     You turned to face her, completely dismissing Fred, who decided he’d get you back later. You engulfed her in a hug, and the two of you got to talking, dancing, and sharing a jug of butterbeer that George had smuggled in. 

You had finished the jug and your food, and you were laying back on one of the couches in front of the crackling fireplace, which was roaring high with orange-hued flames. You were tired, but the good kind, not from spending hours hunched over a book this time around, but from partying and eating so much you could hardly move. Ron, on the other hand, was sitting on the floor in front of you, scarfing down another turkey leg. 

      “Honestly, Ron, do you ever stop eating?” Hermione hissed on the floor beside him, and Ron frowned, whining through a mouthful of food,

     “It’s the holidays, Her-my-knee, let me live for once.”

     Apparently, it was now time for the gift giving, which the Weasley twins were in charge of emceeing, and they were making a very big deal of it. Each time someone was up to give a gift, they used their wands as microphones, their voices booming around the room as they called the names of the people meant to collect their gifts from the receiver. Harry had gotten Ron a Chudley Cannons quidditch shirt, you already had Luna’s sweater and you had given her a pair of flying sneakers to make flying that much easier. All the gift-giving and receiving was quite lovely to watch, and everyone ended up satisfied. The twins had made sure no one left empty handed, giving people goodies that would probably turn into toads in an hour or two. 

     “And now, the last present of the night, and we truly do save the best for last,” George announced with a proud, thunderous voice. 

Fred eased up beside George like a sneaky weasel, George throwing an arm around his shoulders. Fred had something in a sparkly, glittering gift bag, and everyone was intrigued, leaning forward to see what it was. 

     “Take it away, Freddy,” George patted Fred’s shoulder, then slinked away so Fred could have the floor all to himself. 

     “This gift goes out to a special someone,” Fred wiggled his eyebrows, deliberately making his voice deeper, and everyone started to hoot lowly. “A certain little smartypants Ravenclaw girl who has my heart.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes playfully and looking away from Fred, who had zeroed in on you. 

     “She’s a bit shy,” Fred joked, making the room erupt in laughter. 

     “Go on!” Luna prodded you, her eyes twinkling as she smiled at you. 

      You lugged yourself up off the couch and got up, making your way over to Fred, who was standing in front of everyone next to the color-changing Christmas tree, which burned a passionate red when you stood in front of Fred. 

     “You idiot,” you remarked playfully, and he only grinned, handing you the bag.

     “See what’s inside, won’t you!” George hollered, and you glared at him before opening the bag. 

     Inside was a flower in a pot full of red soil. Not just any flower, but perhaps the most beautiful flower you’d ever seen. Its leaves, a pale pink color, seemed to shine, light radiating off of the petals and basking your face in a warm glow. The petals were fat and wide, spiraling at the end into little hollow heart shapes, all of which were of varying colors. As it got closer to the center, the colors of the flower grew into deeper myriads of pinks and purples. You had never seen such a plant before, and you were a top herbology student, plants and flowers were your specialty. It was so beautiful, and probably rare as well. You didn’t know what you were expecting, but nothing like this. You were so surprised, you half expected it to be a prank of Fred and George’s, thinking it might transfigure into a mole rat.

     The rest of the students in the packed common room were just as shocked as you were, gasping and whispering amongst themselves, immediately enamoured by the unique beauty of the flower that made cooing noises in your hand like a little puppy. 

     “Fred,” you gasped, looking up at him with widened eyes.

     “Thought it’d fit you, know you’re into plants and all that smart people stuff,” Fred grinned, clearly satisfied with your reaction. 

     “I-it’s amazing, I-”

     “That’s not all, he’s got more for you in the bag!” George cut you off, and Fred shoved him playfully, laughing, 

     “Shut up, you bloke! Let her see for herself.”

     You ruffled through the bag, which was indeed full of your favorite sweets— honeydukes chocolate, pepper imps, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavored Beans, chocolate frogs, and more. You could hardly generate a response, your mouth stuck open in an o-shape. You liked Fred, but you didn’t expect this from him.

You chuckled, still shocked, and grinned, bemused,

     “Fred, this really is a lot, I honestly didn’t expect it. I-I don’t know how to thank you!”

Before you knew it, you were lunging forward to embrace him, hugging him tight in front of everyone. He was lucky he could cover his face in your shoulder, because he was red as a tomato. You gazed at the flower in your hands when you pulled away, still entranced by it. 

     “‘M glad you like it,” Fred murmured almost shyly, the first you’d ever heard him sound anything other than cocky.

You frowned, truly feeling terrible— you weren’t expecting anything from Fred, and so you didn’t get him anything. Now you felt horrible, standing there empty handed when he’d just given you the most thoughtful, beautiful gift. 

     “Oh, Fred, I didn’t get you anything!” you bemoaned, your eyebrows furrowing together. “I feel horrible.”

     “‘S alright, you’ll make it up to me,” Fred smirked, leaning back against the wall of the fireplace and folding his arms. 

The room filled with a plethora of suggestive “oohs” and “ahhs”, and when you turned to face Ron, you saw he had gone red from watching his brother flirt with you, meanwhile Harry was stifling a laugh, and Ginny was burying her face in her knees while Hermione rolled her eyes. You looked back over at Fred and couldn’t help but smile, shaking your head slowly. 

     “I just might have to,” was all you said, George leaping onto Fred in celebration. 

After the gift giving was over, well, it had ended with you, (and it really was best for last), the party started to wind down as people began to say their goodbyes and make their way back to their dorms. Most people would be going home for Christmas, but you’d be staying here at Hogwarts, scraping by with the few friends who would still be there. But, you weren’t getting away with it that easy. While talking with Fred, George, Hermione, Ron and Harry, you mentioned how you’d be staying in the castle for break. They all made an uproar in disagreement, shaking their heads and complaining.

     “That’s rubbish, you’ve got to at least come to our place over break,” George threw his hands up, and Fred nodded vigorously— you couldn’t help but think this had been on his mind the longest.    

     “Yes, do come to The Burrow, I’ll be there as well,” Hermione insisted, clutching your arm. 

You smiled, looking around at all the needy faces. You hadn’t expected them to be so welcoming, it was already a full house. You didn’t want to intrude, “Won’t your mom be so busy? I mean, all of us? I don’t want to make her holiday stressful.”

     George scoffed, 

     “The woman will make it stressful no matter what.”

     “Really. Besides, mum loves you,” Fred persisted. “She can’t get over me being with a smart Ravenclaw girl who’ll keep me out of trouble.”

You snorted,

     “But I’m not with you.”

     “You will be,” Fred shrugged, unbothered, and you refused to meet his eye because you knew you wouldn’t be able to restrain your smile if you did look at him. 

     “Come on, just come with us! We’ll be leaving in a few days and get there just a day before Christmas Eve, that’s more than enough time to pack your things,” Ron demanded, and you couldn’t help but give in, your body shaking with laughter. 

     “Alright, alright, I’ll spend the holiday with you.”

The circle of friends erupted into cheers, and you grinned, your sparkling eyes meeting Fred’s, who was truly glad he’d have you there for the break. 

     Things were really beginning to wind down shortly after, and you were getting ready to head back to your dorm and go to bed. Luna had already left, and you were one of the few people still remaining. You’d spent the rest of your time talking to that circle of friends, though Fred got next to you whenever he could and talked your ear off. When you were on your way to leave, holding your gift in its sparkly gift bag from Fred, you turned around at the sound of footsteps thudding behind you. It was Fred, running up to you, coming to a stop in front of you,

     “YN, wait. I’ll walk you back to your dorm.” 

     “Sure,” you grinned warmly. 

You and Fred left together, walking side by side in the dark, winding halls of the castle. You talked quietly, Fred taking any chance to make you laugh, and you did laugh each and every time. You stopped in front of your dormitory and stood there, facing each other, not quite saying anything, just smiling stupidly at each other. It was almost humorous how you tried to avoid your fate with Fred, knowing you liked him back. But you always beat around the bush, because you were really a very studious girl and you knew Fred Weasley would just be a distraction. But you knew he wasn’t that bad. How could he be?

     “Well,” you sniffed awkwardly, cupping your gift bag in your palms. 

     “Welllll,” Fred echoed, dragging out the word and making you laugh. 

     “Really, Fred, thank you, I can’t imagine how you even got this, it’s beautiful, really.”

     “Reminded me of you.”

     “Oh, Fred,” you groaned, making a face like you’d just tasted a sour lemon and laughing. “You’re so cheesy.”

     “But you like that about me,” Fred squinted his eyes at you, as if he was seeing right through you. 

     “I can neither confirm or deny that statement. Your head might explode if I confirm,” you teased, and he simply nodded in agreement.

     “You’ve got a point.”

     “Really though, how did you get this? I’ve never seen such a thing before. Don’t tell me you stole it from Professor Sprout.”

     “Honestly, how much of a git do you think I am? I’ve got my connections, that’s all. It’s special, keep your eye on it.”

     “Alright,” you grinned, sniffing the fragrant, honey-nectar scented center of the flower.  “I’ll leave you be. I really do feel bad that I didn’t get you anything though. If I’d known I would’ve-”

Fred shook his head, 

     “Oh shut up. Of course I had to get you something, all I wanted this holiday was to get you something you’d like. And you like it, don’t you?” You nodded, and he smiled. “That’s all I need.”

You smiled, pleased, then sighed,

     “I really should get going to bed though, and you should too, it’s nearly curfew.”

Fred merely shrugged carelessly,

     “Meh, I’m on break, who gives a rat’s ass what Filch tries to do.”

     “Okay, Fred, whatever you say,” you grinned, shaking your head playfully at his devil-may-care attitude. “Goodnight, now.”

     “Goodnight,” Fred smiled at you.

You started to turn to your dorm, but you turned back at the last second, saying his name,

     “Wait, Fred?”

     “Yeah?” he replied, only for you to lean forward and kiss him softly on the cheek, pulling away slowly and blinking ever so gently. Blush was rising up his cheeks steadily, and he looked like he had melted on the spot, gawking at you. 

You smiled, satisfied with yourself, and spun around, actually about to leave this time,

     “See you in the morning!”

That night, you could’ve sworn your flower grew at least an inch taller, and you hadn’t even done a thing to it.

In the few days you had left at Hogwarts, you and Fred had been spending an awful lot of time together. You were actually taking the time to get to know him, because deep down you knew it was what you both wanted. Each time George passed by you two talking in an empty corridor, he coughed, “lovebirds!” And finally, it was time to leave. You all boarded the train back home, you sharing a car with Ginny and Hermione while the boys stayed with each other, though Fred passed by every hour or so to try and amuse you. 

     “D’you like him, Fred?” Ginny asked, leaning her head against the cool train window. 

You looked down at the table, unable to hide your smile,

     “Yeah, I do. And he knows it.”

     “I think you two would be cute,” Hermione beamed, glancing up from the newspaper. 

     “I have to say, Fred’s never picked a better choice,” Ginny smiled. 

The holidays at the Weasley house were hectic, but they were lovely all the same. George didn’t lie when he said his mother, Molly Weasley, made holidays stressful, but it was the good kind of stress. You were never bored, or lonely for that matter. You always had something to do, whether it be crusting pies, helping Molly magically wash the dishes, pillow fights with Ron and Harry, or listening to Hermione go on and on about her marks for her exams. Besides, Molly really did love you. She kept gushing over how smart and well-behaved you were. And you were convinced Fred had lied and told her you two were a couple, because any time she saw you and Fred together, she cooed, “you two!” and snapped a picture, leaving you blinded by the flash of her old camera. 

It was probably the most bustling Christmas you’d had yet, and everything was going well.

     The afternoon before, Molly had cooked a wonderful feast to be scarved down for tomorrow, and she put charms on all the meals to keep them warm and protected from the boys, who she knew would try to sneak down and take a bite before it was time. You sauntered around the kitchen on Christmas Eve. It was nighttime, and the kitchen was pitch black except for the light emanating from the tip of your wand. You opened the fridge, trying to make yourself a glass of warm pumpkin juice before bed. You’d stayed up late reading, thinking everyone else had gone to sleep. But you were wrong, and you gasped when the kitchen light turned on suddenly. 

You jumped, clutching your chest and breathing in and out, only to see Fred laughing in the corner of the kitchen. You sighed in relief,

     “Jesus, Fred, you scared me. Thought I was the only one up.”

Fred cocked his head to the side as if he were examining you,

     “Late sleeper?”

You nodded,

     “Sometimes. Why are you up?”

     “I happen to be a late sleeper myself… and I heard your footsteps going down to the kitchen.”

You quirked a brow, amused,

     “So you followed me?”

     “This is my house, if anything, you’re following me,” Fred defended himself, folding his arms.

     “I’m only joking, Weasley,” you snorted, continuing to fix yourself a glass of pumpkin juice.

     “I like when you call me that,” Fred remarked, and you pretended not to hear him, but your cheeks were hot as ever. 

     He got closer to you, standing right beside you at the kitchen counter and leaning against it, watching as your hands shook out of nerves while you poured your juice. Since when did Fred make you nervous? And why was being close to him making you so lightheaded? He was looking at you, but you refused to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on your glass, not even noticing when it almost overflowed because your thoughts were elsewhere.

Fred, who had his cheek pressed into his palm, smirked, and did a onceover of you.

     “Need help?” he taunted you. 

You chuckled nervously, huffing,

     “No?”

     “You sure?” he asked, almost challenging you to look at him. 

You turned to face him, rolling your eyes, but you weren’t prepared for him to be standing up, towering over you. You took a deep breath in, while he simply grinned. You looked up at him, blinking rapidly as if there was something in your eye. 

     “Here,” Fred leaned into you, and you froze, only to realize that he was just pulling out his wand and tapping it against your glass. 

When you picked it up and took a drink, the pumpkin juice was just as warm as you’d wanted it to be, and you didn’t even need to heat it up like you were going to.

     “Thanks,” you grinned, your eyes flickering from his to the floor. 

     “Should be getting to bed. Happy Christmas Eve,” Fred gave you a slick three fingered wave and slinked away up the stairs, leaving you there to exhale a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You were in over your head, for sure. 

On Christmas morning, you were the first one up, surprisingly. You got ready as quietly as possible, passing Hermione’s cat on the way to the bathroom as you got ready. For Christmas, you decided you’d dress nicely, putting on a well-fitting orange turtleneck with a black miniskirt. You headed down the stairs silently and found yourself in the kitchen, holding your plant in your hands so you could place it on the window in front of the sink and let it get a bit more light there. 

You paused when you heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and when you saw Fred, you bit down on your lip. He grinned at you, dressed in his personal Christmas best, a sweater with “F” emblazoned on it that his mom forced him to wear every holiday season, and black skinny jeans. 

     “Hey,” was all he said with a knowing smile, and you grinned. 

     “Hi.”

     “You’re up early,” Fred remarked, inching close to you so the only thing separating your body from his was the plant you were holding in between the two of you.

     “You are too.”

     “Funny coincidence.”

     “Yeah. You’d almost think you were trying to catch me alone,” you narrowed your eyes at him playfully, a smug smile tugging at the corner of your lips. 

     “Maybe, maybe not,” Fred played along. 

     “You’re a real joker, Fred Weasley.”

     “I know,” Fred agreed. “But I’d be a real Scrooge if I didn’t make one tiny little

improvement to this Christmas.”

     “And what’s that?” you chimed. 

Fred tapped his wand just above him, and lo and behold, a mistletoe flower appeared out of thin air, levitating above your heads. You looked up at it, holding your gaze on the plant for a few seconds before giggling, looking down at Fred who was smiling at you. 

     “Merry Christmas,” he remarked quietly, his brown eyes peering into yours, inching his head forward, spreading his warmth. 

     “Merry Christmas,” you practically whispered just in time for his lips to brush against yours, tilting your head forward to engulf him in a slow, sweet kiss under the mistletoe, the light shining in from the kitchen windows, a healthy amount of snow falling outside. 

His lips tasted like peppermint, and he smelled like mischief, but you wanted to hold him close. His sweater was scratchy and warm and thick, bristling against you. He was tender with you, his hands reaching up to roam your face, caressing your cheek and pulling you in closer to him by the small of your back, the petals of the flower in between you pressing against your chests. After a while, you pulled away, Fred’s cheeks red as ever, and your entire body on fire. You weren’t sure why you’d held back for so long, because now that you had a taste of him, you wanted more and more. When you pulled away, you blinked a bit, coming back down onto earth. When you and Fred met eyes again, you both giggled stupidly, clearly high off each other’s touch. 

     When you looked down at the plant, you noticed it had grown inches taller suddenly, and you looked down at it in bewilderment. It had done the same thing after you parted ways with Fred the night of the holiday party in the Gryffindor common room. 

Fred answered the question you were about to ask, 

     “It’s an Amorfluous flower. It’s meant to be given as a gift from one lover to another, so that each time we kiss, it grows.”

You were in awe of Fred. Not only had he managed to get you a gift that was extremely fitting for you, but he got you one that was even more sentimental than you had managed to realize. You were amazed, and you looked up at him awestruck, tears threatening to form in your eyes. 

He chuckled at the sight of you and hugged you close, careful of the flower,

     “Don’t cry!”

     “It’s- it’s just so lovely,” you sniffled, wiping away the tears from your eyes. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

Fred smirked,

     “You’ve made it up to me, the lack of a gift.”

You chuckled,

     “Good.”

     “Er… should we kiss again? For the flower, of course,” Fred suggested, nodding down at the flower. 

     “Yes, of course. For the flower,” you grinned knowingly and leaned in again, your lips uniting in a sweet kiss once more. 

[st-just]

A Setting: The City of Sethennai

Because I’ve spent long enough tinkering on this that I might as well share it with a population of more than a half-dozen potential players. Also it could almost certainly use an editing pass, and I don’t want to lose it all next time my computer dies.

So, a collection of densely packed plot hooks in the shape of a city

City History

The City of Sethennai is quite possibly the oldest city in the world, or at least the oldest still inhabited. When the first Dwarfs and Goliaths fled the Titans for the coast, they found ziggurats already rising from the water and tunnels dug beneath their feet, ruined by some already ancient cataclysm. Supported by fertile soil and full waters, they built their own city over it, and welcomed their own gods to it, a center of resistance to the Titanomarchy that became an empire in its own right.

Centuries passed and power drifted inland, to the mountain palaces of the Titans’ Giant heirs and the divinely appointed heroes who sometimes overthrew them. The City was rich, but peaceful, its soldiers only raised when one princess or another took it as a capital during a civil war. Such was the case when the first ships appeared from the East.

The adventurers from the League of Free Cities had been spurred across the sea by visions of fortune and glory, overwhelming the defenders with armies of goblin slaves and the ability to evoke demons far beyond what they could deal with. Their leader Sethennai proclaimed himself Emperor and renamed the city in his honour, taking it as his capital. After his assassination some years later the ‘empire’ fell into an anarchy it has never quite recovered from, but the name has stuck, and for the two hundred years since wonders and riches have flowed across the eastern ocean while mercenaries and adventurers have poured west in ever greater numbers.

The city’s ruler for the last fifteen years has been Prince Cael, an adventurer universally believed to be supported by the League’s political rivals back East. If so, they got what they paid for – experts and financiers have been imported and sponsored, and trade opened to anyone capable of paying the reasonable import duties.

Until two years ago, he had been the picture of brutal decadence, rousing himself from luxurious hedonism only to brutally deal with any threats to his power. Recently though, he changed – sponsoring vast expeditions into the ancient palaces of the interior and the ruins buried on the city’s outskirts, and installing a self-proclaimed Hierophant whose heresies had earned her a death warrant back East in the city’s grandest temples (violently banishing the cults which had held them since the Conquest in the process).

One week ago, at exactly noon, the sun vanished from the sky for one minute, and the entire city was filled with a deafening scream. Since then, the Prince’s grand palace has been sealed tight, with ingeniously horrifying magical defences ensuring that anyone who tries to force a door or window isn’t around to try again. Everything’s very rapidly falling apart, and the city’s traditional power brokers are reacting like so many rabid weasels in too small a cage.

It is, then, a perfect opportunity for people with the will to seize it.

Districts

The Palantine

If Sethennai is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, the vast palace complex which crowns its central hill is probably likewise the oldest building still in use. Its foundation is burrowed deep into the hill on which it stands, to the point that some delvers and historians have theorized that it was once a truly massive pyramid now mostly buried by the ages. Rising out of it are two great peaks - impressive ziggurats in their own right - of obvious dwarven make, fashioned to house their ancient Ancestors-Kings and gods in suitable splendor, and since renovated and built over to house the city’s rulers and most favored priesthoods. Surrounding them are a dozen smaller peaks, each the estate of one of the city’s foremost patrician families, teeming with retainers and servants. The land around them is pristine and perfectly manicured, full of wondrous botanical gardens and menageries for the amusement of Sethennai’s greatest citizens.

Location of Interest: The Throne 

A palace built on the ruins of a palace built on the ruins of a palace. The grand ziggurat which the city’s rulers have called home since time immemorial is built into and sits at the peak of its highest hill, the highest point in the sky for dozens of miles in every direction. Its labyrinthine apartments, kitchens, vaults, galleries and corridors house the Prince and his family, dozens of favorites and notables, and hundreds of guards, servants, retainers and entertainers. 

Or, well, housed. 

One week ago, the sun vanished from the sky, and a scream echoed through the city. Since then, the palace complex has proven impenetrable. Every door and window is closed, and attempts to open them by force have fared...poorly. In a ‘never going to walk again’ sort of way. Scrying and other means of magical surveillance so far attempted have simply failed. No one has tried to escape, and no noises have been heard - the whole complex is simply silent. 

Of course, that means that all its secrets and riches are there for the taking. Or that’s the growing consensus - at least three separate groups have camped out near various gates and major entrances, each preparing their own scheme to break in and seize everything within. There’s no fighting between them. Yet. 

Faction of Note: The Hierophant 

    Yri Cenred is many things. A self-proclaimed ‘experimental theologian’. One of shockingly few mortal humans to piss off the Illyrin clergy enough to be specifically declared Anathema. A member of the Commonwealth’s very exclusive list of ‘Enemies of Reason’. Empirically immune to thunderbolts from cloudless skies and most other signs of divine disfavor. Easily one of the most powerful mages in the city. And, for most of the last two years, its High Priestess and Hierophant. 

    No one knows quite how her first meeting with Prince Cael went, and whether she was responsible for her change in personality or if he sought her out because of it. All anyone knows is that shortly after she arrived in the city a few days ahead of Imperial Witch-Hunters looking for her head on a pike, Cael forcibly expelled the Khasali cults which had occupied the Palantine’s grand temples since the Conquest, and installed her in their place with the newly minted title of Hierophant for the city. Since then she and her growing coterie of acolytes (bright-eyed, motivated and young, though you can flip a coin as to whether their hands are stained with ink or blood) have been extremely busy, though no one can say exactly what with. Certainly they haven’t held any public rituals or services. Despite the costs - both political and monetary - in protecting and sponsoring her, Cael never seemed to question whether it was worthwhile. 

    The general opinion on the streets is that she’s probably to blame for anything and everything worth complaining about. The only real divide is between those who think she bewitched the Prince and turned him into her puppet, those who think she’s the one who killed him, and the moderates who think the correct answer is probably ‘both’.

Foundrytown

The New World is absolutely full of exotic reagents, fuel sources, and materials to craft and invent with. It is also absolutely full of people who will pay in your currency of choice for finished goods, armor, weaponry, and whatever nasty alchemical tricks you can keep from blowing up in their face until they want them to. Foundrytown is the sprawling mass of smokestacks, workshops, factories and markets that has spilled to the north of Sethennai’s walls, exploiting both opportunities to the fullest while limiting the chance that some idiot will burn half the city down (again). Robber barons, militant workers, loose fraternities of tinkerers and half-trainer artificers, and the occasional rogue clockwork or alchemical monstrosity all jostle for space and control of the beating heart of Sethennai’s economy. 

Faction of Note: The Grand Bazaar 

    Official Imperial theology accords true dragons a place of honour - the Princes of the Earth, entrusted by Heaven with containing the fury of the elements within themselves so as to render the world peaceful enough for cultivation by the younger races - and forbids very few things to wyrms willing to play the part. (Principally, do not become undead, a god in your own right, or an archdemon of the elements. Though some justification can usually be found for how any sufficiently problematic dragon is actually doing one of those). 

    And Tyramara the Magnificent, the Fire of the Deeps has not technically done any of those things. Still, the ancient wyrm has little interest in allowing the wasting disease which has crippled her continue to spread, and her solution is unorthodox enough that she thought it prudent to abandon her palace-lair in Imir and relocate to the New World, six treasure galleons worth of her hoard in tow. 

    One of the city’s wealthiest residents from the moment she landed, she has bought a plaza in Foundrytown and offered her sponsorship to nearly every tinker and engineer who cares to set up shop there, provided they help sustain and improve the mechanical and hydraulic prosthetics that supplement and replace her dying organs. She has promised a full half of her hoard to any who can permanently deal with her condition, a fortune men have killed for in the past, and certainly will again. 

Faction of Note: The Hellworks 

They’re not officially called the Hellworks - there are, in fact, absolutely no devils involved. Still, between the billowing clouds of soot and steam pouring from their chimneys at all hours of the day, the severe architecture, and the bound spirits who keep the looms running at all hours of the day and eagerly take any opportunity to leave anyone who gets too close crippled or maimed to vent their anger - well, the name stuck. 

One of the most obvious consequences of Prince Cael’s turn towards the esoteric these last years, the ' ‘Royal Sethennai Weaver’s Trust” is the brainchild and absolute domain of the Lady Binder Katerine sol Dalme sol Telrin ir’Paimon. An Illyrin magister with heterodox opinions on the proper uses of magic, popular opinion is divided on whether it’s more accurate to say Cael invited her to reside in the city, or just offered her asylum before her elders had a chance to properly condemn her. 

Regardless, after six months of operation she - and her half-dozen strictly bound and extremely unhappy ifrit, and several hundred eminently replaceable more mundane workers - are already well on their way to supplying all the clothing and textiles Sethennai’s teeming masses require single-handedly, produced at a scale and speed far beyond what any traditional artisans guild could hope to compete with. 

Crossroads

Dominating the Old City - synonymous with it, really - that the district is called the ‘Crossroads’ is often considered something of a cruel joke by new arrivals. The ‘Labyrinth’ is usually offered instead. Ancient stone tenements and storehouses are basic facts of geography, surviving through conquest and fire, and over and around and through them are generations of newer building - mansions of imported oak and marble, shantytowns of cannibalized carts and derelict ships built on rooftops, and nondescript inns and stores conveniently built on top of trap doors and tunnels leading to much more exciting locales. Natives of a neighborhood who know all the secret passages and blind alleys can quickly get to anywhere they like. New arrivals are strongly advised to pay well for a reliable guide. 

Faction of Note: The Dreamers 

    There’s something under the harbor. There always has been. There probably always will be. Most people can go their whole lives without noticing it, but a certain few find living in the Old City a haunting experience, their nights spent dreaming of drowned palaces and impossible angles, their days spent lost in alleys and markets that have never existed. Inevitably, they come out of a daze and find themselves perched on the waters edge, staring into the filthy, polluted depths with an intense sense of longing. 

    Called the Dreamers, they’re an eclectic and informal fraternity, living in makeshift houseboats or the cheapest tenements that press against the water. Quite a few simply sleep on the streets. They’re something like a religion, and something like a guild - the most personable and talkative are merchants, selling the fish that others catch, the strange relics and minor treasures that their divers retrieve from the harbor, and the often beautiful - if always uncanny - art they produce. They take care of each other and, though no one has ever seen a dreamer raise a hand in anger, every attempt by syndicates or rival cults to extort or expel them has ended with their opponents going mad, screaming and clawing at their flesh in the middle of the night, or found poised in some elaborate and improbable suicide. After the third time, everyone more or less got the idea. 

    No one knows who leads them - if anyone does. Insofar as they have a public face, Zoe Alvane is it - a street urchin who ‘found the sea’ before she had hit puberty, for the last few years she has been the one who spends seemingly every hour of the day ensuring her ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ have food and shelter, and looking after the other beggars and poor in the neighborhood while she can as well. She’s also the one outsiders deal with when they come looking to buy information - it’s a disquieting fact of life in Sethennai that the Dreamers’ know almost everything there is to know about almost everyone. They are generally content to be left alone, and Zoe is very sympathetic and willing to offer personal advice and play the part of fortune teller to anyone desperate and willing to trade or do a favor - but it’s generally agreed that trying to force information from them is a bad idea. 

Faction of Note: Ironfang Mercenary Company 

    When Prince Cael seized the throne, he didn’t do so single handedly. He needed trained, disciplined soldiers to seize the Palantine and coastal forts, ensure no one escaped the palace, and keep order on the streets while the messy business of extinguishing the previous dynasty was carried out. For all this and more, he relied on the professional expertise of the Ironfang Company. 

    Formed around a core of hardened hobgoblin veterans of various border wars and colonial filibusters in the Free Cities, the Company has for the last fifteen years been the Prince’s favorite tool for securing his interests, keeping order, and bloodily making examples of any threats to his rule. For their trouble, they’ve grown fat and happy - a steady paycheck and yearly bonuses have left every officer with a townhouse, and most common soldiers with coin for families and apartments for them to live in. 

    Despite the lack of real combat - and the need to take on locals as new recruits, as more and more soldiers retire or die over the years - Captain Azaersi is a leathery old warehouse who has never let her troops grow soft. Even week the grand parade ground in Crossroads echoes with screaming drill sergeants and the crack of muskets, and it’s an open secret that the Prince paid to import stocks of grenades and munitions from Quepta for her arsenal. No one knows quite how she plans to deal with the sudden disappearance of her patron and employer, but for the moment the Ironfang seem content to keep order in the corner of Crossroads around the arsenal and parade ground that they call home. 

The Ruins

The ruins are not, legally, part of Sethanni, and absolutely no one with anything resembling sense would ever actually choose to live there. No one actually knows where the eponymous ruins come from - or at least, no one can agree which section is from where. Shantytowns of the most despised and desperate and built on top of their predecessors, which are built on top of battered and broken pre-Conquest ziggurats and homes, which are built on top of - well, some of it is just a natural cave system, and no one is sure about the rest. Or ever found just how deep it goes. Aside from the casualties of the Prince’s attempts to map it, the Ruins are inhabited exclusively by those that would be strung up or burned alive if they tried to live anywhere else, or those sufficiently dedicated to their greed or ambition that they’re absolutely certain they alone can unlock the secrets and find whatever wonders are buried beneath all the traps and monsters. Not great company, either way. 

Faction of Note: The Weavers’ Masquerade 

    Sethennai never really followed its ‘sister cities’ in the League in religion, with a sort of tolerant anarchy of different gods and sects almost always predominating over the gleefully blasphemously sublime demon-cults that the conquerors originally brought with them. But the small cultists that did exist at least enjoyed a luxurious, privileged irrelevance, with sanctums in the city’s grand temple. That finally changed when Cael seized the temples for his new Hierophant - and every relic and sacred text in them, as bloodily as necessary. Which with demon worshippers meant a massacre - letting one escape and beseech their patron for aid in crafting some horrible vengeance being generally agreed to be a terrible idea. 

    Not that that actually worked, of course. One acolyte managed to escape - no one’s quite sure how, but then, probably best not to ask unless you’ve got a particularly strong stomach. Well, that’s one of her stories, anyway - she goes by Maia Dayal, Beloved of the Architect, Wearer of Ten Thousand Faces, and sometimes she prefers to say she’s a recently arrived priestess from Celmy, or a street urchin who found enlightenment entirely on her own. As might be expected by the self-proclaimed title, she also changes her face (and build, age, species…) about as often as everyone else bathes. 

    While she has shown no interest in actually taking bloody revenge on the Prince, Dayal has done plenty to earn the price on her head. The Masquerade that has grown around her is a carnival of wonders and horrors, where all manner of temptations are offered to the truly desperate, debauched and vile. Skinweavers and facetakers always need raw material, and secrets and deaths can both be easily bought for the right price - though in keeping with their patron, the Masquerade is hardly a safe or stable place to do business, and offending the wrong cultist can easily lead to a shift from ‘visitor’ to ‘canvas for artistic expression’. 

Faction of Note: The Keendream Expedition

    Over the last two centuries, the actual facts about the pre-Conquest city has (with few exceptions) been buried under the weight of legends, rumors and (when necessary) several tons of rock. Despite this (or because of it) whenever things get bad (...worse) for the original population of goliaths and dwarves who can trace their lineage back to that time, stories about some hidden savior or buried relic that will free them spread like wildfire. This is just such a time. 

Ilidak Keendream Kathu-Viano is an explorer from a family with some grounds for its claim of being pre-conquest nobility. For the last year he has worked on commission for the Prince, leading a large and incredibly well-armed expedition into the ruins across the water from the Old City, digging into them in search of..something. No one who knows the goal has been willing to talk, but certainly it has involved hiring every historian and scholar with anything like knowledge of the city before it was Sethennai (not to mention half the charlatans and rumor mongers who might know something). 

Once news of the Prince’s disappearance reached Kathu-Viano, work shifted from its previous sedate pace to something much more determined. Certain paranoid minds have said it’s almost like he was waiting for this. Other, moderately less paranoid ones have pointed out it’s a bit odd that the government-sponsored expedition is so short on patricians and city notables and so high on mercenaries form the interior and goliath clans with far more reason to listen to Kathu-Viano than the Prince, should some conflict break out. 

The Stacks

Museums, exhibitions, satellite campuses, mystical archives, storehouses of eldritch knowledge, and one actual wizard tower - if the faint taste of ozone in the air doesn’t warn you what you’re getting in for leaving the city’s eastern gates, then the architecture certainly will. Wedged between variously reputable bookstores and inquisitives, different formalized and longstanding campuses are dedicated to the arts of conjuration, enchantment, sparkcraft, and practical cosmology. Competition for new discoveries and to fully unlock ancient secrets are good natured and nonviolent - at least, that’s all you can get out of anyone left standing once the smoke clears. 

Faction of Note: The Bookhounds 

    The Bookhounds aren’t any sort of formal organization - and at least half of them would roll their eyes at the name - but rather a loose network of gutter mages, disreputable academics, private inquisitives and researchers for hire, and people with a little talent or cash to burn and far too much curiosity for their own good. They act as a sort of volunteer police force in the Stacks, passing each other clues and leads and doing each other favors to track down stolen (or escaped) relics and curses, stop idiots from unleashing anything really dramatic, and generally help people and save the day. Not to mention accumulate really impressive bags of tricks and rare books themselves in the process. 

    While they don’t have anything like a real leader, the group’s beating heart is Nikos Roth, an Esheri academic who arrived in the city as a fresh-faced student on a three month expedition a decade back and who never intends to leave. Running a small, incredibly ramshackle-looking secondhand book store wedged between two tenements, he nonetheless has one of the more impressive collections of occult lore in the city, and is more than happy to trade for more of it, or connect anyone in need with a specialist who can help them. As more than one would-be thief has discovered, he’s also a fairly talented mage, and for all that being entirely self-taught has left him with some obvious holes in his training, it’s also left him with some tricks that basically no one comes prepared to counter. 

Redgate

Once, Redgate Prison stood alone, a fearsome warning of the Prince’s power to anyone looking south from the city center. Eighty-some years of steady urban sprawl later, most of its inmates would probably just need a running start from the prison walls to land back home. Filled mostly with those whose dreams of a new world fell flat, but with too little cash or too many enemies to get home, the slums of Redgate are a natural habitat for street gangs, drug peddlers, flesh traders, and everyone else looking to take advantage of the desperate and vulnerable. The prison itself - and its infamous and heavily armed wardens - has stumbled into being the center of law writ large, dealing out summary justice for criminals that are (correctly) assumed to be beneath the Prince’s notice. 

Faction of Note: Regate Prison 

    Sitting on a steep hill across the water from the Old City, Redgate prison was at one point a fortress, but for generations has been put to use housing the city’s worst, most dangerous, and most profitable criminals. Given the sprawling, crime-ridden slums that now surround it, its wardens also work as a sort of brutal police force, keeping the pretence of order on the street and preserving the Prince’s Peace. Usually. 

    The problems with discipline start at the top, really. The Prison’s infamously brutal First Warden is also its oldest and most dangerous prisoner. Before the Conquest, Vrocdruk was one of the city’s lesser gods, enthroned in one of the Palantine’s grand temples. When Sethennai - the man - defeated him, he chose to pull his demons away before they could tear the god into so much bloody aether. Instead he was crippled, lessened, and bound to a new home in the fortress and a new purpose; defending the city and its rulers. Later, less skillful, princes altered the binding, making him responsible for most crime and punishment and hoping that his sacred nature would make the native dwarves and goliaths more obedient. 

    Vrocdruk is still crippled, still bound to the prison, still forced to obey the orders of the city’s acclaimed ruler, and still extremely unhappy about it. He takes any excuse to work out his unhappiness on criminals or troublemakers with the incredible bad luck to catch his direct attention. His wardens largely follow his example, often acting less like agents of justice and more like a particularly well armed gang - to the point of semi-officially collecting fees for ‘security’ from nearby businesses, supplementing the cash extorted from prisoners and their families for both necessities and luxuries while incarcerated.

Sootcliff

Trailing south of Foundrytown, on and under the steep slope beneath the city’s western walls, the densely packed tenements of Sootcliff are certainly stained grey enough to earn the name. Existing primarily as a source of blood and sweat to feed into the ever-hungry foundries and assembly lines to the north, The buildings are cheap, massive, and constructed at the lowest possible cost, with all the consequences you would expect from that. With easy access to weapons and alchemical supplies from Foundrytown and (literally) beneath the notice of the Old City, Sootcliff is famous as the home of militant bands, revolutionary conspiracies, disgraced artificers, and generally anyone who has a dream for a new world and a plan that will require a lot of explosions to get there. 

Faction of Note: The Painted Doctors

    Less a single organization and more an extraordinarily loose confederation of - often feuding - crimelords, the Painted Doctors are a fraternity of (largely half- or self-) taught alchemists who have over the last year grown to be the dominant criminal guild in Sootcliff. The name sometimes refers to the incredibly distinctive tattoos each ‘Doctor’ has covering much of their body, universally agreed to be somehow enchanted or cursed. Otherwise it refers to the incredibly alien and vibrant skin tones that their test subjects and muscle develop after repeatedly ingesting their ‘miraculous’ potions and tonics. 

    While possessing remarkably little actual magical talent among them, the Doctors have perfected the recipes for several extremely useful potions - several incredibly addictive drugs, a half dozen forms of acids and grenades, and a dizzying variety of enhancing tonics to improve themselves and distribute to their thugs - and have managed to keep both the recipes and their sources for the necessary reagents entirely secret. This has left them in the enviable position of being able to promise anyone signing on with them that they’ll be able to more or less become a regenerating ogre for an hour whenever they need to fight, while their opposition has had to settle with advising their men to stock up on fire and acid. 

    The leading light of the Doctors is one ‘Dr’ Fadre - almost certainly not his real name - an alchemical savant whose ‘miracle cures’ are bought and resold across the city. A flashy and well dressed sort whose patronage has turned several of Sootcliff’s most prominent dens of vice into something close to palaces for those who can afford it, he’s said to be far less interested in the nuts and bolts of running a criminal empire than enjoying its fruits and indulging his passion for the Sciences. It doesn’t hurt his reputation that he doesn’t look a day over thirty, and has for as long as anyone has known him. 

Chance

Facing Oldport from across the river’s mouth, the docks of Chance are significantly new, cheaper, and altogether more ramshackle. Not really a part of any conscious design, Chance grew organically as the city sprawled beyond its original walls, essentially smuggling docks so successful it was easier to legitimize and start taxing them than it was to hang everyone involved. They now provide the city with a constant infusion of nerdowells and fortune seekers, and the district around them takes great pride in fleecing new arrivals of every penny to their name by the end of their first night on land. Hostels and boarding houses are usually safe, traditional vice dealers less so, and anyone selling treasure maps or magical amulets not at all. Still, they’re probably more harmless than the various mercenary recruiters and ‘exiled princes’ promising to give new arrivals exactly the thrill and fortune they came searching for. 

Faction of Note: The Red Ocean Trading Company

    What is now the Red Ocean Trading Company has gone through several dramatic changes over it’s eighty years of existence. First a privateer fleet hired by the Free City of Celmy during the First Armada War. Then eventually growing strong enough to seize several islands as an independent pirate state, before being crushed by the Esheri Navy during the Second Armada War. It’s remnants learned a bit of humility from that, and it is now seemingly content with its existence as either (depending on who you ask) a obscenely profitable shipping firm, or one of the most widespread criminal syndicates in the world. 

The Company’s significant interests in Sethennai - nearly half the docks in Chance, guides and guards for anyone heading into the Interior, and fingers in quite a few less legitimate pies as well - are ably represented by Captain Arun Prem, a(n in)famous adventurer and scoundrel in his own right, apparently enjoying his semi-retirement behind a desk by getting outrageously drunk with his favorite mercenaries and criminals every night and swapping incredible (and implausible) old war stories. 

There’s plenty of rumors, of course - that he’s here in de facto exile after angering the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he’s a thousand-year-old vampire and is the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he ate a kraken’s heart, and is immortal as long as he doesn’t lose sight of the water. That he’s biding his time to prepare an army before heading inland to carve a new kingdom for himself. That he’s only in the city for as long as it takes to carry out some truly spectacular heist. That he killed Prince Cael in a secret duel and trapped his soul in the pocketwatch he wears at all times. And so on. Of course, other rumours say that he started all of those himself to preserve his mystique as he grows fat in his old age.

Oldport

Facing out to the harbour but safely ensconced within the city walls, Oldpot is, as the name implies, one of the oldest ports in the new world - and certainly one of the busiest. Fully loaded merchant ships arrive daily, their cargoes emptied and replaced with the plunder of the New World almost overnight so they can return home on the next turn of the wind. Beyond the grand ports themselves, this district is home to all the most respectable shipping companies, merchant banks, hotels, and townhouses and apartments, as well as all the official consulates and embassies that Sethennai plays host to. 

Faction of Note: First Bank of Sethennai

    Despite only being as old as Prince Cael’s reign, the Bank already feels like an eternal and irreplaceable part of Sethennai. This isn’t something people are necessarily happy about, but its leadership had done a truly amazing job at keeping dissent to grumbling and resentment of the inevitable, and not actual resistance. They’re good at that sort of thing, even when they used Prince Cael’s (and, thus, the City’s) massive debts to his foreign benefactors as justification for taking control of the city’s tariffs and tolls, and began rigorously enforcing them, possibly for the first time ever. 

    Combined with a legal monopoly on the ability to mint coins, this has of course made the Bank incredibly wealthy. But not to the degree that might be assumed - the riches collected are to a large degree shipped back east to foreign creditors. Of the remaining, quite a bit is invested with as much an eye for politics as strict profit. 

    Executive Director Salman Ticaret, like most of his staff, is a Sethennai native who sought education in the Commonwealth (like most, he took a new name on gaining citizenship). Along with modern accounting and investing techniques, he came home with a firm grasp of political economy - and so for the last decade and a half has been more than happy to offer favorable rates to well positioned patrician and merchant houses, in exchange for their own favors and consideration in turn. The result is that the bank’s marble halls and adamant vaults house information as much as money. And Ticaret is perfectly willing to invest both, if the opportunity is promising enough. 

Foreign Interests

The League of Free Cities

The League of Free Cities is not so much a single power as a collection of fiercely independent deomcratic city-states held together by the intertwined private empires of their leading citizens, deep and interdependent trading relationships, and a common religion that the rest of the world calls demon-worship - they view this as deeply offensive. Also they’ve been doing it for hundreds of years and they’re not all dead yet, so clearly everyone else is just doing demonology wrong. Politics are a mess of knives in the dark and openly bribing the voting populace with feasts and spectacles, with glory and riches to anyone who can hold the mob’s favor for long. 

Demonic evocation - and the arts learned as a result of it, like fleshweaving, orienomarchy , breaking reality down into elemental chaos and shaping it to your whims, and so on - are in the rest of the world generally met with very thorough execution, making the freethinkers of the League the world’s bleeding edge in magical innovation. The entire culture of the League is also nearly custom-made to produce bold idiots willing to do what it takes to get rich or die trying, and the various Free City’s Adventurers Guilds are (in)famous the world over. 

Until recently, the Free Cities considered Sethennai, if not one of them, then at least a younger sibling or benevolent dependency. Prince Cael’s coup has been taken as something of a wound, and the merchant interests who have lost out as he opened trade have made sure that in the decades since his name has become synonymous with bloody-handed tyranny. The first broadsheets celebrating his death will sell out in moments, and the acclaimed merchant adventurer Vyas Asraya, said to be en route to the city, is said to be very optimistic about future trading opportunities. 

Holy Illyric Empire

Technically speaking a vast and sprawling feudal state unified only in the person of the Sovereign (Empress of Illyrin, Queen of Belthaya, Defender of the Hierophant of Imir, Grand Duchess of Abhari, etc, and so on, and so forth), the Empire dominates the better part of two continents, and in terms of size and prestige is unquestionably the foremost state on the globe. It is also a bureaucrat’s nightmare, its aristocracy distracted from their internal feuds only when they need to defend their ancestral rights from central overreach. 

Ancient controls and long established relationships make Imperial binders the most fearsome conjurers and thaumaturges in the known world, a process not at all hurt by the wholesale incorporation of any powerful spirits or terrestrial god who will sign on the dotted line into the official pantheon. Illyrin Paladins are also easily the most storied heavy cavalry the world has ever seen, and Abharic necromancers are generally held to be the heirs (or direct pupils) of the inventors of the craft. 

Illyric interests have prospered under Prince Cael’s reign, but the last years have seen Sethennai become a haven for heretical priests and radical binders, something Ambassador Konrad Reingard has been rumored to be increasingly frustrated with, though no one heard a word from his Oldport estate since the chaos began.

The Sublime Esheri Commonwealth

A thoroughly modern and enlightened state, the Commonwealth is history’s gift to the cartographer, an empire with firmly delineated borders and clear, rationally determined administrative divisions. Governed by a Janissary Corps educated and conditioned from childhood to put principle above self interest and the good of the Commonwealth above friends or (nonexistent) family, the Esheri control far less land than the Illyrin Empire, but has been able to fight it to a standstill and even force it to abandon certain far flung dependencies over a series of wars across the last century. 

Beyond a ruthlessly efficient system for taxation and conscription, the Commonwealth’s military might is credited to two sources - on the one hand, its marines are the finest and most disciplined line infantry anyone is likely to ever see, experts in the use of gas and artillery and famously cool under fire. One the other, their heavy automata are an answer to any conjured devil or bound beast, enlightened clockwork providing enough force to cleave through scales and enchanted plate without missing a beat. But the Janissaries are as happy as their enemies to admit that they prefer unfair fights - though they credit their infamous spy network to the fruits of their scientific studies of society and history, while their enemies instead blame the corrupting effects of gold, blackmail, and a complete indifference to the morals of those they work with. 

While the Commonwealth does have an embassy in the city, it mostly exists as an appendage of the First Sethennai Bank, the private institution responsible for printing and guarding the solvency of the city’s currency, its entire upper rung staffed by experts trained in the Commonwealth and generally considered Prince Cael’s way of paying back their support for his coup. More recently, it has been rumored that the Secretariat has taken an interest in the struggles in the interior. Coincidentally, an ‘Academic’ has been seen floating around various less than reputable bars in Chance, ostensibly as part of a project to record the city’s myths and folklore. 

The Warlord States

For the last two hundred years, the interior has been an evershifting patchwork of successor kingdoms, native revolts, monstrous empires, released horrors, and stranger things besides, the unending tide of weapons and adventurers ensuring that no single player was ever able to secure dominance (and the various rulers of Sethennai have certainly played their part in keeping things that way). At the moment the foremost powers are a giantblooded kingdom led by a messaniac priest-king claiming to be the reincarnation of a Titan, a personal union enforced at sword point between a Khasli pirate queen and a goliath ‘emperor’, a red dragon who has claimed an old giant palace and forced the dwarves living in the mountains around it to provide tribute and worship, and several dozen more minor principalities. It should go without saying that war is the natural state of being, and soldiers are sucked up like ships in a whirlpool.

Adventurers are the lifeblood of Sethennai, and they don’t only flow one way. A constant stream of veterans - either enriched or embittered - skulk, limp or run back once they’ve had their fill of the wonders of the new world, usually missing something important or carrying something priceless - sometimes both. The courts and inner circles of every powerful warlord are composed exclusively of this sort of hard, tricky and generally insufferable type of rogue, and they’re often the only agents trusted enough to be dispatched on delicate missions. The line between warlord and criminal kingpin or pirate magnate is also extremely thin - sometimes nonexistent - as smuggling, sabotage and assassinations are simply basic tools of statecraft in the ruthless arena of the interior. More than once, an ambitious Prince of Sethennai has attempted to recreate their ancestor’s short lived empire, only to be found butchered in their bed but the agents of one warlord or another.

The Warlord States view Sethennai as a vital artery for supplies and funding, and for manpower to refill their armies with disposable bodies for their constant border wars. On a grander scale, those with ambition view it as either a crown jewel and future capital, or a bleeding ulcer on the land which needs to be razed to its foundations. In either case, few are interested in a strong, stable government for it. Regardless of their opinions, sending emissaries and embassies to the city is the first (and often only) diplomatic initiative of every new warlord state - though in truth their role is often closer to mercenary recruiter and fundraiser.

[sondepoch]

50 Days Before Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The world has finally slowed down.

The wind is calmer now. The blades of grass that tickle Diavolo's sides don't poke into his skin, merely brushing by as the tips bend back and forth with the breeze. The vines on the trees don't seem to swing so ominously anymore, instead swaying to and fro as if dancing to the lilting melody that escapes your lips as you hum an unfamiliar tune.

The animals on the cliffside seem equally entranced by the picture of peace, undead chipmunks no longer scurrying in a rush as they instead watch the two of you from a distance, all of them mesmerized. A few brave creatures draw close enough to sniff at Diavolo's feet.

Indeed, the world truly has slowed down.

Diavolo can close his eyes and feel the rhythm of the Devildom ground lurking just under the hum of your voice, pulsing silently to the beat of magic. And indeed, even that is fainter than Diavolo recalls, everything around him muted and subdued but the sensation of your touch.

He opens his eyes lazily, studying your face. Your focus remains on his hair, of course, determined to free the red locks that have been knotted for so long. It's only an issue of convenience that Diavolo is allowed to rest his head on your thighs as you work, fingers feeling blissfully sweet even when they tug sharply on the strands that are so deeply entangled.

She's a goddess, the demon thinks, eyes studying your surreal beauty as he observes you from this new angle. He can never grow used to the sight of your face, not fully. No matter how beautiful you look in his mind's eye, reality is always sweeter. It's as if his brain truly cannot process something as wondrous as you, and your brilliance is brighter than anything Diavolo will ever be able to comprehend.

A goddess I must slay, the demon adds in shame, extending a hand up to cup your face as you work, caressing your jaw from this new angle.

"What is it, darling?" You murmur, never taking your eyes off Diavolo's hair as you address him. "Am I hurting you?"

You pause your work, withdrawing the shark tooth comb to massage his scalp a bit.

"No, not at all." Diavolo smiles. "Just thinking about how much I'd like to kiss you."

And how, one day, I will be unable to.

You laugh at that, a rich melody spilling from your lips that Diavolo wishes he could bottle in a jar, but it builds in your throat and bursts like a firework, gracing the air with its presence as every animal pauses to bask in the sound.

"You're so silly, do you know that?" You don't wait to lean forward, kissing Diavolo upside down on the lips before another giggle escapes you.

You're about to pull away, then. About to withdraw, about to return to toying with the demon's hair until it finally takes the shape you're envisioning. But before you can so much as lift your upper body, Diavolo's arms have shot up to grip your waist, making use of the full scope of his strength to lift you off the ground and flip you atop him, ignoring your undignified screech upon being thrust into the air.

"Rule four," Diavolo mumbles into your ear, snaking an arm around your waist as he traps you in the same inescapable grip you've held him in so many times before. "Never let your opponent catch you off-guard."

The demon smirks.

"That's in combat, you absolute buffoon," You mumble, swatting Diavolo's hands in an attempt to get him to let go. Of course, the demon ignores you entirely, rolling you onto your side to nuzzle your neck, peppering the skin there with kisses.

As usual, you can only pretend to resist him for so long before you relax in his arms, grumbling quietly about his hair.

"You can work on my hair later, love," Diavolo mumbles, breathing in your scent deeply, wishing he could mark you with his own.

"You've been saying that for the past month, Diavolo," You chide. "That's how it got so tangled in the first place."

But the demon ignores your words entirely, grinning as he continues to kiss up and down your body until the only sounds that leave your mouth are gasps of quiet contentment. "Diavolo," You mumble when his hands slip beneath your robe, his skin finding your bare shoulder now that it's no longer hidden by silk.

"D-Diavolo," You repeat when he pulls your robe down just the slightest, savoring the softness of your skin. Indeed, it's softer than any fabric he's ever touched, smoother and sweeter, and he just wants to go a little lower to see if—"Diavolo," You gasp, stiffening in his hold as you grab the robe he had been slipping down your shoulder.

"What?" The demon asks in alarm, eyes wide. You've never looked so uncomfortable in his hold. "Darling?" He asks, leaning back. "Was this not okay? Fu—I mean, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No," You mumble, eyes still not fully set on the demon. Diavolo follows your concerned gaze, his eyebrows furrowing when he doesn't see anything. But then he studies the ground a little more and his eyes fall upon what has you frozen so uncomfortably, and the demon groans as you try to explain.

"There's a baby squirrel watching us."

You feel kind of bad.

You didn't mean to let that undead squirrel cockblock Diavolo earlier, but it felt so unnatural to do anything intimate with such youthful eyes watching. Of course, your lover had wasted no time in chasing the chipmunk away, but when he returned, the mood was completely lost, and you could only giggle while Diavolo scowled in annoyance, reluctantly letting you comb through the rest of his hair.

"Don't pout," You mumble, threading your hands through the red, watching your fingers disappear and reappear. You're quite proud of your work, given that Diavolo's hair looked worse than a stray dog's in the morning, and it's hard to stop savoring the fruits of your three-hour-long labor. "My mother used to say that if you frown like that, your face will get stuck that way."

"Was your mother also the one who taught you to be prim and proper around baby squirrels?" Diavolo practically hisses, and then you've descended into another fit of laughter while the demon continues to pout.

Ordinarily, you wouldn't mind jumping onto his lap and kissing him into oblivion, until he's so blissed out that the demon has no choice but to finish what you started so that you can fuck each other into oblivion like the demons you are. But the sight of those oh so innocent animal eyes lingers with you, and the most intimate thing you can do is press a peck to Diavolo's cheek before tugging him to his feet, where you stand in front of him with pride.

"I know what will make you feel better," You declare confidently, hands on your hips.

"Killing that baby squirrel? Yeah, I'd do it too, if I could catch the bastard."

"No," You mumble, rolling your eyes playfully. You square Diavolo's shoulders, pushing his fists to his chest before you take your own stance four feet away. "Combat." You grin. "Fight your frustrations out."

The usual phrase is to fuck your frustrations out, but you've never had a problem with making exceptions for Diavolo.

"Really?" The demon groans, arching an eyebrow. "I know this is part of your plan to train me for the next cage fighting season, don't think that I—"

"Oh, hush," You cut him off, frowning. It takes little effort for you to pretend to be offended. Of course, he's absolutely right with that guess, but you're not going to let him realize that until you've weaseled him into the actual season competition. "Physical activity is known to be one of the best methods for relieving frustration," You inform the demon, beginning to circle him. "And it's said that the more frustrations you're harboring, the better your performance will be."

"I can think of a much better physical activity to relieve stress than this," Diavolo mutters under his breath, adopting his own fighting stance.

"What's that?" You ask, wanting the demon to repeat himself.

"N-nothing," Diavolo mumbles, his ears turning red.

How cute.

You waste no time on straying on the thought, though. It takes all of four seconds for you to throw the first punch.

And then the fight has begun.

Diavolo's progress as a student has been impressive, to say the least. He's successfully followed your every instruction perfectly, and the once awkward, heavy-footed man has become nearly as adept and mobile as you. If anything, his overall power is now probably more than your own, given that his hulking frame allows him to pack more power in a single punch than you can ever hope to achieve without using magic, and now that his injuries have fully healed, there's nothing hindering his full potential.

It's out of sheer willpower that you've managed to retain your winning streak thus far.

Your eyes are impossibly alert as Diavolo dodges every arm, knee, elbow you try to hit him with. Your technique is simple: keep the overwhelmingly strong demon on defense until you break through his shield, and never allow him to use any of that explosive strength.

Except that your technique usually needs to change halfway through every fight.

It takes Diavolo less time than usual to turn the tables on you—a testimony to how irate he truly must have already been—and then you're the one defending, ducking and diving to avoid his every assault.

It's pure luck that the two of you happen to be sparring here, of all places. You noticed the way the grounds on this cliffside literally morph to your aid, the grass twisting to prevent you from ever stumbling and tree roots magically appearing whenever you need something to bounce off of. Initially, you assumed that the ground here was equally resourceful to Diavolo, but weeks upon weeks of sparring has taught you that you're the only one with the upper hand. And thank goodness for that—because if you and Diavolo were to spar in front of the Temple of the Grim Reaper, where the two of you are evenly matched with nothing to weigh the odds in your favor, you know you'd lose to the demon.

And someone being stronger than you is a feat that not even the current Victor can claim—the very reason you want Diavolo to enter the cage fights so badly.

You spring backward when Diavolo attempts to punch you in the chest, knowing that a single hit will knock you out if you face it head-on. Defending his kicks are a little easier, given that you can use your own legs to hold him back, but the days where the two of you would spar and you'd end the fight without Diavolo ever landing a hit on you are over. Now, you have to block each kick manually, nearly every attack too well-placed for you to successfully dodge.

The fight lasts a long time. Your bodies dance back and forth over the whole field, occasionally crossing into the swamp as you continue to attack and evade, hit and jump, dive and deflect.

As usual, you both steer clear of the cliffside, the sharp drop too large for either of you to ever risk falling into—but today, the fight seems to carry more weight. This one is longer, perhaps longer than any of them have ever been. And you're certain that Diavolo is beginning to realize that he just might be able to beat you.

You dart back as he throws another kick your way, hesitating briefly when you realize that you can't see the cliffside anywhere. You glance right as Diavolo punches, left when he thrusts an uppercut your way, and forward again as he tries to grab your throat—and only then do you realize that the cliffside must be behind you, and that the swamp is far too distant for you to have much space between the steep drop and your own current position.

You nearly stumble forward when Diavolo tries to grab your leg, momentarily fearful that you'll back off the side of the cliff, but then the abrupt realization that the demon is still fighting and kicking convinces you that you must be a suitable distance away from the drop, and you take another step backward.

What a terrible mistake.

There's a moment where you're awkwardly balanced on air, one leg holding you up while the other searches desperately for footing, and you and Diavolo exchange a look of pure fear.

And then you're falling.

Diavolo reacts quicker than you've ever seen him move, scrambling forward to grab your wrist, reaching for the right, fingers drawing closer and closer. You reach your hand out in a gesture of desperation, trying oh so desperately to grab his hand—but the demon switches gears completely and dives forward to reach your left hand, his finger wrapping around your weaker wrist before throwing your body over the cliffside, never letting go even as you fly over the cliffside and land back on the ground, where the demon traps you underneath his own frame.

You blink, abruptly unsure of how the demon managed to turn the tables so quickly when usually you would have been able to squirm out of his hold.

And a memory surfaces in your mind.

"Do you know what they say?" You continued, rambling on despite knowing that the demon didn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"

"I'm sure," Diavolo said drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there was no doubt he didn't believe your words.

"It's true!" You protested, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show the demon your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is miles stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured!"

Your eyes widen when you realize that the demon actually remembers your words from back then.

Within seconds, he's got one hand wrapped around your throat and the other continues to grip your left wrist, your stronger hand held under Diavolo's foot, which presses down insistently as you struggle.

"No way," You mumble, writhing once more in an attempt to escape his hold. But you've taught Diavolo well—too well—and his grip is unrelenting.

"Goddammit!" You shout in frustration, the fight filtering out of your body when you see how powerless you are in this position. "You—you cheated! That wasn't fair! You didn't fight honorably!"

But the underlying message is clear.

You lost.

The demon holds you for a second longer, the triumphant (and slightly awed) grin on his face almost melting your inner frustration at losing, but then he lets go, and his smile is so big and happy that you can't be even a little upset when he wraps you in a hug.

"I did it!" The demon shouts into your ear, and you flinch away at the noise. "I actually did it! I beat you!"

"You cheated," You mumble under your breath, looking away in mild embarrassment as the demon continues to celebrate.

"Maybe," Diavolo comments, eyes twinkling. "But you told me that everything's fair on the battlefield, and the fact remains that I won, and you lost."

"Yeah, yeah," You mumble, scowling. "Just rub it in, why don't you? And what would you have done if your little plan hadn't worked? Would you have just watched me fall off that cliff?"

"No," Diavolo says innocently, smiling. "I would have jumped off with you!"

Cue a firm smack on the back of the head.

Diavolo continues smiling, though, his mood completely lifted now that he's won a fight against you for the first time.

"Hey, hey," He mumbles, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder. "Aren't you proud of me?" He asks. "Tell me how proud you are, darling," He kisses your neck. "Isn't it such a turn on that I'm stronger than you?"

"Yeah," You mutter under your breath, scowling. "You cheated. Very sexy."

But Diavolo pays you no heed, only continuing to kiss every inch of skin that's exposed, his tongue darting out to push your robe down.

"Diavolo," You warn, opening an eye to glance around in case there are any more baby squirrels watching. But when you find none, you relax a little more, leaning against the demon as he makes his way up to your ear, leaving a long, wet kiss against the shell.

"I can't stay too long," You mumble, though your words sound more like moans. "I have to...something...home…" You close your eyes fully when you feel teeth scrape your neck, too occupied with savoring the feeling of Diavolo to bother coming up with any of your terrible lies.

"Yeah right," The demon mumbles, his hand settling over your waist. "If you were actually going to leave, you would have left half an hour ago."

Your eyes snap open at that.

"What?" You flinch, instinctively glancing up at the moon. And, sure enough, it's position in the sky is much further along than where it usually is when you leave, and alarms begin blaring in your head. "Oh no," You mumble, gripping Diavolo's hand. "I'm so sorry, Diavolo, but I really do have to—"

"It's okay."

Diavolo smiles at you, a sweet and charming grin that melts your heart. "Go ahead, darling, and I'll be here when you come back at night."

"You don't want to return to the Temple of the Grim Reaper?" You ask, thinking about how much warmer the holy shelter you first brought him to is.

"Uh," Diavolo shoots a skeptical glance toward the swamp you're about to pass through on your way back to the palace. "I don't really want to cross the..."

"Swamp. Right," You mumble. You see a moment of offense flare in Diavolo's eyes, as if he still isn't sure whether you genuinely believe him when he claims that the swamp attacks him as he passes through it (which, to some degree you don't; but you know that it does something to him based on the sounds he makes when he follows you, so you're certain there's some truth to his words) before a calmer look passes through his eyes.

"We'll talk more when you get back, alright?" Diavolo offers you a silly smile, giving you a casual wink before he blows you a kiss.

"Alright," You mumble, already planning your nightly escape for when you'll return to spend more time with him. "And Diavolo?" You call, turning back.

The demon arches an eyebrow at you, already sitting back down on the ground where he probably intends to slumber for the next few hours.

"I really am proud of you."

"Thank you for the royal silks, princess! You truly are too kind!"

"I received your fruit bouquet, miss! You have my thanks!"

"I am in your debt, my lady! The decorative candles you sent were stunning!

"Princess, princess! Thank you for the flower arrangement!"

"My sister and I loved the dresses you sent, my lady! Thank you!"

You can barely hear the sound of your own thoughts as you pass through the halls of the palace, curtsying in response to every expression of gratitude, offering as many smiles as you can to those around you. It's impossible for you to properly acknowledge each of the maids and knights you delivered gifts to (and you now think that it may have been a better idea to have spread the presents out, rather than deliver them all on the same night), but you can't help the overwhelming satisfaction that fills your heart at seeing such merriment in the palace.

"Princess."

You instinctively curtsy at the knight who stands before you, assuming that he's another person who wishes to thank you for your gift—but a glance forward reveals that it's a familiar face, the very knight who's been keeping you company in the palace. When he holds his hand up, the remaining knights and maids who had been chasing after you to thank you grow silent, and you can feel the crowd disperse under his strict glare.

You toss a sheepish glance behind you, deciding that you'll properly talk to each individual person at a later date, and one-by-one rather than all at once, but a certain relief does fill your heart when you realize that they're not all clambering after you anymore.

"Thank you, Sire," You whisper to the knight in front of you, grinning. "I had not realized that my actions would cause such a stir in the palace."

"I believe I am the one who should be thanking you, princess." The knight gestures for you to walk ahead of him, as is customary for a knight and a princess, but you pull him into stride with you as you make your way to your quarters. "The painter you commissioned showed me some of his past works. I never expected that I would be painted at this young an age, and much less with a royal-caliber artist, but...you have my sincerest gratitude."

You beam at the man, not missing the faint flush on the knight's face when he sees your smile. "I'm glad you like him. He was the painter my parents commissioned to draw me when I turned of age, actually."

"Really?" The knight chokes. "You commissioned such a prestigious painter to draw a mere knight?"

You frown at that.

"You are not a mere knight. The fact that you are a knight alone should be a source of pride, Sire." You pause, realizing that you're at the door to your private chambers. But still, you don't enter. Nor do you dismiss the knight next to you.

"Princess?" The demon questions, glancing at you nervously.

"Are you proud to serve the crown, Sire?" The question is sharp, demanding an immediate answer.

"It will be an honor when I am allowed to serve under you," The knight responds swiftly, and you can tell from the way he says the words that he means them.

"But are you proud to serve the current crown?"

"Yes, princess."

But the flat inflection of the demon's voice is proof enough that the words are just that: words. They do not go deeper, they do not resonate with his heart, they do not march to the beat that he holds his weapon to. This knight may serve the crown but there is no pride there—a fact which brings a smile to your face.

"Sire," You call, urging him to face you. "Sire, I assure you that when I take the crown, I will not rule as my parents do. When the first snow falls, when the public learns the truth, when the world watches the Devildom take a new empress, there will be change everywhere."

A confident smile spreads across your face as you speak of the news your parents informed you of—the best news of your life. "When I step to the imperial throne at the end of this year, I will make you and every other knight proud to serve the royal palace. I will bring food, water, joy, and happiness to the poverty districts. I will restore balance to the laws of magic and permit its usage among those beyond the imperial family. I will withdraw our troops from the public's homes, and I will restore knights to their proper position of being defenders of the people rather than forced oppressors."

"I…" The demon trails off. "I believe you, princess. And when you become Empress upon the first snow of this year, I will be as devoted to your cause as you are. But why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Sire," You say, a small grin finding its way onto your face. "When the day comes where I become Empress, I will need a knight of honor. A knight solely devoted to me, my safety, and my life."

"And…" The demon trails off, his eyes growing wide.

"And I want you to take that position, Sire." You smile proudly at his utterly bewildered expression, warmth filling your heart at the pure joy that surfaces in his eyes. "Would you do me the honor?"

"O-of course, princess!" The knight practically shouts, dropping to a knee and drawing his sword instantly, offering it to you.

You take it from his hands proudly, testing the weight of the steel in your own grip before laying the blade from shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, saying the honorary words you memorized so many years ago. You know you'll need to repeat this all at a ceremony later, when you truly are Empress and there are witnesses, but the moment that this knight is bound to you begins now—and you know he will guard you with his life, whether the bond is formalized or not.

"I will guard you with my life, princess," The knight vows solemnly, looking up at you with eyes of pure adoration. "When you take the throne this winter, as the first snow graces the Devildom skies, I will be by your side, and I will defend you from now until the end of time."

You smile softly, letting the knight complete his vow.

"As long as I live, you shall be protected. As long as my sword stands between you and an enemy, I will fight for your life. As long as my body can move, as long as my heart beats, as long as the blood in my body is warm, there will be no threat great enough to harm you. I pledge my life, heart, mind, and soul to you, princess. I will be your shield and sword, and I am yours from this moment until the end of time. I give to you my future, and with it every ounce of my strength, pride, and loyalty, such that you are protected into eternity."

"Thank you, Sire," You whisper, placing a hand on his shoulders, watching him rise. "I trust you with my life."

The demon bows, his eyes meeting yours only when you urge him to, and then you recognize an unspoken curiosity that hadn't been there before.

"Sire," You call, urging him to be candid. "There is something else on your mind, is there not? Let there be no hesitation between us. Ask your question."

"Ah, well…" The demon trails off. "I was merely wondering if you or your parents had selected an Emperor to rule with you. You need not answer my question, of course, it's merely a curiosity. A trifling matter. Trivial, really. I don't mean to imply anything at all—"

"Sire." You cut him off smoothly, raising a hand. You offer him a sympathetic smile, quietly realizing that there must have been some hope in his mind that your heart would be unclaimed. After all, it's hardly rare for a knight and a princess to rule together—what better way to combine knowledge of the battlefield and politics than to wed two people who specialize in both? Alas, the time you've spent away from the palace has given rise to some deeper feelings, and the moment the knight muttered the word Emperor, only one demon's face could come to mind.

The man who nearly threw you off a cliff two hours ago.

"My heart belongs to another," You say, placing a tender hand on the knight's shoulder. "And I will introduce you to him one day. Perhaps sooner than I will introduce him to others. But…"

"I understand," The knight says, bowing his head respectfully. "I will await that day with pleasure, princess."

You nod your head, offering the demon another curtsy before you turn around to open the door to your private quarters.

But the call of your title makes you turn around.

"Princess?" The knight asks, somewhat meekly.

"Yes, Sire?"

"This...this man you speak of. The one who has claimed your heart, and whom you intend on making Emperor. He wouldn't…"

"Speak your mind, Sire." You watch with curiosity as the demon struggles to find his words, evidently choosing them carefully.

"He wouldn't...hurt you, would he?"

Diavolo? You wonder. Hurt me? The very thought makes you laugh—why, the demon can hardly land a punch on you during training without gasping and checking to see if your alright, the very notion of him ever injuring you brings an amused smile to your face.

"No, Sire. He would never hurt me," You declare confidently, smiling.

And as the two of you part, as you enter your private chambers and settle down, you've never been more certain of anything in your whole life.

Diavolo waits with an utterly unreadable expression on his face.

He's not waiting for you to return—though he knows, based on the location of the moon, that you should be approaching the cliffside sometime soon.

No, he's waiting for his father.

The elder demon has been increasing his visits to Diavolo's mind as of late, repeatedly checking in on his son to ensure that the future prince has not been growing too smitten with you to be of use to the Resistance. Ordinarily, Diavolo wouldn't care for his father's visits much—in fact, he actively dreads them, since he finds himself constantly being reminded of what he will eventually have to do to you—but yesterday, the elder demon had said there would be a surprise for Diavolo the next day.

And as old as Diavolo is, he's always enjoyed a good surprise.

But still, the expression on his face is something that no one would be able to read.

Not even himself.

His face is torn between a wistful blankness and an angry scorn, an odd combination of the two which has scared off most of the local animals. All his thoughts are focused on the situation at hand.

Namely, you.

Well, you certainly seem to be having a difficult time over there.

Diavolo flinches when the buzz of magic washes through his body, but this feeling is different. The magic has a different quality to it, not oppressive and heavy but instead light and...it vaguely reminds him of tea?

Diavolo shakes his head, his mouth hanging ajar when he registers who that voice belongs to—a voice he hasn't heard in all too long.

"No way," The demon murmurs, eyes wide.

Ah, so you can hear me. I was worried that I was performing the spell incorrectly, but it appears I succeeded.

"Barbatos!" Diavolo practically shouts, jumping up. He's abruptly overcome by an overwhelming urge to hug his friend, but, well, the magic is nothing but telepathy, and the green-eyed demon is nowhere to be found.

Lower your voice, my lord. This connection goes two-ways, and you're practically shouting into my head right now.

"You never told me you were learning magic!" Diavolo exclaims, entirely shocked. "And how many times have I told you not to call me your lord? We haven't even taken the palace yet!"

A low chuckle fills Diavolo's ears, but for once, the demon doesn't tense at the sound. It's not abrasive and ominous, like his father's. No, the sound of Barbatos on the other line is nothing but comforting, and it gives Diavolo a strange sense of relief.

Your father taught me. And please, my lord, you don't need to be humble. You and I both know that as long as you complete your task with the princess, Rebellion will succeed no matter what.

"Oh," Diavolo mumbles, voice flat. "So, is that it? Father sent you to make sure that I'm not stepping out of line with the princess? So that I don't betray the Resistance? Well, you can tell him that—"

Actually, my lord, my decision to speak with you was of my own volition.

Diavolo is silent.

I thought...that you might need a friend to talk to.

Diavolo's shoulders slump. "How much do you know?" He asks wearily, eyes drooping as he flops to the ground. Barbatos is absolutely right, of course—the demon has never needed a friend more than in this moment—but Diavolo needs to understand how much of the truth the demon already knows.

In truth? Roughly everything. Your father asked me to check on you using my powers, so I've observed up until the present for this timeline.

"Roughly everything?" Diavolo asks, ears perking up. "What haven't you seen?"

Ah, well. Barbatos is uncomfortably silent for a second. I tend to skip ahead whenever I see you and the princess growing intimate in my visions.

"Wha—" Diavolo chokes on his words, a furious flush painting his cheeks. "The princess and I have never been intimate, Barbatos. We've never had sex!"

I'm sure, my lord.

"Believe me!"

I do, my lord.

Diavolo groans. But he can tell from the playful inflection of his friend's voice that the demon is just teasing, in his own special way. And after being gone for so long, Diavolo realizes that he's missed it.

"So…" The demon trails off, his voice growing serious. "If you've seen all that, you know my issue, then. You know that I…" Diavolo swallows, abruptly realizing the words that he's never even admitted to himself yet.

"I love her," He murmurs with a strange wistfulness.

Yes, Barbatos says. I've seen you. And you should know, my lord; she is equally infatuated with you.

"Bet all that infatuation will disappear when she watches me kill her family in front of her, right?" Diavolo's voice is dry, and the humor to his joke falls on deaf ears. "Tell me, Barbatos, is there any reality where Rebellion succeeds, and I don't have to watch her die?"

Barbatos's silence is a bigger answer than his words.

"I thought so."

Diavolo…

Barbatos trails off, unsure of how to help the demon. Even the honorific is dropped, and abruptly, the conversation switches from servant and master to just two friends talking, one about to get their heart ripped to shreds.

If it helps, she doesn't hate you in all the timelines.

"She doesn't?"

Sometimes…sometimes, if you explain things to her, she understands. But you have to make her understand. She... it's going to be hard to explain to her why she cannot live, why people will only fear her no matter how good a ruler she tries to be. After all, there is a reason why she is the key to Rebellion. And if you can make her see why, then maybe, just maybe, she might…

"She might willingly let me execute her in front of the masses?" The demon leans back on the ground, frowning. He's not sure if that situation is better or worse than you actively hating him.

She won't be willing. But...she won't hate you, either.

"And is this timeline one of those instances?" Diavolo's fingers dig into the grass, hopeful.

That depends on you, Diavolo. But the princess is a good person on the side of evil. And she can never change that—the masses will always know and recognize her as the tyrants' daughter. There can be no peace for the world until every member of the royal family is erased from existence.

“Barbatos,” Diavolo mumbles under his breath.

Yes?

"If the princess is a good person on the wrong side, then what am I?" Diavolo looks up at the sky, oddly enough, like he's asking God for the answer instead of his old friend. "How can I call myself..."

You are a good person, Diavolo. The fact that you are so torn up over this decision is proof of that very fact.

"Does a good person kill another good person?" Diavolo asks. "Is that the world that we're fighting for? How can we have good people on the side of evil if there are no evil people on the side of good?"

Do you want to know the truth, Diavolo?

"Only if it's coming from you, Barbatos."

Your father.

"Huh?" The demon asks, raising his eyebrows in confusion. "What about my father?"

Your father is the man you are looking for: an evil person who was born on the side of good. Either your father will have you kill the princess, or to save your princess, you must kill your father—but you know what you must do. No matter what, should you choose to defend the princess, you are defending a good person. But the moment you choose her, you are siding with evil. And as soon as you do that, your father will not hesitate to wipe you out with the princess. And when that happens, he will be the sole inheritor of the Devildom, and our kingdom will be ruled for eternity by an evil man.

"You're really giving me no choice here, Barbatos," Diavolo mumbles under his breath.

Because you are too honorable a man for this to be an issue of choice, Diavolo. Your father will be the demon king, no matter what. It is only a question of whether you will be there to succeed him—whether you will be able to be the final inheritor of the Devildom. And if you are not, then this world really is doomed.

And there it is.

The overwhelming truth.

The god awful realization that holds Diavolo in place.

He is the only barrier between an eternity of torment for the Devildom and an eternity of peace. He is the difference between the Devildom remaining the Devildom or it becoming true Hell. Under his father, the people may suffer just as poorly as they are under the current tyrants—but under Diavolo, they will be free.

And the price for an eternity of freedom?

You.

One life against an infinite amount of others.

One life against an endless amount of happiness.

One life against an eternity of peace, prosperity, and bliss.

One life to save the realm.

The question plaguing Diavolo's mind was never a question; there was only ever one answer. One choice. One option for the demon who has a heart too good for those around him.

"So, what do you suggest I do?" Diavolo asks drily, staring up at the midnight sky. "How can I look the princess in the eye and hold her close when I know I'll be her end? How can I do anything at all without hurting her in some way?"

Have you ever heard of living in the moment, my lord?

Diavolo's lips curve upward, recalling your words to him from just one month ago as you demanded so breathily that he abandon his reservations and kiss you.

"I have, Barbatos."

Then you know what to do.

And for the first time, Diavolo truly does. Even if he hates it.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

Word count: 6.5k

Notes: Here's a list of a few other original titles I went through ^^ The Tragedy of Julius Caesar / The Tragedy of Diavolo / The Price of Power / Hellfire Sings / Masses Have Mercy / Beauty and the Beast / We All Fall Down / The Ultimate Sacrifice / And I Wait / - Each title carried different meanings, but my favorite was the Tragedy of Julius Caesar. I'll explain this in chapter 7 :D

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Next Update: 9/02/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

[crownedpetitebellette]

"Forgive my prying, but I did I hear mention that you'd a sister you traveled with whilst in Nazair?" Dettlaff asking at the Vampiric Dinner Party, after getting a closer seat to speak with he duchess and he notes how.... she strikes a strange chord of familiarity in him.

"That is true indeed," answers Anna Henrietta after a slight hesitation. The secretive escape from the palace into the night, the decadent party and the puzzling quest, the proximity to a vile robbery and a dashing rescue made her reckless. The Duchess herself would name it valiant. Suddenly she remembers Cecilia Bellante. The ragged necklace of blood along the pretty bard's throat. The memory of the sight makes her sick, the way the realty failed in a heat of a chase. Doing anything in her power as not to unravel into improper sickness, she fidgets with her rings and speaks, somewhat with haste. "My sister was...is an exceptional person. A keen adventurer. Unfortunately, our ways parted when we were quite young. However, I do not doubt that she had grown up to be a striking beauty," as the words leaves her mouth, the little weasel lifts up her nose just a bit. "Even as a child she was considered to be...a dark rose of Toussaint. It is a rare occasion when the poets had not flattered a maiden, but attempted naught but to describe reality." "But..." her hands have ceased trembling under a calm, if slightly eerie gaze of the blue eyes. She feels like a small game being watched by a content predator for a mere moment. "I have unwillingly overheard something too, master van der Eretein. Geralt mentioned that you were looking for your beloved in our fair capital. And it is well known that no woman is more beautiful to a heart of a man than his paramour. Is that why you ask of my sister?" Anna Henrietta enquires with a redolent half-smile. In he heart of hearts she cares not for flirting, pampered by admiration as she is. But her fervent desire to speak of her dear, lost Syanna with someone, anyone, makes her tongue untrustworthy. A distraction is needed. "Do I remind you of your paramour? Trust me, my darling sister is much more striking than I am," the little weasel touches the pearl earring coquettishly, tilting her head to the side, just like her namesake. Anarietta's hair colour was always considered unfortunate, compared to her older sister's, but later the songs praised it as "exotic and exquisite'. She almost believes the lie herself after all these years. "Her hair is black as raven-wings, with eyes the shade of winter morn. Almost like yours, master van der Eretein. One can guess that you are from Nazair just by looking into them. They are as wondrous as its famed blue roses."

[raziroo]

Karma | The Marauders

[Chapter 2] Wands and Voodoo

The oaken door flew open as Karma pushed it, revealing a rickety metal desk which ought to have been changed by now, three chairs, one behind the desk and two on the other side, whose cushioning was torn and tattered, an old wooden cupboard against the wall on the left of the door – it contained the children's records and personal information – and two elderly women; one was well put together, even in her strange emerald green apparel, and the other looking like she'd risen from a grave and jumped in a tub of oil.

The latter gave another call. "OI! Why're you late?"

"I was busy with something."

"Busy with something, hm? I'm sure as heck you weren't busy with something! Just planning mischief, you were, yes, I know!"

Karma was outraged. How could Beauregarde be this dumbly unfair? She'd just seen that Karma really was busy with something, for heaven's sake. It was evident by the look on her face what Karma was thinking. However, before she could argue back, a stern voice spoke up.

"Mrs. Beauregarde, if you could please cease your argument. I would appreciate if I get to talk to Karma here. It is acceptable if you wish to leave the room, but seeing as you're her guardian, it would be advisa-"

"I'm not no one's guardian! Little brats, all of 'em are, don't know why I'm still doing this, weasels, rats, absolute dingbats, rotting the house of my husband..."

Gertrude kept on grumbling under her breath, and so, the woman turned to Karma with her lips in a thin line. "Please," she motioned to the one remaining chair. Karma quickly trotted to it, and perched on it.

She was nervous. This woman had been here a few times earlier, and after each of her visit, one or sometimes even two children always disappeared for about a year, and came back only once, around mid-year. People, not only in the orphanage, but also in the surrounding streets and blocks, had spotted the woman quite a few times. Some often wondered if she was here to adopt the children, but it didn't seem likely, with the kids coming back once a year and refusing to say even a word to anyone except their closest friends. And even if the elderly woman was, Karma wasn't the least bit interested in adoption. She wasn't going to risk being sent to a place she wasn't good with; she knew that unlike in most orphanages, Beauregarde wouldn't give a lizard's tail to Karma's opinion, the old hag would just want to send karma away.

However, before Karma could voice her doubts and queries, the woman spoke up.

'Karma, I'm Minerva McGonagall, a professor at Hogwarts School-,'

Hogwarts? Why not just name it Warthogs?

'-of Witchcraft and Wizardry-,'

What the heck?

'-with Albus Dumbledore as the headmaster.' Karma was stunned speechless. What the hell was going on, she didn't know.

'Now, I'm aware that this news must be greatly startling for you-,'

Understatement of the century.

'-but it is very much true. Magic exists, and so do witches and wizards and wands. There aren't many wizards and witches around this particular area in London, but some still exist; for example, let us take Mister Montgomery, the eleven-year-old I escorted out of this orphanage 11 years ago – he is now a promising wizard. And so are all the children of this orphanage who have met me before this day. And not unlike these children, Miss Karma, you too, are a witch, and not a muggle.'

Witchcraft? Wizardry? What would they learn, voodoo magic? Would they need talismans and dreamcatchers and crystals and amulets, too? Voodoo dolls like Karma, innocently, had made as a mere child? Would they have to live in cobble cottages, with a creepy animal as a familiar? And what, in the name of holy Mother Mary, was a muggle?

'I am also aware that "magic" in the muggle world isn't... greatly appreciated. I know it is usually associated with crystals and amulets, but let me assure you, it is most certainly not so. You will just need a wand, such as this,' the woman pulled out a wooden stick, which was supposedly a wand; it was sleek, with a few bulging designs on the grip. 'With a wand such as this alone, you will be able to learn most wondrous things, such as charms, spells, jinxes, and transfiguration, of whom I am your Professor of. I understand it is a lot to take in, but you must make sure of one thing, Miss Karma – do not, do not in any circumstances whatsoever, let slip your abilities, or your magic, for it isn't allowed except in exceptional circumstances to use magic outside of school, not unless you are of age. I have, for the most part, told you everything. You may ask any questions you have now.'

Karma let loose at once. 'What are muggles? How will I get my wand? How will I get to school? Why was I not aware of my magic before today? And, from what I'm guessing, this Warthogs school is a boarding school, and I don't want to leave my friends, and this place, in general, so is there a way for me to not attend this school? And, uh, well... that's all... for now.'

Only after having finished did Karma realize she was slowly nearing the chair's edge, and that she was speaking faster than intended, and that the witch before her had brows raised and a hint of a smile present on her face.

'Miss Karma, you did not know of your magic before today, because eleven is the age at which young wizards and witches receive their letters to Hogwarts. In the case of muggle born children, such as you – children of people who do not possess magical abilities – you are kept in the dark about your abilities up till your eleventh birthday, and that is when you receive your letter to Hogwarts- '

'-But my eleventh birthday was on the 11th of February, why did I receive it so late?'

'-Because, Miss Karma, you do not have...' Oh. So that was how it was. These magical people discriminated against orphans, huh?

'You do not have any legal guardian except for Mrs. Beauregarde, and it is her request to not be disturbed, in her words, on each particular magical child's birthday; she would rather have me visit once, before school starts, and collect all the witches and wizards that need to be escorted.'

'...Uh-huh.' Karma believed this McGonagall woman. That did seem like something Gertrude would do. But one query still hadn't been answered; the most important one.

'Is it necessary for me to attend this school?'

Karma didn't want to attend Hogwarts. She had Morgan and Jade, and that was enough. Who was to say there wouldn't be evil people in this school, turning naughty kids to frogs and rats? And who was to guarantee that the teachers didn't beat children with magical canes and belts; yes, Professor McGonagall (Karma felt inclined to call her that, for some reason) seemed nice enough, but what if it was just for show?

'Miss Karma, it is crucial you attend Hogwarts; there is no way you will be able to control your magic successfully. Even worse, if your magic is suppressed, it can prove to be dangerous.' The elderly woman's grim tone told Karma it was better not to question this. So, she nodded.

'Okay. But... how will I get my wand? And books?' Karma had many questions to ask. But for the time being, this would have to suffice.

'No one's looking out for us. Not for the Slytherins.'