#but then again if he hoped to be freed doing terrible things to people he wanted to free him makes no sense

[no-light-left-on]

there needs to be further and deeper discussion in this fandom of the Outsider's mannerisms and way of speech in DotO, hell, even in DH2 - his agitation and anger, the resignation and hope and lingering sorrow, his awe, "you've done something impossible"

#li.txt #dh #dishonored #please scream to me about this stuff #I often see (or saw) people describe him as emotionless and expressing little emotion but oh he is so expressive #especially if compared to the first game #(which I will once more attribute to delilah defiling his resting place which caused a shift in his overall existence) #Im also like curious on everyones takes of him baiting daud into killing him and harassing billie so severely #like what was the point? surely doing all that would guarantee his death! did he want to die? or did he hope they could free him? #but then again if he hoped to be freed doing terrible things to people he wanted to free him makes no sense

[bunny-yan]

Didn't Tasman always married some other girl in all the previous timelines? I think lover is justified in not trusting him one bit. Imagine if she throws that fact in his face and how all she ever wanted is someone loyal and he's never loyal to her while she always was.

You are just begging to make him angry aren't you? Our hero doesn't like to be questioned. TW: mentions of abuse, depictions of violence, language, mentions death,

—

You stared. You didn’t know what else to do when he presented you with a simple ring etched with declarations of love and devotion. 

His eyes were shining, hopeful as he knelt and presented it to you.

Onlookers whispered, most stopping to witness history being made. The world’s hero was proposing to an average commoner after all. You could see the looks of disgust on the faces of his party members as they watched the tragic display. 

You felt your stomach clench painfully, the butterflies more like cicadas fighting desperately to be freed from such a narrow space. Your hands were clammy as you wrung them together, you felt lightheaded, and it took every fiber of your being to prevent yourself from passing out from pure shock. 

Why would he do something like this after the screaming fit the two of you had the night before? It was hardly a good sign that it was time to spend the rest of your lives together. Especially considering how that fight ended. 

You didn’t want to think about the bruises that were hidden underneath the long-sleeved tunic you were wearing despite the blazing temperatures. If you thought about the terrible words whispered harshly in your ear, the rough hands, you thought you’d puke and ruin this heartfelt display. 

“I know it took longer than we thought, but I wanted to keep my promise.”

An understatement. 

A fucking understatement is what it was. You’d made the promise to grow up and get married to your childhood friend in your first life. To propose talking about an age-old promise, that had been broken as far as you were concerned, felt cruel. 

Shaking your head, you tried to keep your voice soft so you didn’t embarrass him and give all of these people another reason to hate you. 

“Tasman, don’t do this.”

His eyes shined, if he heard what you said, he didn’t acknowledge it as his smile grew before sealing the nail in your coffin. 

“Will you marry me?”

Gasps echoed throughout the crowd, the throng of people desperate to push closer to see who the potential partner their savior was taking, to hear what you would say after being given such an honor. It would be a lie to say that you weren’t hurt by how unimpressed some of them were. You could amount it to jealousy and you were sure that’s what it was, but you couldn’t find it in your heart to blame them when they didn’t know that their hero was a monster disguised as a saint. And how could they? He’d kept it so well hidden, even you didn’t find out until this lifetime. 

It was cruel to abandon you after asking you to wait for him. Marrying another broke your heart, but any hope you had of rekindling anything other than a burning disdain for your childhood friend seemed impossible when your forgiveness was usurped by his selfishness to finally take what he never seemed to want before. 

The longer you stood there, awkwardly staring at him, the louder the whispers grew. 

His bright smile waned and stress began to appear on his features. Why weren’t you accepting? He’d finally done the one thing the two of you wanted. It should’ve made you happy. Why weren’t you happy?

“Lover?” he said, voice strained as he debated to stand or remain kneeling. 

You shook your head again. Overwhelmed by feelings that hit you like a freight train you whipped around before almost running away. The crowd parted to let you through, finally silent as they looked at their savior, struck dumb, still on his knees as he watched you disappear. 

It was the wrong move. 

You should’ve gratefully accepted his offer, hiding the disgusting feelings from sight until you could tell him, behind closed doors, just how you felt about even the thought of marrying him. 

Instead, you ran. It was dumb. It was stupid to believe that you would have time to process your feelings before confronting him and when a hand caught your elbow just as you reached the door to the inn you rarely got a chance to leave, the ominous feeling in your gut solidified as you looked back and stared into unquestionably angry purple eyes. 

You were dragged to your prison faster than you could stumble behind him and you winced when your knee banged on the stairs. He didn’t slow down, refusing to let you go until you were shoved inside the bedroom. 

“Do you insist on making a fool of me?”

“I don’t know what you expected me to say.”

“Was a simple ‘yes’ too much to ask for?”

It was, but you didn’t tell him that. Staring at the floor, you rubbed a hand over your face as you tried to make sense of the turmoil you’d been thrown into. 

“Where is all of this coming from?”

He grit his teeth, closing the door to your bedroom when familiar voices could be heard entering the common area. Didn’t want them to know about the trouble in paradise, even though it was clear not only from the embarrassing display but from the way the two of you would fight incessantly. About anything and everything since you were brought here. 

Taking a deep breath, he walked closer to you before holding your hands in his as he looked deeply into your eyes. 

“I thought my feelings were clear.” When you didn’t speak, he continued. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. We made a promise to be together when we were younger and I want to make good on it.”

Looking into his eyes, you said, “You remembered.”

A lone tree in your hometown held your initials encased in a heart with his. The two of you promised that you would always be together and that when you got older, you’d spend the rest of your days in love and inseparable. 

Narrowing your eyes, you ripped your hands out of his grip. “It’s a little late.” Pacing to the window with Tasman on your heels, you said, “We made that promise ages ago. Lifetimes ago. That tree is dead if it still even exists along with that useless promise.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not too late.”

“It is!” you exclaimed, turning to face him. “I don’t love you Tasman. The days I dreamt of marrying you and spending the rest of our lives together are long gone. They were crushed after you took that vow with someone else.” 

“We talked about this,” he said, exasperated. 

“And yet I’m still angry.”

“Don’t you realize how selfish you’re being?” And here it was. “Holding on to something that happened in the past when I’m trying to make up for it now. I’m trying to make this work. To make us work and you refuse to stop acting like a spoilt child.”

Typical Tasman. Resorting to calling you selfish whenever he couldn’t comfortably paint himself a victim of circumstance. It was old news. It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did, but the words buried themselves in your skin, threatening to rip out every violent impulse and dig up each insecurity you tried so hard to manage.

“I’m a spoiled child and yet you can’t seem to stop clinging to me despite how much I make it clear that I want nothing to do with you. Your mistakes were in the past? Well, our love is too.”

He slapped you across the face. Hard enough to knock you from your feet. Your knees banged harshly on the carpeted floors and you held your cheek as you looked up at him. 

He wasn’t above putting his hands on you, but he’d never done it without warning, without physical resistance on your part. 

You stared at him, frozen as he glared down at you. 

“You’re acting ridiculous.” Fingers clenching and unclenching, his intimidating figure towered over you as he went on his tirade. “Have you ever thought about how I must’ve felt? Having to leave you behind? Being used as a disposable tool to fight someone else’s battles? I would’ve given anything to stay by your side, to grow up together and live a normal life, but I had to become the hero. To save the world. To save you. I sacrificed my life, my humanity to give you the chance to live freely and you’re whining about not being with me for a couple of lifetimes? I spent decades trying to forget you. Centuries! Long after you disappeared from this world. Because, unlike your existence, the hero’s fate only ends when the world does. Would you have had me tease myself with a glimpse of what happiness could have been like by coming back? Spending a single century by your side before you grew old and left me with memories of what living was?”

For all the pain in his voice, you could only think about how much your jaw ached. How devastated you felt learning of his multitude of affairs. Sure he could claim that none of them mattered, that he was doing it to forget about you, but where did that leave you? Where did it leave the centuries worth of feelings that continued to go unanswered?

Quietly, so softly that it wouldn’t have been heard by anyone other than him, you said, “It took you eight centuries to change your mind?”

You looked at him and something was off about his gaze. 

Something was wrong. 

What had changed? He’d abandoned you time and time again and only now did he return. He’d spent the last eight lifetimes treating you as a placeholder that he never planned on coming back to. What was so important that forced him to come running back?

Your mouth opened, slack in realization. It made you sick to your stomach to even consider, but you had to know. 

“Why don’t you let me go back to my life without you?”

“What life?” he said, spitting out the words as if they were poison in his mouth. “You were an orphan, wanted by no one. You had no friends,” Because of him. “You couldn’t hold down a job.” Because of him. “You couldn’t even manage to find an apprenticeship. You had no future before you met me.”

“At least let me spend eight of my lives fucking other people and we can call it even.” you snapped. You felt fear coil in your stomach at the rage that poured through his gaze as he descended upon you. Grabbing your shirt by the collar he yanked you to your feet before he got in your face. 

“You’re mine.” he said with a snarl.

There it was. 

The ugly jealousy that reared its head whenever you proposed a life without him. He couldn’t bear to live with the thought of living without you, yet he refused to allow you to live a life where you could potentially forget about him. 

You weren’t allowed to move on and experience life. He’d rather go back on his mind-numbingly nonsensical ideals and trap you by his side, even offering something you would’ve cried tears of joy for had it been one lifetime earlier, rather than let you go. 

You didn’t think your heart could break further, but you couldn’t help it as you thought of how easily all of this could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t waited. If you would have decided to live instead of wasting away again and again. 

Tasman would’ve come running back, both of you surprised and young, eyes unwearied from the knowledge of previous lives, of heartbreak and loneliness.

Of betrayal. 

Maybe the two of you would’ve argued, he would claim you broke your promise by not waiting for him and you would argue that you didn’t have to remain trapped in the same town to wait for him to finish fighting and come back to you. Maybe he would’ve gotten angry and insisted that you stay and when you refused, maybe he would’ve offered to bring you with him. Making new promises of protection, promising to help fight each others’ battles, and keeping old ones of loyalty and love.  

Thinking about it now, the idea felt like a distant fairytale. An unthinkable possibility looking at the man you no longer loved.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, reaching into his pocket. 

You panicked when he pulled out the ring. 

“To let every know, we’ll marry and make it the wedding of the century once I defeat the Demon King.”

You tried to tug your wrist out of his grip, but it was like iron. When the ring got closer, you balled your hand into a fist. You knew there was no real point in fighting him, but you had to do whatever it took to prevent this from happening. 

Irritant and unwilling to play the kind hero who would never hurt a soul, you screamed as your wrist was crushed in his hand. Your fingers splayed on reflex and he smiled when he was finally able to slide the ring on your finger.

“How lovely,” he hummed almost longingly. 

A silent chant set your wrist and he released it to allow you to curl into yourself on the floor. You felt little other than a dull ache, but you couldn’t forget the feeling of your wrist shattering that quickly. 

“Don’t bother trying to take it off. You won’t like what happens if you do.” he said before turning and leaving the room without another word. You could hear the insincere congratulations pour in, muffled from beyond the door. 

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere x gn reader #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere male #ask #gn reader #yandere hero

[rottenimagines]

Sweet Temptation

Summary: Just Negan trying to seduce you into helping him get out of his cell.

(Little disclaimer: English is not my native language, but I try my best, I promise x.)  

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You've been secretly visiting Negan for several nights.

 In daylight, you act like another ordinary member of Alexandria, while at night, you betray your own people by sneaking into the infamous killer's cell to help him by bringing him food, or just keeping him company.

.

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As soon as Negan sees that it's you who’s coming down the stairs, he stands up and walks over to the bars of his cell to greet you.

‘‘What do you have for me tonight, darling?’’ He tries to speak in his trademark flirtatious tone, but it's obvious he's defeated inside.

You hand him a sandwich wrapped in napkins through the bars.

 He notices how your eyes light up as soon as you see him; just by feeling him close. My ticket to freedom, he thinks.

‘‘Thank you, honey. I’m starved tonight.’’ He takes the sandwich and unwraps it.

 ‘‘Mmmm. You're such a sweet, helpful girl, aren't you?’’ He winks at you as he takes the first bite.

You lean against the wall to watch him eat in silence. He looks tired and thinner. His physical appearance is beginning to decay. This Negan is only a shadow of his former self.

‘‘So... how you doin', Negan?’’

He sighs heavily and rubs his forehead.

‘‘I feel like I'm going insane. I just want to feel the sun against my face again, y’know?’’

He looks deep into your eyes, giving you the puppy dog eyes.

‘‘I'm tired of these bars. I'm tired of this cage. I want to be out in the world again. Just you and me, darling. Just you and me.’’

A chill runs down your spine when you hear his sweet words. 

You approach the cell again and grab the bars with both hands. You look him up and down.

‘‘You look... tired.’’

He nods while still chewing.

‘‘I am, I am. They don't give me enough to eat. They treat me like I'm some rabid dog.  I'm going crazy in here.’’  He puts his face right up to the bars, getting very close to you. ‘‘I need to be freed. I really need your help, Y/n.’’

You can feel his warm breath on your face. You're deeply attracted to him, but still you’re not stupid; you can't help but distrust him. He has done terrible things to your people after all.

‘‘Look, I know you're hesitant. You have every right to be. I wouldn't trust me either. But you and I, doll... we have something special... We understand each other.’’ 

He gently brushes a loose hair out of you face. ‘‘This cell is killing me...’’

‘‘Negan... you know I can't do it.’’

He exhales in defeat and pulls back a bit.

‘‘Well... I had to try.’’ He shrugs and continues eating the rest of his sandwich.

After several minutes of awkward silence, he starts talking again:

‘‘So, you like coming down here to visit me, huh? What if Rick and the others found out you're here?’’

Your body tenses just thinking about it. He laughs at your reaction, at the sudden fear all over your face. 

‘‘It's our little secret, ain't it?’’ He gives you a quick wink as he finishes his sandwich.

A mischievous little smirk curves your lips.

 ‘‘Exactly. This is our little secret. I hope you don't forget.’’

You put your hand through the bars and he hands you back the napkin. Then he continues talking with his usual charming tone:

‘‘You really enjoy these "secret" visits, don’t you? You enjoy visiting the big bad Negan in his cage.’’ He smirks as you grab the napkin from his hand.

‘‘I’m just a good samaritan doing her good deed for the day.’’ You answer him, mimicking his seductive tone.

His eyes sparkle with mischief as he looks at you intently.

‘‘Samaritan? No. You are much, much more than a samaritan, my dear, sweet friend.’’

He leans over the bars and kisses the tips of his fingers before touching your cheek with them. You enjoy deeply the touch of his fingers on your soft skin, even if it's only through the bars.

He looks down at you with a sly smile. ‘‘I think you actually like a little too much these secret meetings with the big, bad man, all alone.’’

You bring your face closer to his, losing yourself into his dark hazel eyes. His face just a few inches from yours.

‘‘Maybe I do.’’

‘‘Maybe you do, huh? And if I told you I know a way to make these secret meetings a little more... interesting?’’ He whispers, looking down at your lips.

Your eyes, full of desire for that man, drift down toward his lips and then back up to meet his piercing eyes.

‘‘Oh, really? Enlighten me, then. Please.’’

‘‘How about this...’’ He looks at your lips again and leans a little closer. ‘‘...a little less talking. A little more kissing...’’

Your heart beats as someone who knows they are doing something forbidden, something absolutely illegal. But you just can’t deny him.

You take a quick look over your shoulder to make sure no one else is there. And then, you turn to him to press your lips against his, for the first time.

He closes his eyes and kisses you back with passion. You can feel his tongue slide between your lips as he moves his hand around the back of your neck to bring you closer; as close as the bars allow you to be.

Afterwards, he slowly pulls away and looks at you, breathing heavily. His sly smile grows bigger as he leans into you and whispers in a deep, sultry tone:

‘‘Wow, baby. You really are a naughty girl, aren't ya?’’

#twd #twd imagines #twd imagine #twd fanfic #fanfic #negan #negan smith #negan x reader #negan imagine #negan fanfic #negan smith x reader #negan smith imagine #negan one shot #negan smith one shot #jeffrey dean morgan

[watercolorfreckles]

The Pretty Prince of Avenglow

This is a secret santa snippet for @thepenultimateword ! Thank you for arranging this fun event for everyone, and for entrusting me with your prompt. I've been in a long writing rut, so this was really tough for me to finish on deadline. But I did it! I know this is far from the best thing I've ever written, but it is something! Hope you like it!

Her prompt was: "Fragile pretty boy x strong/buff lady. He is super smitten with her. This can be a hero x villian universe thing, or a prince and a lady knight, or a captured sailor/aristocrat/etc. and a pirate queen, or whatever you want, I just really love this type of relationship dynamic"

“Well, now, you must be the prettiest piece of treasure I’ve found all year.” 

The prince coughed and spluttered, thrashing at the coils of fishing net that entangled his limbs. His clothes, sodden and leaden, seemed to weigh him to the deck.

“Shh, hush now,” the pirate captain before him spoke again, crouching to his level, balanced deftly on her booted heels. “I take excellent care of my belongings.”

The prince stilled, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. He nearly choked again, though all seawater had since been purged from his lungs. 

The stories he’d heard, the wanted portraits pasted on village walls, paled in comparison to the figure leaning over him: Vespertine Crow, captain of the Evening Star.

His insides swirled.

She was a unique kind of beautiful, with long black hair twisted into a braid loosened and tousled by the sea’s salty breath. The contour of her silhouette struck him as statuesque, strong and muscled and gracefully carved. He imagined that she might be as impenetrable as stone, too.

“H-Hi,” he said dumbly.

Vespertine’s lips spread into an amused smile, sharp as the glittering knife twirling between her fingers. She wiggled her free hand in greeting. “Hi, pretty thing. I have to say, I hardly expected my nets to scoop up the Spare Prince, Evrin of Avenglow, soggy and half-drowned in the middle of the Tempest Sea. How serendipitous.”

As he swallowed, the prince's mouth felt abruptly dry. Though he couldn't see past the railing, he cast a nervous glance over his shoulder toward the sunken wreckage of the ship he'd spent days on, cooped up in a damp and creaky cell.

Captain Vespertine followed his gaze, then tilted her head. “Poor thing. Taken and held for ransom, were you?”

The memories flashed behind Evrin’s eyes. It was while he'd been visiting the village to check on his people that he'd been ambushed near the docks, plucked away from the fragile safety of land to be thrown on board the traitors’ ship.

He'd been helpless, no better than a spoiled house cat tossed into the bath.

Evrin managed a nod.

Vespertine made a pitying sound. “Sweet thing. Sinking that vessel was my doing. Aren't you going to thank me for saving your life?”

The knife in her hand moved and the prince jerked back.

Vespertine paused and tutted. “Now Your Highness, I could have nicked you. ‘Can't go risking that pretty face of yours, you should know better.” Her voice was a balm against the aching burn of him. Soothing, though the chill of it still had enough bite to nip at his nerves.

He stilled once more.

Unpicking the tangles of net with the edge of her blade, Vespertine cut him free.

It reminded him of a bird he'd freed once, legs and wings knotted up in fishing line. The mental comparison warmed his cheeks.

“That's better.” She tugged the shed netting over his head, tossing it aside and straightening onto her feet. A calloused hand extended out to him. “Up you get, pretty.”

Evrin hesitated, eyeing her hand. His limbs felt terribly heavy. He wasn't sure he'd be able to stand if he tried. “Thank you, for….saving me.” The end of his sentence lifted into something more like a question.

That startled a soft laugh from the captain. Her eyes glittered with mischief, holding a Tempest Sea of their own. “My pleasure, Highness.”

When he didn't take her hand, Vespertine reached down, hands locking under his arms, and hauled him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all. Wobbling on weary legs, he caught the pirate's sleeve, looking up at her.

His attention snagged on the fact that she was a few inches taller than him, and certainly far stronger. His belly did a stupid swoop.

“What are you going to do with me?” 

“Mm… That is the question. Let's discuss it in my cabin, shall we?” Draping an arm around him, the pirate captain swept him away, leading him down below deck and into her quarters.

Her will was as irresistible as the moon's will over the tides.

Vespertine gave his chest a light shove and the prince buckled back onto her bed. Catching himself on his hands behind him, his fingers curled around the woolen blanket atop it. It scratched lightly at his fingertips.

Evrin put up no fight, dazed. She drew his gaze with the same allure as the sky and the bottomless sea. Beautiful, dangerous, powerful. Graceful in its dance of crest and fall. 

He watched the captain as she rifled through her closet, pulling out a white, long-sleeved shirt with ties to lace the top, as well as a pair of gray trousers. “Here. I'm sure you'll feel much better when you're out of those clothes.”

The prince's cheeks warmed again. “You…want me to wear your clothes?”

“You're a delicate, skinny little thing, I'm sure you'll fit. Besides.” She unsheathed her sword, leveling it with his chest and using it to lift the fabric above his heart where his crest was attached. The prince's breath caught. “I'll need this from you to prove you're alive if I'm to collect the reward.

“Re…Reward?”

Vespertine shrugged. “I assume they prefer ‘reward’ to ‘ransom.’ One comes with a multitude of fewer threats and scandal. Which do you prefer, Highness?” She pressed the blade a fraction harder into his chest.

The prince itched to skitter away but kept still. “Reward is good,” he breathed.

“Good.” 

She wielded her sword like an extension of her being, fluid and quicker than his eyes could track. There was a slash and then his princely crest was in the captain's hand. His eyes darted down to the bare square on his chest, in the spirit of every novel he'd read where the protagonist had been stabbed or harpooned and was too shocked to process the fatality.

His skin was unmarred.

Vespertine threw the clothes at the prince. “Get dressed, unless you're waiting for me to do it for you. I could be persuaded, if you say pretty please.”

Evrin’s cheeks burned at the thought, casting his gaze away from her and down to the clothes in his hands. Awkwardly, he peeled his shirt over his head.

“Smooth, pampered skin.” Vespertine tutted, sheathing her sword and stepping closer to trace a finger over the soft curve of his shoulder. “You've never seen a day of hardship, have you?”

Prince Evrin shivered, shrugging the clean shirt on. Its weight rested warm and gauzy against his skin. Embarrassed, he shucked his trousers off next, replacing them with the clean pair as quickly as he could manage under the pirate captain's stare. 

“Not many, not of the physical variety, anyway,” he answered.

He straightened the clothes which fit surprisingly well, picking at the laces.

When he looked up again, she was grinning, blatantly pleased. “There, now. isn't that better? You look like a proper pirate. Very pretty.”

“Like you? I mean-” the prince squirmed, shifting to stand, then changing his mind. Submissive. “Sorry.”

She laughed again. “Sorry? For thinking I'm pretty? I'm flattered, sweetheart. You're quite lovely yourself. Now. Back to business.”

“...business?”

“Well, if I'm to return you safely, I expect a reward of… proper proportions. There's the money, yes, but I want something more from you.”

“O-Oh?”

Vespertine plopped onto the bed beside him, turning to face him. “Firstly, I want a pardon. A clean slate I can dirty all over again when it suits me.” She winked at him, and his heart fluttered between his ribs. “Secondly. Your brother took something from me. I want it back. You will get it for me.”

Transfixed, Evrin studied her face. “What did he take?”

She leaned closer to him, her gaze sharpening into something a fraction more dangerous. “My child.”

Evrin’s eyes widened. “Your child? Who–” He paused. “Iara? He said that she was an orphan; that he took her in to spare her a life of hardship and inequity.”

“Your brother lied.” Her voice was the crack of a whip; lightning striking water. When the prince startled, she softened only a fraction, looking him up and down. “You are…kinder than your brother, I can tell. Mousy, certainly, but. Sweet.”

“He is better fit to be king,” Evrin whispered. “Bolder and stronger and braver.”

“But crueler. Are you cruel, Prince Evrin?”

It seemed, suddenly, as though he was balancing on a very thin wire. He watched her face, tracking her every underlying thought.

“No. No, I’m not.”

Captain Vespertine smiled, the flash of a victory banner, and sat back. “Good. Tell me, Pretty. Spare Prince of Avenglow. How would you like to be king?”

Merry Christmas!

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#writeblr #writers of tumblr #my writing #pirate x prince #royalty romance #hero x villain #heroes and villains #secret santa 2023 #writers on tumblr #writblr #writerblr #creative writing #pirates #flash fiction #short story #writing snippet

[ckret2]

Chapter 12 of Everybody Hates Having Human Bill Cipher As Their Prisoner, featuring: Pacifica doing beauty product commercials!

And she said "Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula" twice with a straight face. Also featuring: Mabel making the terrible decision that perhaps there's a sliver of hope for Bill.

####

Bill trudged into the living room doorway and said flatly, "Help." His gold paint/makeup/glitter had been scraped off his right cheek, leaving a swathe of bare skin; and one corner of his cardboard triangle mask had crumpled in.

Dipper and Mabel looked up from the TV. (They were watching a cartoon about an aggressively adorable anthropomorphic lion and wolf arguing over a rapidly-wilting flower.) Dipper took one look at Bill's damage and struggled to swallow down a laugh. Mabel grimaced. "Oooh. What happened?"

"The stairs. Again."

Dipper asked, "Have you tried sitting on the steps and scooting your butt down one step at a time? I think that's how toddlers do it." Mabel snorted and elbowed him. 

Bill leaned over Dipper, grin disconcertingly widely. The sofa hadn't had seat cushions since Bill dragged them upstairs to serve as his makeshift bed, which just let Bill tower even higher over Dipper. "As a matter of fact, I have tried! It's too slow. I'd rather just fall." Now that Dipper was cringing back sufficiently for Bill's tastes, he turned the creepiness down a good 50% and refocused on Mabel. "So can you help?"

She sighed. "Yeah, come here."

Dipper slid off the sofa. "I'm... gonna go read something." He gestured at the screen. "This is one of Mabel's shows, anyway."

Bill glanced at the screen. The lion and wolf had just declared they didn't want to be friends anymore, and the flower between them promptly died. A watching unicorn shed a heart-shaped tear. Dryly, Bill said, "I'd never have guessed."

Mabel frowned at Dipper as he left—traitor—but Bill was quick to plop down on the spot he'd freed. "Here." He dumped an armload of tape and makeup on top of the folded sofa bed between them. "You've seen this episode before, right? You're not missing anything."

"Uh..." Mabel pulled off a strip of tape. "Yeah, how did you know?"

"Because this show looks about thirty years old."

"Oh. Ha! Yeah. Color Critters is a classic." All the same, she kept glancing over at the screen between strips of tape. (The unicorn was struggling to revive the flower with a beam of green light from her horn, and, when that didn't work, trying to convince the lion and wolf to apologize to each other.)

Not doing anything useful himself, Bill watched the cartoon out of the corner of his eye, too. "If their argument is killing the flowers, wouldn't Hornton here have better success if she kicked 'em out of her garden?"

"Her name's not Hornton, it's Glory. And then they'd just kill flowers somewhere else."

"She could slit one of their throats," Bill suggested. "It takes two people to argue."

Mabel couldn't tell if he was deliberately saying the most offensive thing he could think of, or if the way the Color Critters' narrative established a subtle metaphorical correlation between flourishing friendship and flourishing flowers had sailed right over his head. So she elected to ignore his comment and said, somewhat peevishly,  "You really should start doing your own repairs, you know."

"I tried. How do you think this happened?" He pointed at the patch of missing makeup that had rubbed off his cheek. "Do you know how hard it is to repair your own face when you need to ask permission to use a mirror? I tried to get a spoon to use as a mirror—and then remembered I'm not allowed to use anything but the plastic baby spoons."

Mabel winced. "Oooh. Yeah. That's right." She supposed she couldn't resent him for asking for help. He'd done his due diligence. In his shoes, she probably wouldn't have even thought to use a spoon as a mirror.

Bill leaned forward, elbows on his knees, making it easier for Mabel to reach the damage. "So then I tried to use the glass on one of the family photos in the hall," he went on. "You can't imagine what it's like to try to tape your own face back together while the guys who imprisoned you are grinning at you through your 'mirror.' I'm living in worst conditions than death row inmates. At least they get mirrors."

"You've had such a hard time;" Mabel said sympathetically, then caught herself. "I mean—you deserve a hard time—but even then, you should at least have your own face."

"I'm glad you think so. I think everyone else here would rather keep kicking me while I'm down just to listen to me squeal."

Mabel grimaced, but couldn't honestly say he was wrong. She leaned back, inspecting her tape work. "Okay, that's the best I can do with your mask for now. I'll replace the torn part when we find some more cardboard boxes." It was amazing how quickly a household could run out of cardboard when you had a very clumsy prisoner using it as a substitute for his face.

"We're out of yellow paint, too," Bill said. "We'll have to fill in the gap with extra eyeshadow, I guess."

Mabel sighed, but picked up a makeup brush and started covering up the streaky patch on Bill's cheek. Color Critters had gone to commercial break with Glory running off to get fairy backup, and now that local anti-graffiti PSA that made graffiti look really cool was playing. Maybe if Mabel hurried, she could finish with Bill before the commercials ended and Glory got back with Prisma. (And maybe she could lure Dipper back downstairs. She thought he'd like Glory and Prisma's battle against Serpent Grey, it was how she'd wheedled him into watching this episode in the first place.)

"This eyeshadow palette won't last much longer," Mabel said. They'd already completely used up the best, yellowest shade of gold, and the other three weren't far behind. "And we're really burning through my allowance fast. No offense, Bill, but—I don't think this is a long-term solution." She inwardly braced herself, not sure what kind of reaction to expect out of him.

Bill's expression twisted in a grimace, and Mabel's stomach flipped. He said, "I hate to admit it, but I've been having the same thought."

Mabel quietly sighed in relief.

"Don't get me wrong—the visual results are phenomenal. Stunning! But the upkeep is very high maintenance, the tape is itchy enough it even distracts me, it cuts off my peripheral vision, it muffles sounds, it's hard to sleep and impossible to shower—"

"You haven't been taking it off when you sleep?"

Bill tipped his head back and pointed at the neck hole, big enough for his neck but not for his head. "You didn't design it to be taken off."

"Oh." She supposed she hadn't. No wonder he had a hard time fixing it himself.

"And besides all that, once the initial fun wears off—let's be frank, it's pretty grotesque-looking, isn't it?"

"WHAT? It's not grotesque, it's beautiful! I thought you liked it!"

"Whoa there, Shooting Star, it's not anything you did! It's everything else." He gestured at his body from the neck down.

Mabel gave the rest of Bill a dubious look. "What's wrong with... everything else?"

"Well—" Bill hesitated, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Think of it this way. Imagine you've been turned into a hypersphere—"

"What's a hypersphere?"

Bill paused again, found the English language woefully deficient of vocabulary to describe fourth-dimensional creatures, and said, "Imagine you've been turned into a giraffe."

"Okay." Sounded cool. Mabel visualized herself as a pink giraffe with star-shaped spots.

"And someone helps you look human again—by transforming your giraffe head into a human body. Just your head. And it's still attached to the giraffe neck by the butt."

Mabel snorted.

"And it's got no arms and legs," Bill added. "And if you look closely, you can still see that the human body is made out of a giraffe head. Its eyes and nostrils are visible through the skin of your torso."

"Ew." Mabel shuddered. But... she hadn't really considered what looking human must feel like to a person who had never been human. In some way, she'd always thought of Bill Cipher as essentially faceless. Like he was a symbol with an eyeball. Turning human just meant gaining something new he'd never had before. He had more face now.

But that wasn't how it looked to him, was it? Mabel should have realized that earlier, when he first said that all he wanted was to look like a triangle again. From his perspective, he hadn't gained a new face; he'd just had his real face mutilated with a bunch of lumps and holes that shouldn't be there.

Considered like that... the mask really was grotesque, wasn't it? "Yeah, I get the problem," Mabel said, subdued. "If you want, I could add pipe cleaner arms and legs—but that doesn't fix the real problem, does it?"

"Unfortunately, no. And they'd probably end up like my hat." Bill's construction paper top hat had been the fastest casualty of his clumsiness. "But I like that creative thinking! You're a problem-solver."

Problem-solver. Mabel supposed she was, wasn't she? She plopped her chin in her hand, trying to think of another way to solve this problem.

Bill almost copied the gesture, but realized just in time that would crush the cardboard over his chin and straightened up. He sighed. "As much as it sickens me, maybe you were on to something with the wig idea. I don't like it. It's ugly. But at least when I had hair, it got me vaguely the right silhouette," he made that finger triangle in front of one eye, "without all the upkeep. I think I underestimated how much low maintenance wins out over high fashion."

"Do you want a wig?" Mabel asked warily. They could have saved a lot of effort and allowance money if he'd just accepted her offer of a wig in the first place. 

Bill turned over the question for several seconds, then sighed again. "No, I guess not. I'd have to keep taking it off and on to clean it." He shuddered, then quickly gripped his upper arm, as if he hadn't given his body permission to shudder and he needed to intimidate it out of any further misbehavior. "I'll just wait for the original stuff to grow back out. Maybe save the gold make-up for special occasions."

(Mabel wondered how many special occasions Bill expected to have before Ford figured out a way to kill him, and then wondered how much his hair would have a chance to grow out by then. And then she decided not to wonder about that anymore.)

"Not sure what I'll do in the meantime," Bill muttered. Mabel caught his gaze flicking past her, over her shoulder; he was looking at the spot on the wall where Soos's zodiac blanket used to hang. (Soos had hidden it in his bedroom after Mabel had reclaimed it from Bill.) "But, hey! Good effort, kid. I was impressed by the results—and I don't say that lightly! I think we made some real progress with this." Bill flashed Mabel a smile—too wide, as usual, but this time she thought there was something genuine in it.

Which made her feel all the worse that she'd only "made progress" but hadn't found a solution. "Are there any ways to make your hair grow back faster?"

"There's always lycanthropy. Induce it now and cure it after the next full moon—"

"Thaaat doesn't sound very safe."

"Well, I'd be fine." Bill laughed.

Mabel blew a raspberry at him. "Maybe we could just make you a sturdier mask out of plastic?" she ventured.  "Or—or we could tattoo a pyramid on your face..."

Bill looked intrigued. "Keep talking."

From the TV, a familiar voice said, "Hey, everyone."

Mabel's head swiveled toward the TV—and sure enough. "Pacifica?"

Pacifica was positioning herself on a stool in a blank white studio, wearing the world's preppiest polo and a matching designer skirt. A small, stylish bottle of faceted green glass sat on a second stool. Bold text at the bottom of the screen read "REAL FOOTAGE - NOT A DRAMATIZATION." Lacing her hands casually over her crossed knees, Pacifica said, "You all know me—Pacifica Northwest, famous for being richer and better than you." She flashed a perfect smile.

"Alpaca's doing commercials now?" Bill said. "She's moving down in the world, good for her."

"Wh—? She's not 'alpaca,' it was a llama."

"No it's not."

"I think I'd know," Mabel said. "It was my sweater."

"And it's my zodiac, Shooting Star."

They shushed as a man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Mabel's entire sweater collection came up behind Pacifica with a pair of scissors, and started cutting her hair. Mabel gasped as Pacifica's beautiful blonde hair was reduced to an inch long. Pacifica didn't even look at the callous hair-slasher as she went on, "Ever since my parents lost most but not all of our family fortune, I've had to support my designer purse habit by selling my hair to underprivileged A-list celebrities who need Nordic blonde virgin hair wigs for blockbuster movie roles." She aimed a perfectly-practiced pout at the camera, lower lip pooched out and eyes large and watery. The faux angst lasted for barely a second before she went on, "But luckily, now I don't have to compromise my beautiful looks!"

Another extra in a luxury brand hazmat suit picked up the little green bottle, tipped a few drops into a gloved hand, and worked it into the ends of Pacifica's freshly-cut hair. "Thanks to Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula—a trusted hair-restoration brand for over a hundred and fifty years—I can look my best at all times!" She flipped her long, luxurious curtain of hair with one hand, showing off how it now, once more, hung as low as the seat of her stool. "Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula: for when you have a million bucks, and you want to look like it too." She winked, and an old-fashioned cursive logo reading "Hairy Fairy" filled the screen.

Mabel gaped at the screen. "Yeah, no, okay, that's gotta be fake. There's no way that's real. They must have done some kind of... weird camera tricks. Right?"

"Hairy Fairy's back?" Bill asked, and he sounded kind of impressed. He laughed. "Wow! Usually I have to pull some strings to arrange a contrived coincidence like that, but that fell right into our laps, didn't it!"

If Bill had heard of this brand... "Wait. Is this stuff like... actually magic?"

"There's no such thing as magic," said Bill, the magic triangle who'd magically come back to life in the magic-riddled town of Gravity "Magic Is Our Middle Name" Falls. "But yeah, it works!"

"Nuh-uh, no way. If it can really grow hair, how come I've never heard of it before?"

"Because they went out of business," Bill said. "The original formula was invented a century and change ago by Harold 'Harry' Haroldson, after he was run out of California for selling rotgut as a diet tonic. It did cause people to lose weight, but only because it literally rotted their guts. Hairy Fairy Formula's basically the same—it does exactly what it advertises, as long as you don't mind the side effects—buuut after getting really rich, really fast, Harry couldn't keep up with orders. He'd run out of pixie dust. Local population went extinct. So they haven't been on the market since the 1800s."

Mabel processed that. "Bill, how is pixie dust made?"

"Don't worry about it!" Bill waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, by the looks of it, somebody with the formula found a fresh supply of their active ingredient! Isn't that... handy."

Against the side of her face, Mabel felt the full weight of the one-eyed gaze that had ravaged millions of minds and compelled thousands of humanity's best and brightest to erect interdimensional doorways to their own doom.

Mabel swallowed hard.

And Bill said, "You and Alpaca are friends, right?"

####

Dipper said, "You want to ask Pacifica what for who?"

"I know it's stupid," Mabel said, and wasn't encouraged by how enthusiastically Dipper nodded. "But—look. Until Grunkle Ford figures out how to get rid of him, we're stuck with him anyway! Him being miserable just makes the whole shack miserable. Even death row prisoners have rights! This is America!"

"He's not American."

"His species probably has prisoner rights."

"What if getting his self-esteem back makes him go back to trying to kill us all?" Dipper asked. 

"It won't! Feeling good about yourself makes you nicer!" Mabel said. "Insecurity is the root of all bullying."

"Bill's a whole lot worse than a bully."

"That just makes him a jumbo bully."

"Fine. But he wasn't exactly nice back when he did like his body."

"O—okay, fair point. But."

But she still saw a sad ghost curled up beneath a blanket in the corner of the attic and remembered picture day.

Mabel paced a figure 8 at the foots of their beds. "Look, he was normal-miserable a few days ago, but he turned hyper-miserable when he cut off his hair. If I get him his hair back, he can go back to being normal-miserable, and he's said he's willing to put up with that, so it's not my problem anymore! I can be done with it."

"You know he's just using you because you're being nice to him, right?"

Mabel shrugged. "I mean, yeah? Duh? He's evil, that's what he does? The fact that he's being evil doesn't mean I'm gonna not do something good."

"But if you give him what he wants this time, you'll just train him to think you'll do anything he wants if he gets sulky about it. It'll make him worse."

Mabel stopped pacing to stare at Dipper. "Do you think Bill can be trained? Bill?"

Dipper actually paused to consider that, lips pursed thoughtfully. "I mean... yeah, I guess, maybe?"

Mabel considered that as well. "I don't know." She resumed pacing. "I... still kinda feel like I should take that chance?"

"Really? What did he say to you?"

"Nothing! Nothing. It's just..."

####

Mabel swallowed hard, staring up at Bill's white-hot, commanding eye. "I'm not doing anything until after this episode," she said.

"And then—?"

"I'll think about it."

Satisfied, Bill nodded. "All right!" Apparently not as satisfied as she'd assumed, he added, "But I'm telling you, that would immediately solve the whole problem. If you wanna get me out of your hair, pun unintended—"

"Nope!" Mabel held a finger over her lips. "Shush time. You don't get to use your con artist mind tricks on me."

Bill planted an offended hand on his hip. "'Con artist mind tricks'?"

"If you bring it up once before this episode is over, I won't even consider doing it. Don't test me!"

"All right, all right! Sheesh." Bill sat back on the sofa, criss-crossed his legs, and got comfortable. Was he planning to watch the episode with her?

He gestured at the screen as a heart-shaped rainbow announced that the show was back. "Okay, so catch me up on the plot." He was planning to watch the episode. So much for getting Dipper back in here. But, hey, as long as somebody was interested in the show...

By the time she'd explained that Leo Proud is in charge of life and playing and the color red—which are basically the same thing—and that Howell Wolf is in charge of creativity and stories, and also he's a wizard, which is why he's blue, which he's also in charge of, naturally—and that usually they're best friends, except Serpent Grey has tricked them into fighting, to kill the flower garden, because friendship is green, obviously—

(Bill nodded along, "Obviously.")

—and if the flowers don't bloom by the spring festival, it will basically mean the end of love and friendship everywhere, which is why Glory the Unicorn—

("What's she in charge of?" "Pink." "Big responsibility.")

—is going to look for Prisma, the Rainbow Fairy, who basically solves all the problems in the color jungle—

(Bill asked, "So who the heck's responsible for green in this organization? Isn't this their department? Why aren't theydealing with this crisis?")

—and Mabel had to pause to explain how busy Love Bunny is on the other side of the jungle with festival preparations which was why she asked Leo and Howell to help out in the first place...

Anyway, by the time she explained all that, Prisma and Glory were already back, and Prisma had spotted Serpent and was trying to chase him out with her rainbow light while Glory protected Leo and Howell, and Mabel thought it really was a very good action sequence, especially considering the show's age and budget, if you ignored the animation errors, but she hadn't had any time to explain Prisma's magic or Glory's role in it, which was a big theme in the show; but...

But even so, by the time of the fight scene, Bill was leaning forward, elbows on knees, creepy grin and intense gaze pointed at the screen—like he was actually paying attention to the cacophony of multicolor lasers. Like he was enjoying it.

Mabel was so surprised when he started laughing and heckling the characters like he was watching a wrestling match—"Yeah, get him! Skin him alive and tie him in knots! I wanna see if he bleeds grey!"—that it took her a moment to register that he was rooting for Prisma. The Rainbow Fairy. Defender of colors and all the goodness and happiness that spawned from them. Not the snake trying to destroy all those things. The good guy.

That didn't make Bill good. Mabel knew people far better than Bill who liked to root for the bad guys. But even so—all the same—she hadn't expected it.

With Serpent defeated, Leo and Howell reconciled, the garden flourishing, and the existence of friendship secured for another year, Bill sat back and said, "Quirky little cosmology they've thought up for this fantasy! And it's a better primer on sympathetic magic than I would've expected out of something aimed at humans who haven't learned to read yet. Especially considering what was going on in the eighties!"

Mabel had no idea what he was talking about. "Do you... like it?"

"I like the colors in the battle scene," Bill said. "This'd be fun to watch on peyote."

It was, Mabel conceded, the most positive response she'd received from anybody she'd shown Color Critters to. 

"But I get now why killing the lion and wolf to save the garden wasn't an option," he added.

"Wait—you do?"

"Sure!" Bill gestured at the running credits. "This show operates on dream logic."

Mabel nodded. Mabel shook her head. "What?"

"The garden isn't real. None of this is real. The only thing that exists in this world is emotions and experiences. Fun, hatred, friendship, resentment, fear, justice—all of those are real, but they're abstract. Anything you can touch is just an illusion, the subconscious mind's metaphor for the things too abstract to see." Bill spoke with the authoritative confidence of a practiced carny explaining to his new assistant how the carnival games were rigged so customers could never win a grand prize without spending twice what the prize was worth. "The issue was never 'They're fighting, so the flowers are dying.' The flowers don't exist! They're just a tool to let you see what's going on in the other guys' heads. 'Save the flowers' is a metaphor for the only thing that really matters: saving the friendship."

Bill turned toward Mabel, the expert on dream logic checking in with the expert on Color Critters, and said, "So killing one of them would defeat the point! Right?"

He clearly thought he was just talking about the themes in a cartoon. He had no idea he'd just said the sappiest thing about friendship Mabel had ever heard a real person say.

####

"I... don't think he's all evil," Mabel said to Dipper. "He's still 99% evil! But there's one percent that still understands normal things. What if I can encourage it! Maybe we can get it to two percent. Maybe five!"

"Whoa. Oh no. Hold on. Tell me you're not trying to rehabilitate Bill Cipher."

"No! Of course not," said Mabel, so confidently that it almost sounded like she really meant it and hadn't already set her heart on reforming the most reviled figure in the multiverse.

And knowing Mabel well enough to know she'd already made up her mind, Dipper went on, "Mabel, we're talking about the worst person ever! He tried to destroy our entire universe, and Grunkle Ford says he's destroyed at least one other. He's been way too evil for way too long to change now."

"You're the one who said it might be possible to train him," Mabel pointed out. "That's what I'm talking about doing! Forget the good-and-evil stuff: think of it as... as a psychology experiment! If we're nice to him, will he be a little nicer back? Why not try—as long as we don't do anything dangerous?"

Dipper's resolve wavered. He looked away from Mabel's hopeful face, gaze skimming the room for something else to look at—and fell on Bartholomew. The doll had teleported onto Mabel's bed while they weren't paying attention. When they'd first gotten him out of the crane game, he'd hid in the shack's air conditioning vents and tried to murder them so he could take over their lives. He hadn't stopped trying to kill them until Mabel suggested he join their lives and offered to make him a cradle to sleep in. Now, he was peacefully cuddled up with a tie-dye plushie alien Mabel had bought in Roswell. 

"Okay, fine—as long as we're not helping him do anything dangerous," Dipper said. "And if we're doing an experiment, I'm in the control group. I won't pretend to be nice to him."

A grin broke out across Mabel's face. "I'll text Pacifica!"

####

The door to Ford's study creaked open. "Hey, Grunkle Ford?"

Ford looked up from his calculations-covered desk. "Dipper! Yes?"

"Quick question," Dipper said. "To your knowledge, if Bill's hair grows back, is there any possible way he could use it to... I don't know, kill us all or end the world or something?"

Ford stared at Dipper. He blinked. "Er—short of shaving it back off and braiding it into a rope to strangle us? Not that I'm aware of." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "And I imagine it would be a lot easier to just rip a curtain to shreds and make that a rope." Maybe he should hide the curtains?

Dipper nodded. "Okay. Great. Follow-up question: have you ever heard of a brand called 'Hairy Fairy'?"

"Wh—you mean the hair tonic invented by Harold Haroldson? The one behind the Oregon Pixie Extinction of 1891?"

"The... what?"

Ford stood, rummaging through several books on a nearby bookcase. "It was a short-lived brand. I found some mentions of it in the Gravity Falls Library back when I was researching the history of the town—ah!" He pulled out an old binder he'd stuffed with copies of unusual newspaper clippings from the town's historical archives, and flipped through them until he found an advertisement for Harry's Hairy Fairy Formula. "Here."

Dipper accepted the advertisement and skimmed it. "It says 'for best results, do not apply directly to skin.' Is there anything dangerous about this stuff? Does it melt your face off, or...?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. Information on Hairy Fairy is sparse, considering the lengths the company went to to keep its main ingredient a secret. I've never even seen a surviving sample."

Dipper nodded. "Thanks, Grunkle Ford." He shut the study door. After a moment, Ford heard the elevator rising.

He shot a dark look toward the ceiling and muttered, "What are you up to this time?"

####

MABEL: Heyyyy Pacifica it's Mabel! 🌈🌟 I saw your commercial! You were sooo great! That thing about actors was REALLY funny lol

MABEL: So ANYWAY how does somebody get their hands on that hairy fairy stuff??? 👀

PACIFICA: Oh cool, I didn't know they were airing the commercial in Gravity Falls. I thought market research decided it was too poor to be worth the air time?

PACIFICA: No offense

MABEL: I'll pretend not to be offended!

PACIFICA: You totally can't afford it though lmao. It costs like $10k for 3 oz.

MABEL: 🙀

PACIFICA: But like if you want to LOOK at it, HF will have a booth at the country club tomorrow. I'm their model for the demonstration, so I could get you and Dipper in if you promise not to wear anything embarrassing.

MABEL: Do they have free samples?

PACIFICA: 😂😂😂 No

PACIFICA: But maybe smelling the fumes will give you shinier hair or something idk.

MABEL: Worth a shot!!! See you there!

#pacifica northwest #(for the art) #bill cipher #human bill cipher #(for the fic) #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

[gayuu-the-necromancer]

William Rex Chapter 20

 ｡⋆｡˚🦋˚｡⋆｡

William: "I'm here for a reason, and you'll see it in this."

Kate: "This is----"

The sensational article, which was circulating a few days ago.

It is said to have caused further tremors in London which was in turmoil over the prisoners' escapes.

It was printed at their own expense, not by a major newspaper.

There was----

That the article "The Savagery of Count William Rex" was false.

It was a plot to frame Count William for organized crime involving several noble families, including the Marquis of Avalus.

It was stated that the reporter was unknowingly complicit.

"When the reporter went to question the ringleaders of this conspiracy, they took him to the Tower of London to keep him quiet."

"There, in addition to the reporter, many other citizens were imprisoned for crimes they did not commit."

"Yes, those prisoners that Count William released a few days ago."

"Needless to say, it was also a ploy to force them to surrender to their protector, Count William."

"It is journalist justice that we hereby publish the names of the ringleaders."

"I hope it will at atleast make amends to Sir Rex."

"The ringleader's name is Lord Grimsley, a member of the Privy Council himself."

The reporter's name was known without confirmation.

Kate: "Mr. Brian..."

William: "This accusation by Brian Bennett gained a lot of credibility, despite being pitched in the name of an individual!"

In addition to the appearance of a well-known journalist, who had to self-publish to avoid being cornered by the press, the report was also published in the form of a book,

His credibility grew rapidly when freed prisoners began to mention that his statement were true.

William: "The major newspapers also immediately started denouncing the case."

William: "It was surprising that Grimsley's rubbish operation took a back seat."

William: "Brian occasionally wrote articles to the detriment of Grimsley's enemies because...."

William: "I suspect that those who had a growing grudge against him may have assisted in the pursuit of this case."

The sparks were not doused but rather heated up.

In just two nights, demonstrations calling for Grimsley's punishment took place.

The Privy Council, under criticism, found itself in a difficult position.

William: "It's articles like this that have made the whole parade pointless."

William: "Victor is going to scold me for exposing the existence of the curse for nothing."

Kate: "Parade...?"

William: "I'm talking about this."

William shrugged his shoulders lightly and returned the newspaper article to the side table.

William: "Still, it's a terrible article, don't you think?"

 ｡⋆｡˚🦋˚｡⋆｡

Kate: "Terrible?"

William: "The crime for which I killed the Marquis of Avalus, and what I did to the policemen and prisoners at the Tower of London."

William: "He kept my abilities in the dark. It's not fair."

Kate: "....Because he thought it was 'justice' to keep secrets?"

Kate: "He wrote that in hopes that it would be a compensation for you."

William: "Brian has no atonement to make for his sins."

William: "I think he was just trying to do the right thing from start to finish."

-----FLASHBACK-----

Brian: "You'll regret it one day! There's no way you can be happy with someone like that....!"

-----FLASHBACK ENDS-----

Kate: "....I agree."

There is surely no such thing as unadulterated justice or pure evil anywhere.

The answer to the question of what things mean is as varied as the number of people who know what they mean.

Yet his willingness to remain true to the justice he believes in.

It is very dazzling and precious.

Kate: "........Because of this article, the cause for meddling with William and the Crown has been shaken."

Kate: "That's why you came here, right?"

William: "Right."

Kate: "Then....we should thank Mr. Brian for atoning for his sins."

William: "Would you still be a fan of his again?"

Kate: "Yes, of course."

William: "That's good to know."

William laughed as happily as if it were his own.

William: ".....Now, its time to rest."

William: "We don't want you to go back to being sleeping beauty again."

He stroked my hair as he puts me to bed.

William then covered me up with sheets.

(Ah....now that I think about it)

Kate: "Lastly, can I ask you one more thing?"

William: "Sure."

Kate: ".....At the Tower of London."

Kate: "If I hadn't jumped in to protect you, were you prepared to get stabbed....?"

William: ".............."

William: ".....Who knows?"

Kate: "Ah....!"

------Options------

I'm sure you know.

That's a sneaky way to answer.

Are you lying?

------------

Kate: "That's not fair. That's a sneaky way to answer."

William: "It's my kindness to leave you with the pleasure of unravelling it."

William gave me a kiss on the forehead and quickly left the bed.

Kate: "....Come on."

William: "Ahaha! Your pouting face is cute."

William: "Goodnight, Kate."

William waved his hand and left the room.

Kate: ".....Awww!!!"

Just like that day when I was left behind, I was left on the bed.

(.....Hmph whatever)

(Even if William was going to get stabbed at the time)

(I'll protect you from now on)

The scent of roses wafted across my nose, just like that day.

My mouth slackened with ticklish glee.

............

In a room inside the palace.

Man of the Privy Council: "I'll close my eyes to your blunders. You will retire and live out the rest of your days in peace and quiet."

Man of the Privy Council: "If you want to get sniffed out by that monster and have your head cut off, I won't stop you."

Man of the Privy Council: "Grimsley."

Scornful, or frightened-eyed colleagues who don't want to get involved and get killed.

Grimsley, the man that was called, glared irritably.

 ｡⋆｡˚🦋˚｡⋆｡

Grimsley: "....Why should I be forced out of my job for the sake of one evil person!"

Grimsley, who was unanimously forced to retire, expressed his anger in the corridor.

From his moustache-covered mouth, one can hear his teeth grinding.

Grimsley: "What's that Rex up to!?"

With cold, reptilian eyes, Grimsley shouted at the squire.

Attendant: "F-Forgive me, sir....but he's still missing...."

Grimsley: "Tch....'If you want to cut of my head, I won't stop you' huh? Those cowards...!"

Grimsley: "How many times has the Privy Council interfered with Crown operations? And in all that time, have they ever laid a hand on him!?"

Grimsley's smile turned from one of rage to a thin smile.

Grimsley: "....We're going to clean up Britain's dump."

Grimsley: "Then I will be invited back to the Privy Council. Her Majesty will be pleased."

Grimsley: "Now that I'm off the Privy Council, I don't need to listen to them."

Grimsley: "Switch to a professionally hired assassination and continued with the plan."

Attendant: "Yes....!"

Grimsley: "It was impossible to get citizens to kill a monster assassin with strange abilities in the first place."

Attendant: "But...he has successfully carried out numerous assassinations, all by himself, without leaving behind a weapon."

Attendant: "Even if you hire a professional will you really...."

Grimsley: "The prisoners have reported on the man's abilities."

Grimsley: "They said 'the moment he saw my face and I heard his voice, I lost my physical freedom'."

Grimsley: "If one approach him without him seeing 'you' and 'without him hearing you' you're more likely to be able to move without being manipulated."

Attendant: "....I see."

Grimsley: "Cursed' huh....you monster?"

A few days after I woke up, Lord Grimsley's downfall caused a stir in London.

Then a few more days passed in a blissful calm----

Victor: "CONGRATDULATIONS! For your return William and also Miss Kate's recovery"!

Mr. Roger gave notice to end treatment that evening.

Victor had worked hard to organize a cocktail party and it was a success.

 ｡⋆｡˚🦋˚｡⋆｡

Harrison: ".....Do you really have to break crackers every time?"

Victor: "Hmm why not? It's the best way to get everyone's attention."

Harrison: "Haa. No. Hey, don't put your arm around me....!"

Liam: "Katie, are you feeling okay? Here, I brought you a chair. You can sit down if you like."

Kate: "Thank you, Liam. I'm doing fine now!"

Alphonse: "You have a bad luck for coming back to the world of sorrows, don't you?"

William: "Thanks to our skilled doctor, I suppose."

Kate: "You're right. Thank you, Mr. Roger."

Roger: "Well, you owe me one. I'll have to think long and hard about what I'm going to get back!"

Roger: "Incidentally, El was the one nursing you before William came. Right?"

Elbert: ".....Nursing. I won't call it that."

Elbert: "I spent most of my time staring at you."

Kate: "Staring....?"

Alphonse: "It's like you to be honest and tell the truth, but you're scaring Kate, Elbert."

Elbert: "...........sorry."

Kate: "No no no....! I'm not scared. Please don't apologize."

(I wonder if Lord Elbert still thinks I might be what he's looking for...)

Each of the Crown members has their own curse and destiny.

I now understand the weight of the fact that I had only taken them at face value.

Kate: ".....Thank you very much for looking after me."

Elbert: "..................Your welcome."

I felt that Lord Elbert's melancholy had eased just a little,

I sip my champagne, too, feeling a little relieved.

(Good drinks, good atmosphere. As usual, with all the Crown)

(Among them is William)

That alone makes me so happy that my mouth relaxes on its own accord.

Stealing a glance at the profile standing next to me, William immediately felt my gaze.

William: "....Is something wrong?"

Kate: "I'm just glad that William is here."

Kate: ".....So I'm happy to look at you from time to time during the party, don't mind me."

William: "Hmm? Then I'll count how many times you were looking at me."

William is sipping a glass of bright red wine, that Victor poured for him.

(If William hadn't come back, it might never have been opened)

I suddenly think about this when I see Victor's happy face.

Kate: ".....I have to thank everyone."

William: "Thank?"

Kate: "Mr. Roger, who treated my wounds, of course."

Kate: "Harrison, Liam, Mr. Alphonse and Lord Elbert too."

Kate: "If they hadn't helped me, I wouldn't have been able to go to the Tower of London."

Kate: "And also Mr. Jude and Ellis. They both helped me to go and see Mr. Brian."

(If it hadn't been for the two of you who came with me that night....maybe things would be a whole lot different now)

William: "They've told me roughly what they know."

William: "Let's just say that I would advise careful negotiation to avoid paying a terrible price."

Kate: "Hehe. I'll keep that in mind."

We look at each other and smile.

It's no surprise that we can laugh and talk about those frantic nights.

That's why I feel happy, so loving and so happy right now.

Victor: "Heeyyyy Williiiamm!! Can you play us a song?"

William: "....The party-loving Queen's aide is calling for me."

Kate: "Hehe. Okay."

William sat down at the grand piano and immediately began to play a pleasant melody.

Ellis: "Are you happy that Will is back?"

Kate: "Kyaa!?"

 ｡⋆｡˚🦋˚｡⋆｡

Ellis: "Are you happy that Will is back?"

Kate: "Kyaa!?"

Kate: "Oh Ellis...yes, I am."

Ellis: "Hmmm...How much?"

Kate: "A lo----"

(Ah)

----FLASHBACK----

Ellis: "What if Jude encounters his happiest moment, while I'm away?"

(Happiest moment....?)

Kate: "So then, what happens when that moment arrives....?"

William: "Ellis will kill him."

----FLASHBACK ENDS----

Kate: "Well, right now, I don't think I'm the happiest person....!"

Ellis: ".....Oh. I see."

(That's was dangerous....)

(If I was alone with Ellis and we were having that conversation, I might accidentally slip up....)

When I looked around for help, I saw a grumpy Mr. Jude, who looked like he was forcibly brought here.

He was leaning on his chair in the corner, reading a book.

Kate: "What are you reading?"

Jude: "None of your business."

Ellis: "It's a paper I got after pressing Mr. Brian to atone for his sins."

Ellis: "I got the journalist to divert the manuscript to him before it was published with his contacts."

Kate: "I don't know of any crime he committed against you....?"

Jude: "200 for making me have an altercation with a police officer and 200 for running away without apologizing to the local authorities."

Jude: "300 for each kick. I kicked him twice so 600. So in total 1000 pounds."

(It costs money to get kicked....It sounds like a joke but I guess not...)

Kate: "Are those papers that expensive?"

Jude: "I have yet to figure that out. Don't worry. If I'm scammed, I'll charge him extra."

(Good luck...Mr. Brian. I hope you come out of this alive)

I prayed for him in my heart.

----At that moment, the melody William was playing came to an end.

The silence that followed naturally drew everyone's attention to the piano.

William: "----Now."

William: "It wouldn't be like us to end the party with a few drinks and laughs, right?"

William: "There are still important topics that need to be discussed, which are worthy of celebration. Isn't that right, Victor?"

Victor: "Of course, William."

Victor: "A perfect main course for those of us who 'conquer evil with evil'."

The air, light and bright like champagne bubbles, is instantly repainted.

Dark and heavy and trembling sweet like the falling of a night's curtain.

Victor: "We all know that Lord Grimsley is the mastermind behind the whole affair."

Victor: "The Privy Council retired him from politics for his blunders, but did not refer him to the Court or the police."

Victor: "They don't want to use him as an opportunity to jeopardise their position."

Victor: "Neither the courts nor the police can investigate the Privy Council on the basis of a mere press report."

Victor: "Besides, there appears to be pressure on the police to stop pursuing both William and Grimsley."

Victor: "If this continue, the two articles that Brian wrote will be swallowed up by darkness and forgotten sooner or later."

(...."Indirectly, the Privy Council has left innocent people to die while overlooking the organised crime of the Golden butterflies)

-----FLASHBACK-----

Skinny boy: "Give it to me! give it to me! We made it, we deserve a little something!"

Director: "Hey you! Take him away!"

William: "Where is the boy who was screaming just now?"

Director: "Temporarily in the 'junkyard'. It would be great if we could sell the body to a surgeon who wants it, but it's in such a bad shape."

----FLASHBACK ENDS-----

The thought of those who sacrificed their lives because they could not even ask for help makes us all feel sorry for them.

(But they just pretended not to see it)

(They have overlooked the oppressed, the cries for help, just like me)

(But this time----)

I turned to look at William.

His bright red eyes were cold and deadly.

(Grimsley committed a sin)

William: "The reason the Crown has so far stayed out of the way of the Privy Council is that they have not directly harmed the public."

William: "But this time, Grimsley 'of his own volition' gave the order...."

William: "They trampled on the freedom of the innocent and even tried to make them commit the crime of murder."

William: "Those in the center of state power treat the lives of citizens as if they were tools and no one is willing to bring them to justice."

William: "If this is missed, it cannot be a deterrent to evil."

William: "It's time to poison them."

My body trembles with fear.

It is time for William to sin again.

Conquering evil, for the sake of it.

(I saw that moment with my own eyes)

(I have to write down all his sins)

As the Self-righteousness king, he is guilty of depriving people of their freedom and dignity.

A story that someday becomes a spoonful of poison.

Victor: "Her Majesty the Queen seemed to think the same when I had an audience with her this morning."

Victor: " 'You may treat yourselves to all the evil that you can handle' she said."

William: "----Then it's as Her Majesty commands."

Victor: "....Hahaha."

After looking round at everyone in the Crown, Victor's jewel-like eyes caught mine.

Victor: "Kate."

Kate: "....yes."

Victor: "Soon your month stay here will be over."

Victor: "When the time comes, I'll ask you again."

Victor: "Your will, your choice."

Kate: "Yes, Victor."

Queen's royal decree, assassination of Lord Grimsley.

Documenting that mission was my one-month only stint as a fairytale master---

My last job.

Madness Route - Chapter 21

#ikemen series #otome #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikemen villain #cybird #ikemen villains #ikemen mc #ikemen villains william

[acourtofthought]

Hello love, its been a while ~

I was doing a lot of re-reading and I don't know if someone ask before. Mostly cause Read something about Tamlin and I started looking more into it. While I won't ever forgive TAM For doing nothing while Feyre went through the trial, I get its based on the Ordeal of Tam Lin. But what happened after I am trying to Analyse his POV, since we already have someone who wrote Rhys POV. And i came to the part where Rhys had to go to Hewm city and he told Feyre, he's debating whether he wants her to come because he doesn't want her to see, who he has to become, and the part he has to play. Which in height sigh makes me take a double take, While Tam actions are terrible, In a way I can see his desperation because, This person, this male who he doesn't want Feyre to see, this person he's scared to show to his mate, is how everyone else besides the inner circle Sees Rhysand, and also there is already a strained relationship with him and Tamlin from before. So I wanted to see what you thought Tamlin's POV would be, and how desperate he must've been to make the decision he made, Cause I would've probably do some horrible things too If I thought My loved one was being kept by someone who's depicted as a terrible person. what do you think of this?

Hello!!!! I have missed you and hope you are well! I love that you're tackling something that not many delve into. You know, I don't necessarily blame Tamlin for not doing more UTM (at least up until the part where he and Feyre were about to hook up) because he was being monitored by Amarantha. He'd already seen what she was capable of doing to others and knew that she was looking for anything to use as leverage against him so had he given even a hint of his feelings for Feyre, she would have used that against him. I do think his lack of action or emotion was a smart play for the most part. Rhys was able to do more for Feyre because he'd had all those years to establish himself as Amarantha's "ally" and had gained a bit of her trust. Tamlin did not have that luxury. After that my frustration with Tamlin comes from his lack of truly listening to his partner telling him all the ways she was struggling and not looking at ways he could help himself. I don't think he was trying to cause her suffering, I think he truly wanted her to be happy but I think his fears, anxiety, etc made him behave irrationally and he lacked the self awareness to realize that "I need to fix myself first so that I can be who she needs". With that said, I don't know that it's fair that on top of everything else he was dealing with, like helping his court find their way again (Lucien tells us that the people of Spring ended up doing terrible things to one another during their confinement) and his own traumas, he was also stressed about the bargain Rhys forced Feyre into. Rhys allowed others to believe the worst of him so there was a countdown clock hanging over all their heads for the day Rhys called in his bargain. There was countdown clock on how many days were left before Rhys began torturing the female Tamlin loved. We saw how beside himself Rhys was at finding out about Feyre's pregnancy and that was a year after they won the war while his people remained somewhat sheltered from it all. Imagine how Tamlin probably felt weeks after being freed from a 50 year curse while worrying about his people (who were tormented for 50 years), his court and Feyre's life? It's a lot and honestly, I think many would make poor decisions during that time. It's a shame those decisions harmed Feyre's health and well being but it's more tragic than anything. He was fighting a hundred different enemies in all directions and he lost his way. Had Rhys and Feyre both been more honest about Rhys and the NC I don't know that things would have gotten to the point they did. Tamlin isn't blameless in letting things get to the point they did but neither were Rhys or Feyere. They all contributed to the shit show that followed. Really, I think a mistake on both Tamlin and Feyre's part was jumping into their engagement when neither was in a place to really focus on their relationship.

[vaguely-concerned]

I binged through all of Dragon Age: Absolution today and honestly I really really liked it! I was allowing myself only some very cautious optimism after watching the twitch premiere of the first episode, but freed from the need for infodumps and setting up the characters the rest of the show actually rapidly gets better from there (some pacing issues here and there excepted but hey they were given 6 episodes, I think they did pretty well considering those constraints)! If like me you HUNGER for, you YEARN for, you CRAVE more Dragon Age right the fuck now, this is not at all a bad thing to help keep some of that hunger down while we wait for the next game, and has a few loveable new characters to get into and some great action animation to boot.

More idle thoughts/reactions under the cut!

first and foremost I love Roland and Lacklon so much haha, a surprisingly well paced romance considering it mainly happens in quick background-ish moments! I'm especially interested in Roland's backstory, since he's very chill and openminded for what seems to be a decently well-trained/educated Orlesian? Lacklon being like 'I want to hold his hand and suck his dick 😔 fml' every time Roland did something cool in battle was just *chef's kiss* too, it was kind of smart to have their fight scenes double as foreplay as well on a writing level since they're arguably the least plot-important characters overall (though they and Qwydion are definitely the heart of the story as far as I'm concerned)

I understand why Miriam clung to Hira so much since she just lost literally everything in her life, good or bad, moments before and that relationship was the only time she had tasted anything like real love since her brother died, but girl... girl when people show you who they are, believe them. marry Qwydion instead you deserve so much better (Hira gave me the Bad Vibes right away from how she didn't respect anything Miriam said or expressed and kept pushing in ways that made me really uncomfortable, so I won't say I was shocked or anything lol.) There is the (??deliberate??) mirror of Hira hugging Miriam from behind in the blood magic dream and Qwydion coming up behind her in very much the same way to rest her hand on her shoulder in the real world afterwards, so I have hope maybe?

can you imagine Dorian watching shitshows like this go down every other week all around Tevinter and tearing at his perfectly sculpted hair because Andraste's tits if you motherfuckers would stop acting stereotypically for FIVE MINUTES! could any of you go take a PISS without resorting to blood magic! Dorian's job is a shit job and he's probably been doing it for a while by the time of Dreadwolf so y'know. get my son a drink

speaking of Qwydion, I am so glad for further support for my theory that vashoth born away from the Qun are actually some of the most well-adjusted people in all of Thedas. they've dodged the Qun from birth by definition, they don't seem terribly interested in the Chantry or grand politics of any kind, they don't have a caste system hanging over them, they can step on anyone who tries to mess with them even if they don't have magic... truly the only sane people running around out here

so you're telling me the Inquisition screws Fairbanks over no matter what you do, b/c either he dies or he's forced into Orlesian politics. Oh buddy I'm sorry we should've just let you frolic around in the Emerald Graves on your own you didn't deserve this

Poor Tessa. she is probably better off without him in the long run but that's a rough week

I was so excited to see Kirkwall again, I saw the horrific chain statues and went 'OH HELLHOLE MORE LIKE HELLHOME'. it's so grim and awful I miss it so much lol

meredith, huh. so uh. hawke really has failed at everything, pretty much, then. even the few people they did manage to kill to protect everyone didn't stay dead. I'm just waiting for the dragon they killed in the Bone Pit to come back and ravage the city as well now, just to top it off. celestial punching bag of thedas hawke. babyyyyyyyyy if it helps I still love you the most and so does your collection of bi weirdos found family

rezaren wasn't even that good a mage, as far as we can tell, so you have to wonder what the FUCK dorian's ancestor was pulling to have created this thing that he could barely control with half a dragon's worth of blood (and what someone like Dorian, who helped crack time like an egg in his student days sort of just to see if he could, it seems, could do with it if they didn't have like scruples or other pesky things like that. everything we see about tevinter magisters makes me more impressed with how comparatively not fundamentally shitty Dorian has managed to turn out (no wonder Bull is kind of impressed with him for having actual integrity, if this is the competition he's up against). can you tell I miss him lol)

I found it genuniely interesting how much rezaren and hira are thematic mirrors to each other and mutually cannot see it, right down to treating miriam ultimately as an object. same self-centered idiot, different hairstyles. what a scathing indictment of Tevinter high society that even Hira, who's family was notoriously progressive and trying to enact change, still treats people exactly the same way as the other magisters when push comes to shove.

thank u to Lacklon for pessimistic cynical bastard representation, he is right that that dragon is going to ravage the countryside and someone on the crew has to keep clear eyes for that sort of thing even when it's a downer

#dragon age #dragon age absolution #dragon age absolution spoilers #dragon age: absolution spoilers #dragon age: absolution

[wonder-in-wings]

TIMING: Late December LOCATION: Parker’s House SUMMARY: Parker (@wonder-in-wings asks Metzli (@muertarte for a favor. CONTENT WARNINGS: parental abuse (referenced)

He couldn’t see it, no matter how he moved. It was too close to the middle of his back, too far for his grasp to touch. Too deep to fall out on its own, too big to not notice, too foreign to be broken down. It was as similar as the tattoo of the dragonfly that stretched its wings across his shoulder blades; the only way Parker could tell it was there was because of the pain it brought.

And this was too persistent for him to ignore any more. It emitted a pulse accompanied with a feverish heat, making it difficult to sleep or even sit back. The Warden had pressed through every interaction up until that point - he’d gotten into more than one fight, had more than one in-person conversation. And Parker could feel his dull, robotic expression falter more than he’d have liked to admit as he felt another flare of pain radiate from the point of entry. Resigned to not being able to see the damn thing at least for now, he left the bathroom into his living room where he paced rather irritably, scrolling through the contacts on his phone as he felt his mind pulling on such a rare thing that it was almost as though it didn’t really exist; an ethereal tether that he never acknowledged until that moment. He was desperate. Parker’s eyes searched, darting from name to name to name, consistently revisiting one but he kept pushing it out of his pool of options. He didn’t want to bother Metzli, not when they were so freshly opened, so newly freed from the oppressive weight of their elder. And yet, as those same eyes grew wider with a slow realization that aside from Rhett, who he’d chosen not to place this burden on due to the older Warden’s already-full plate, he wasn’t sure who else on this list he– The thought itself became constricted in his mind and he inhaled sharply. ‘You don’t trust anyone, do you?’ Walker asked. ‘Because no one trusts you.’ ‘Who would?’ His father asked with a scoff, the two circling him slowly in a memory. ‘You take things apart. You hold people under and look ‘em in the eye.’ Blue eyes swayed from one to the other, an unfamiliar look on Parker’s scarred face. ‘How long until your friend realizes that’s what you do?’ His father sneered. ‘How long ‘til they can’t stand to be around you anymore?’ He needed to word this carefully, with his family’s words swirling in his mind. They were right. No one on the list was– ‘Metzli, if you aren’t terribly busy, I have a favor to ask of you.’ Parker sent first, wondering if he should’ve rescinded it as soon as it was sent. Without waiting for a response, he swallowed and continued. ‘It’s not [...] important, but if you could come to my house, you’re invited inside.’ A pause. ‘I apologize for being cryptic. It’s [...] difficult to ask.’ Another pause. No, that was selfish. He couldn’t expect them to come over, especially considering what had happened the past week. He exhaled again and sent yet another text. ‘Never mind. May I [...] come over there? I don’t want to bother you.’ — —

It was no easy task to exist in a vessel that now had freedom, still having no ability to prevent the random outbursts that have already led to several aggravated encounters. The spectrum, Metzli had learned quickly, was something that could not be controlled. It could only be learned and countered. And with a little bit of patience from their friends, and a bit of trial and error, Metzli had managed to go a full day without causing any sort of blowup. Leila was proud of them, and if they were honest, so were they. It gave them hope that there was a way to ease the pain of existence. 

Even if it was a small amount. Even if it came in small instances that were meant for only them. They didn’t have to practice in the outside world all the time. 

Painting had become a home again, a place where emotions and the weight of everything happening around them could dissipate into something bearable. Metzli smiled at the way their brush cascaded down the canvas with practiced precision. A satisfying sight, really. Especially when the line connects to others, just so. It made Metzli roll their wrists happily and get a tad bit distracted. Enough to see that they had a few notifications on their phone from Parker.

Brows stitched together with concern and they replied. ‘Not busy. I will leave in a few minutes.’ They tapped away at their phone and immediately moved to clean their supplies, quickly moving to grab their keys and give Fluffy a few pets before departing. The drive was fast, faster than usual considering Parker had requested something from Metzli. It was an unusual thing for him, leaving something brimming just beneath the vampire’s skin and sending their fingers rubbing against themselves. When they arrived, they hastily (and stiffly) made their way to the door and knocked.  — — Every second between every checkpoint of something happening was swelled with an unspoken, unrecognized anxiety. Parker’s pacing was now accompanied by hand-clenching, having started as soon as his miniature barrage of texts were sent out. He felt… like he was taking something that wasn’t his. In this case, he was taking Metzli’s time, their effort, their space regardless of where either of them went in relation to the other. He shouldn’t have asked. He should’ve asked someone else. He should’ve told them ‘never mind, it’s not important’. ‘Not important, he thinks as he has a big red pustule on his back.’ Walker was still there. He was always there in Parker’s head, an irritable “aid” to his thought process, “helping” him in the place of thinking on his own. Could he do anything on his own? He had to have, right? This was just something unfortunate that he required help with. And that was why he asked Metzli. And the spiral threatened to start over again. The Warden shook his head but not before approaching one of his walls and almost ramming his head into it, a negative solution to a problem he couldn’t seem to react to in a tangible way. And something he hadn’t done since August. No, he was above that. He was in control, not whatever was tugging at him, urging him to curl into a ball and slip out of coherence for his surroundings. Hands clenched tightly into fists, so tightly that his middle fingers were threatening to break under the strain. It wouldn’t have been the first time. A knock on his door was simultaneous with a deep breath he’d taken and Parker turned his blue eyes to the dark wood. If it had been any other time, any other day, he would’ve granted them entrance regardless of who it was - Parker was confident enough in his abilities, even after his close calls with Emilio but now, he was unstable; one papercut, one innocuous nosebleed, one minute abrasion away from temporarily losing himself to a frenzy, not remotely helped by the pulsing in his back. So Parker approached the door as he attempted to recover his calm, collected appearance. ‘Stand up straight, boy.’ His spine was pulled back subconsciously and he ignored the fierce sting that raced up his musculature. He opened the door and whether he was aware of it or not, his expression softened when his eyes beheld Metzli. Tired, but not unhappy with the ghosts of what had happened recently still present between the inclinations of suddenly expressing themselves genuinely. “Metzli, hello.” Parker said rather awkwardly before stepping aside to allow his friend passage into his warmly-lit living room. “I’m… sorry for the messages. I…” The sentence was abandoned. “How are you doing?”

— —

It was disconcerting to see Parker behave so…expressive. At least, in his own way. The way he spoke with a lack of stone gave Metzli pause. A weight, cold and sharp, veiled over their chest and they took a quiet breath to ease it as best they could. A technique Xóchitl had given them when things started to become ‘loud’. Though they were surprised to find it wasn’t an overwhelming tidal wave like usual. The sensation Metzli felt was more like a bystander watching the storm, unable to do much more than stare. Empathy, they thought. Something they had before, but only a small whisper of it. Now it had become a thunderous chorus. Metzli couldn’t help but listen. 

“I am fine. It is good to see you.” Stepping inside, they took another breath and scanned the entranceway slowly. If Parker was hurting in some way, they thought perhaps someone or something was in the house. Another look, and nothing. Everything was where it should be and looked fine. “Hm…” Metzli’s brows pinched together as they continued inside, turning around to regard Parker with a look of concern on their face. Their fingers wrapped around themselves continuously, the friction a decent distraction from the anxiety that developed from their worry. “Is everything okay, Parker?” Metzli rolled their shoulders and swallowed. “Something is different.” — —

The door closed gently and as Metzli turned, presumably to gather their surroundings, Parker’s brow cinched together, unable to keep himself from entirely hiding the wince of pain as the mask dropped during that moment. “It’s also… good to see you.” He replied slowly, quietly. “I’m…” ‘Just spit it out, boy. They’re your friend, ain’t they? You called them over for a reason, you disappointment.’ Usually his father’s words didn’t worm their way through his head nearly as easily. “Sorry.” He shook his head again. Clenching and unclenching his hands as it took him a few seconds longer than it should’ve to process what Metzli had asked him, he furrowed his brow and looked to the vampire. “Yeah, it’s– no, there’s…” The sentence faltered again; why was this so difficult? It felt as though there was a disconnect between his head and his mouth, what he needed to say versus what refused to be said. Another stab up his spine, drawing a sharp breath from him. Stupidly, he motioned up in a general gesture, his hand forming a loose point. “I need help.” He finally admitted. “But… I understand if you don’t want to.” He added, avoiding their gaze, his blue eyes lowering in submission. It was an unspoken sign of vulnerability, accompanied with a silent acknowledgement that it wasn’t his place to ask for help. ‘Imagine! Parker Wright asking for someone else’s help when he hasn’t done anything to earn it.’ Walker said incredulously. ‘It’s okay.’ His mother’s considerably gentler tone soothed over, managing to settle a microcosm of the anxiety that was wracking the Warden’s mind. ‘It’ll be okay. Just be humble.’

— —

Watching Parker unable to complete his thoughts only served to concern Metzli further, the grip of worry tightening. Neither one of them took touch lightly, every move considered before being made, but that wasn’t the case at that moment. Carefully, Metzli reached forward without another thought and cupped Parker’s cheek in hopes of centering him, or at least comforting him. “You must take a deep breath.” They rose their brows and leaned their head forward to look their friend in the eyes, urging Parker to listen to their words. Whatever was going through his mind, Metzli couldn’t help but sympathize having been in his position so many times. 

Thoughts were a heavy burden, weighing painfully on the heart that wanted desperately to be lifted. It was a good thing the vampire was strong. “If you need help, then I will do this. You are my friend and you are there for them in times like this, yes?” They offered what they thought was a reassuring smile, attempting to be friendly and helpful. It didn’t meet Metzli’s eyes and didn’t curl like any real smile should, showing only teeth in an awkward display. “Will you tell me what is wrong? Let us sit.” Retreating their hand, they gave Parker some room and made their way to the living room so the two could sit comfortably as they were told what the issue was. When they took a seat, Metzli kept their breath steady and calm, eyes still soft to be a friendly presence despite the rigidity from their posture to escape pressure on their back.  — —

‘How many years has it been?’ Parker didn’t know who was asking, what the answer was. Why it was so difficult, why he was so insufficient. The question had many answers, it turned out as he attempted to sift through the noise in his head to find the right one, if there was one. All the while, his mind kept racing back to the original: He shouldn’t be putting any of this on Metzli. Not now, or ever. And yet. Their hand on his face was immediately felt; at first, it appeared to Parker in a flash of contact, knuckles and a ring striking in an attempt to get his emotionless expression to react, to feel something, to show remorse or shame. It had happened a number of times he could count on both hands, long having since been a futile endeavor and thus abandoned before he had reached his teens. That feeling, sharp and stinging as it was from a distant memory, was quickly replaced by something else… a sort of longing comfort. And he realized, on his own with no family members to help, that the answer was ‘too many’. Parker hadn’t earned any of this. But even he could recognize when an attempt had been made. Fighting the urge to retreat into the bathroom, feeling embarrassment pulling on him like a child desperately trying to escape from an unfamiliar social situation, he did indeed take a deep breath. His mind, something that had been careening into the abyss, was grasped, somewhat stabilized, and he followed them to where they could sit, though he ended up standing. “I have… something lodged in my back.” It sounded so simple now that he had actually just admitted it. “And I can’t… reach it.” Though that second part was the part that was difficult to actually say, though he managed. 

“It’s… foolish. I’m sorry.” He apologized again. “It’s just… I don’t…” These pauses weren’t due to anxiety spiraling in his mind now. They were deliberate, with an admission still on the tip of his tongue but there was still something keeping him from outright saying it. It wasn’t the injury, but there was something horrifyingly vulnerable about exposing his back, asking someone for help, trusting them with this process. It felt wrong, even if it wasn’t. 

— —

“Lodged?” Eyes widened with a hint of horror, the idea of a friend being that badly hurt so awful. Their eyes darted to and from Parker’s face and the general area of his back. “Something is stuck.” Metzli reiterated, nodding in understanding as they reached for their knife behind their back. They did it slowly, hand much gentler than it normally would be when retrieving their weapon. There was no malice needed anyway, not when their help was needed. When a friend was asking for assistance. Because that’s what you did for friends, and Parker had made it clear he was happy to be Metzli’s. 

They were both monsters that were so rarely understood, and if there was a chance to reduce the loneliness and dread, even slightly, Metzli would always jump at the chance. “You do not have to give apology.” They shook their head softly, presenting their knife and placing it in front of Parker so he knew Metzli’s intentions. The apprehension in his voice made it clear that asking for help wasn’t an act done often or easily. Something else they understood all too well. Vulnerability was a luxury, one not granted to Parker. 

For a moment, Metzli wondered if he was allowed to do so with his own family. They surely weren’t, having too strong of outbursts in an environment way too misunderstanding. It was a bitter existence at times, but around the right people (and Metzli hoped to be one of those), vulnerability would come a bit easier. “Show me and I will get this thing out for you. It will be no problem for me to do this.” They reassured, “You are my friend.” — —

‘You’re such an enigma sometimes, you know that?’ Walker asked, a few years ago as Parker watched Metzli remove the knife and display it before him. The speed and deliberation of such an act were the unspoken indicators that they weren’t going to attack him, even if part of the Warden accepted that that would’ve been preferable to the constant attention whatever was going on near his spine demanded of him. Fighting was distracting, he’d learned which he hated as he didn’t find any enjoyment in combat. This wasn’t enjoyment, though; it felt more like necessity. The knife was placed, the assurance that he owed them no apology was surely wasted on him, but there was something else there. Something that somehow tethered the two of them. It wasn’t romantic, not that he knew what that felt like. Parker was also so unfamiliar with what friendship was, as his blue-eyed gaze met theirs and he gave a silent nod. He was their friend. They were… his. ‘It’ll be okay.’ His mother soothed as he deliberately started to pull the worn black Henley over his torso. Scars over scars were revealed on the skin overlaying a rippling musculature; the gashes from the two balam, the claw marks from Teagan. Knife wounds, thin white lines from razor-sharp blades. Most recently were two garish bite marks, one on each forearm. He was not ashamed of his body, nor was he embarrassed by the scars he’d accumulated; he was 47 years old, a survivor, a competent hunter, a Warden. He didn’t know what Metzli looked like under their clothing but he was willing to wager they had similar stories woven into their skin, everything from fights they didn’t start to possibly a parent who didn’t understand. They and Parker were similar in more ways than he comprehended, which was the only reason why he slowly turned where a rather large, discolored bump could be seen visibly protruding from his back inches away from his spine, and located in the exact right location where he couldn’t reach it either from above or below. The house was warm, but Parker felt dipped in cold water and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as he exposed the lingering malady to them. A deficiency. Something so (seemingly) small that made him so angry. A thorn in the lion’s paw. “I’m sor–” He cut himself off before he could finish the apology and instead he hunched over slightly as he stood, wincing as the skin over the infection grew taut. “I don’t know what it is but… it’s imperative that I don’t see any blood.” He added somewhat vaguely. “...I’m… You’re my friend, too.” He admitted quietly. “And I’m not… just saying that because… you’re being kind enough to help.”

— —

It was useless to counter Parker and his apologies, when a mind grew too twisted with guilt and worry. Metzli had been in the same place many a time, saying the same things, interrupting themself to prevent any more burden from spilling out. Metzli gave Parker a simple shake of their head, offering a ghost of a pat to his shoulder so as to not startle him in his vulnerable state. “Wars.” They said, scanning Parker and reading the tale of his life on his flesh. “I have wars, too.” They softly admitted. Some scars were more faded than others, some deeper and therefore a little more thick and jagged. They made Metzli’s own ache with empathy, a shaky sigh escaping them when their eyes landed on the anomaly. 

Parker was obviously in pain, and the confession about blood only made Metzli worry, brows furrowing. With a nod of understanding, they grabbed their knife and analyzed the tick-like thing embedded in Parker’s flesh. Even regular ones caused pain, discomfort, and disease, but what Metzli was looking at was no regular tick. Not in a place like Wicked’s Rest. They hummed in thought, their thumb rubbing the side of their blade, the smooth and cold metal providing some comfort amid the stress. It helped, just a bit, that Parker was being so kind in his moment of vulnerability. They were friends. Even if Metzli knew what they were going to do next was going to cause him an enormous amount of pain. 

“Take many deep breaths. Slowly. Okay? I will try to not make you bleed.” They gave Parker a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder before readying their knife, thumb pressed against the side so as to pinch the tick in between. “I will pull now.” Metzli placed the thing in position, squeezing tightly and securing it before they tugged with care. If it were like any regular tick (and they knew it wasn’t, but there wasn’t much to work with as far as knowledge went), then it was imperative that they removed the entire thing. Which would prove painful considering its size. Metzli wished they had their other arm to provide Parker extra comfort, but they knew they had to focus on pulling. So, they did, and with much force.  — —

Wars. He knew Metzli had encountered wars, as well. Conflicts etched into their skin, bones mended with lessons, markings left on the brain from something that wasn’t understood, but it was acknowledged. Clutching his shirt in his hands, still feeling icy needles on his skin, Parker felt the gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Do what you must. I… trust you.” It was small, like a scared child taking the hand of a firefighter in a burning building. It didn’t feel like much of a choice, either; they’d already gotten as far as they had, with the Warden feeling the rotten, squirming pulse of something trapped beneath his red, healed-over skin. He thought Winter had removed it that day. What she must’ve done was instead remove the sac from its back instead of the whole thing; ticks did that, of course they did that and of course Parker knew that. This felt different than that day, however and the newfound knowledge that all this time it had still been there didn’t mean much as the vampire pressed before pulling. Pain was a teacher. It was there before Parker could speak, always present in every interaction. Pain was a teacher to help him learn of its distraction, something to numb himself to as to not be caught off guard, perceived as weak, taken advantage of. He had been stabbed, sliced, clawed, torn apart. Opened up, forcibly closed into himself, restrained both physically and mentally. ‘You aren’t sensitive, like the older one.’ His father’s sharp tone cut through the pain that erupted from his back, that damned spot so close to his spine. ‘You don’t feel things like other people. You’re a machine. You only stop when you’re shut down.’ The material in his hands was ripped effortlessly, and at the same time as a sharp inhale that made his nose sting with the air that was pulled through it. ‘You take things apart. It’s such a shame you’ll never be–’ “I’m trying.” Parker replied through tightly-gritted teeth, feeling blue eyes widened from being so unused to processing what that pain was supposed to feel like welling with tears. He took a deep breath, shuddered out an exhale and repeated the process. ‘You’re not trying hard enough.’ His father snapped back. ‘Look at you, crying because of a bug. And in front of someone who’s just… waiting for you to show too much of yourself.’ His father’s voice wrapped itself around the feelings from his back, puncturing his thoughts. ‘I said you weren’t sensitive. I think maybe I was actually wrong.’ His shirt was ripped again and he could feel himself wanting to recoil from the blade, a snake flinching in the presence of a hawk but he stood firm. Physically. — —

Parker suddenly speaking broke Metzli out of their concentration. It was as if he was responding to someone they couldn’t see in the room. Someone who was making the storm in his mind worse if the tearing they heard was any indication. “Breathe, amigo.” Metzli took to breathing a little louder to push Parker to follow their pattern as they continued to tug. No matter how gently they pulled though, blood began to seep at the edges with each millimeter it moved out. Red flushed over brown and fangs stretched, a shuddered breath fluttering through Metzli’s lips. Their throat constricted slightly, and they swallowed past the uneasy sensation so they could focus on their careful force. 

In a matter of minutes, the tick was halfway out, thankfully still intact. Metzli licked their lips at the sight of Parker’s blood cascading down his skin, and it was all they could do to keep themself from sinking their aching fangs into their friend. Stop it. Stop it. He needs focus. You will focus. Tapping into their strength, Metzli gave a final tug, removing the tick fully from its home. It bulged with blood, tightening hunger’s grip around the vampire’s throat as they stared. The thing had to be supernatural to be such a size and to require Parker to avoid the sight of blood. All of it was so concerning, but at least now Parker was free from the intruder, and hopefully could be relieved of whatever symptoms he had. Metzli held the tick in place and studied it, then looked at Parker quizzically. 

“What do we do with this?” — —

The thought had long-since occurred to Parker that this might’ve been a mistake. How foolish he was to expect a vampire to help him remove something from his skin; was this as torturous for them as it felt for him getting the damn thing pulled out? Were their eyes glowing red like they had been the first time, their fangs unable to hide inside a mouth that told him to breathe? He felt blood oozing down his back, warm yet cold in the dim lighting of the living room and his eyes that were wide with a lack of effective coping mechanisms to tolerate pain that was so sensitive and unfamiliar were squeezed shut intensely; the only thing worse than Metzli possibly giving into their temptation was for him to see it and be rendered effectively… the word Winter used flared up again. Feral. It wasn’t going to happen. He was better than this. His breathing found Metzli’s simulation and he squared his shoulders as he straightened up slightly, almost as though attempting to pull away from whatever the vampire was prying out of his back. Nostrils flared, teeth grinding but being very careful not to crack another one, Parker’s whitened knuckles dug into the material of his now-ruined shirt and it felt as though a nerve itself was being ripped from him. Another forcibly deep breath, don’t open your eyes– With one more tug, one last seemingly herculean wrench from the vampire had the two separating and Parker stumbled forward, catching himself with one of his legs that almost buckled before him. The pain was still present, but immediately he could feel that something embedded in his skin had been removed in its entirety this time, leaving no urticating hairs, detached mandibles or spare bits of a carapace. At least… he hoped it was removed in its entirety this time. The smell of his blood reached his nose and he made sure to keep his eyes firmly shut, gasping for breath as he now felt tears streaking down his sweating face. “I’m not sure, give me a second–” He was torn in two, even as his mind raced with what steps had to be taken. He didn’t want to walk away, he was still bleeding and didn’t want to risk accidentally trailing it on the floor for him to see later. Clearing his throat, he furrowed his brow and he gathered the shirt into one hand before holding it behind his back for the vampire to take, his other, four-fingered hand also being held out in a wide, gripping formation. “If you’ll stem the blood flow, I’ll take the parasite.” He explained. “And if you can hang on for just a few moments longer, I’ll have some blood for you. From the fridge.” A pause, with another sentence catching in his throat. The suggestion was almost too foolish. “Or… you can have that. If you…” It was so dumb. He was so stupid.

“Sorry.” Parker apologized. “...Thank you.” He added. “Sorry.” He apologized again, heavier this time. Tired, tinged with something he didn’t like that swelled inside him. Unfamiliar, paralyzing him. Making him want to sink to the floor. He remained standing, though, one hand offering the shirt and the other, trembling, offering to hold the baseball-sized parasite in it. He wanted to apologize again but he swallowed it and instead he shuddered out an exhale. ‘Pull yourself together, boy. Straighten up. You’re embarrassing me again.’ He straightened up more.

— —

The wars on Parker’s skin seemed to be seeping into his mind with a harshness that made his composed demeanor break. Seeing him that way made Metzli’s throat tighten with something other than hunger, somehow being worse. Their friend was in pain, invisible and contained, and there was nothing they could do about it. They looked to Parker, eyes softened in hopes of offering comfort, and they took a deep breath. It flowed through Metzli’s body soothingly, until their fingers relaxed and flexed to adjust carefully on the blade and tick. Another breath and they were focused again, finally able to shake their head in regard to Parker’s offer. “No need for the blood and no need for apology. Have much experience with this.” Metzli gestured to the wound on Parker’s back, “I can control self. Many teachings to do this. Many years.” They explained in broken English, memory failing them in the moment while their concern blanketed over everything else in their mind. 

Parker may be a monster, but even the most wretched things struggled at times. This was a first-hand experience Metzli had had more than once, over the span of the lives they had consumed and taken. They wondered then, just a bit, if being a monster was an inherent part of their beings, or could they be something else with the right support? With hands that were gentle and understanding. It was something for Metzli to attempt and observe. For their friend. “Let me take care of you.” They took the ragged shirt and tightly wrapped the tick inside of it, tying a strong knot to keep it in place. “Standing is not necessary. Lay down.” 

Without waiting for an answer, Metzli took it upon themself to place the tick down on the coffee table and wrap their arm around Parker’s waist to move him to the couch. They faced him to the inside of it, leaving his back exposed for them to stem the bleeding with the knotted sleeve on their shirt. It wasn’t like they needed it anyway, with no arm to pull through. Even if they had though, Metzli was sure they’d offer it anyway. Shirts could be replaced. Friends could not. They got to work and hummed as they did, recalling an old tune from their days of youth. A time before the hatred and the neglect. The lyrics were long gone from their memory, but the sentiment of love remained. 

“You can rest now.” — —

One curious intuition he realized humans and nonhumans shared was the sensation of eyes on you. Parker could feel Metzli’s gaze on him - he had long grown accustomed to being looked at - but even after all this time, he couldn’t tell what anyone’s eyes meant. Were those eyes on him condescending? Were they angry, pulsing and red? Or were they red for a different reason? Metzli could feel again, even if the two of them interpreted those things differently than normal humans. Were they feeling how he had felt on the rare occasion, with something strange inside them that they didn’t know how to explain? 

Or was that something else that he wasn’t meant to know? And, of course, he had apologized again and insinuated that Metzli couldn’t control themself. It was foolish. He was foolish. Not thinking critically; of course Metzli could control themself. But why was there always a hint of doubt when Parker talked to them, or to Felix or Mackenzie? Was it because he didn’t want to underestimate them, or because that was exactly what he was doing? ‘Come now, my son. Thinking like this isn’t like you.’ His mother soothed in his head. ‘Let ‘em take care of you.’ It was said, but only partially by Walker. The voice in the Warden’s mind mixed with Metzli’s as the latter took the shirt from him and did something with it. He wasn’t sure, he was still anxious to open his eyes out of concern for what would’ve happened if he saw his blood.

Metzli moved him in response, feeling their arm around his waist and he was led to the couch. It was surreal, almost, the pain in his back being replaced by a dreamlike weightlessness. Parker tried not to think about how easily it would’ve been for an important nerve to be ruined, just as he tried not to think about how much worse this could’ve gone if it hadn’t been Metzli. Wordlessly, he moved as they gently guided him and it wasn’t until he was facing the wall that he opened his eyes once more, sparkling with lacrimation. He stared at the wall, but his gaze was unfocused. Instead, his attention was feeling each bead of blood welling from where the tick had been latched onto him for a month. It was the initial surprise, but subsequent relief of Metzli’s tied sleeve against his exposed back with its scars etched into the skin. The hum of a song, soothing, quiet, evocative coming from the vampire. Parker’s brow knitted in the middle, though not from anger. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was anger; anger at himself for– “I don’t know how I can return the favor.” He said quietly, reaching his hand across his chest until it was being offered to Metzli, palm up, fingers still being moved by faint tremors that betrayed the Warden’s normally-calm, very controlled movements. “May I… Can we… hold hands for a minute?” It was the oldest physical interaction they had. The first person in town that wanted to touch him with no ill intentions, no threat of harm. Metzli took his hand because it was soothing for them and he realized, at that very moment in time as he sat on his couch and they hummed an old song to him, carefully and kindly pressing their sleeve against his back, that he needed that connection too. A brief moment in his existence as a monster that maybe… The thought wouldn’t come to him. 

Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. Maybe he just wanted to feel something. Maybe he wanted to truly appreciate Metzli’s hand in his. As though he hadn’t taken enough from them that evening.

— —

Metzli’s nose stung, the first sign that their heart was bending. A small breath shuddered past their lips just before they curled into a bewildered smile. Touch, of any sort, was intimate, especially for people like them. For those that only received contact from cruel hands and hard lessons. “No favor,” Metzli finally quieted their melody, smile continuing to grow. They could feel the urge to roll their wrists growing, but their attention was quickly diverted back to Parker and his hand. His wound was covered and there appeared to be enough space for something more than just simple hand-holding. Metzli decided to act.

“We can do that, yes.” They breathed shakily, uncertainty almost winning out. They pushed through it. “But there is another thing I am thinking you will like. Have thoughts that it will help.” Quietly, Metzli shuffled their way onto the couch, slipping their half-limb under Parker’s head and pulling him into their chest firmly. More than once, they’d had someone do the same for them, easing their panic and overwhelming thoughts. Being held was a simple but powerful act, and it was made stronger the moment Metzli reached their arm around Parker and laced their fingers with his. 

“Have many minutes. We can stay here, hermano.” — —

The line between what was and wasn’t allowed seemed so fine nowadays, so uncertain and Parker’s instincts tensed him up as Metzli suggested something further than holding hands. Of course, it was the small, animal part of him that moved in his brain before the logic and critical thinking could catch up and while he tensed, he didn’t push the vampire away. His rationale was overpowering the small part of him that always felt eyes on his back, now exposed, previously weeping blood between the scars and through the ornate wings of the dragonfly tattoo that stretched itself across his shoulder blades; if something were to happen, it likely would’ve already happened. He had to place more faith in Metzli than he was.

He had to. The staunch refusal to show any more vulnerability than absolutely necessary at this point, after everything that had transpired between the two friends, was becoming unreasonable, if it hadn’t long since been already. A thought that repeated in his head before he had contacted Metzli, and Parker would’ve been lying to… everyone if he didn’t think often about where the limit was. When something would come to light that would serve as the final strain to sever the tentative bonds he formed with others. Part of that mixed with his animal need to always be prepared, coiled like the spring he was, ready to clash with the weapon he knew Metzli was turned into once, as well. It was calm now, but when would the next tragedy with the vampire happen? Why weren’t either of them allowed to exist? Then again… that’s what the ragtag group of misfits Metzli’s influence had brought together did in the crypt, right? Metzli was here because they wanted to be here. Parker didn’t force them… did he?

That line of thought didn’t matter. He wondered if anything he thought mattered, or if all of it was just more noise. He remained still, yet malleable enough that it surprised even himself. Their incomplete arm comfortingly placed against his collarbones after sitting down behind him, Parker allowed himself to be pulled against their room-temperature body. There wasn’t the concept of exchanging body heat as humans did, but the emotion and intention behind such a move was recognized by the Warden. It felt familiar, but distant, and definitely something he hadn’t experienced since he was in the single digits of his age. The sensation was… warm, even if not literally. There was no heartbeat to be found pulsing in Metzli’s ribcage as he was pulled into something of an embrace, only… it wasn’t, not quite. 

‘Breathe with me.’ His mother was in the same position Metzli was in and Parker, eyes unfocused and blurred with tears, gave a shaky nod. His tiny hands clung to his mother’s arm as it was gently wrapped around his trembling frame. His breathing, erratic but still unnaturally quiet as he cried, matched his mother’s rhythmic motion. His breathing matched theirs. The warmth from their action washed over him and his blue eyes that sparkled, lashes glistening, closed slowly. He felt their hand in his and he resisted the urge to squeeze it as he did with his mother’s arm all those years ago, grasping it as though if he relinquished, they would drift off, something else for him not to keep or experience, something else not for him to have. 

That bond would be severed. It always was, and Parker had long since grown used to it. He wasn’t meant to have friends. But as they sat on his couch, as he matched their breathing and felt them against his bare back that went from a stabbing pain to a dull thrum, he finally, finally loosened his grip from the tight control he had on his emotions. He relaxed, leaning into them, keeping his eyes closed. ‘Hermano’, something Walked called him on occasion so he understood the meaning of the word, reached his half-deaf ears and he did squeeze Metzli’s hand in response, carefully but communicating in that way he could with them. In a way both of them understood. 

Tomorrow the bond could’ve been severed. But tonight they were siblings, two children torn apart and broken down to be built back up in the shadows of unattainable images. Two monsters that… possibly didn’t have to be.

#wickedswriting #writing // Parker Orders Tickout #writing with // Metzli #parental abuse tw #//I need to start making tags for his relationships

[separatist-apologist]

Wonderland

Haven't you heard what becomes of curious minds?

Summary: In a kingdom where a Maiden is forced to be sacrificed to appease the monster in the woods, Elain Archeron is chosen out of spite by her spurned suitor, Graysen. Trapped in a tower with her beast, Elain must unravel if she can truly trust the monster promising not to hurt. She doesn't know he's freed every maiden he's ever been sent...but her? Her, he intends to keep.

Read More: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | AO3

WARNING: MONSTER/ Breeding kink/Human men

11k words

Elain thought she woke to Lucien’s hands sliding up her legs. It had been an infuriating night. For a man so concerned about predators, he sure had no problem bleating their current circumstances about the meadow as he bounced from mountainside to mountainside, blowing fire and smoke everywhere he landed. She’d tried to drag him back inside but Lucien wouldn’t budge. She’d declared he could sleep in the rain, snapping the door shut loudly behind her in hopes he’d come trailing behind, proverbial tail tucked between his legs.

It took her a moment to realize she was still dreaming and the cold that was sliding over her was a strange blue-black mist that glittered like the night sky. She could see herself tucked beneath an appropriate amount of blankets given Lucien still had not returned, her hair wild about her face. 

And then Elain was back in the city square, emptied of people but herself. It was the same moody, nearly rainy day it had been when she’d left in that wagon. Elain walked over the stone towards a massive fountain of a man, sword raised in the air, slaying a trembling dragon-like beast. It could have been her dragon, could have been Lucien’s golden body prone around that warrior. She touched the edge, surprised to find it was cold. 

“How am I here?”

Clipping boots on the cobblestone drew her attention away from the carved image she’d never thought much of when she’d lived there. Elain turned, annoyed to find when she tried to look at whoever approached, her surroundings slipped into that inky abyss. It made her legs wobble, to be surrounded by nothing but darkness and stars and so Elain turned her back despite every instinct telling her not to.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?” The man's voice was cold and smooth, like a winters wind whipping about her face. “My father had it commissioned to pacify the humans.”

“Why would he do that?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the fountain to skim her hand along the gray, frigid water. 

“We’re hiding, just like the rest,” came his bored reply. As if she should assume as much. 

“Are you offering me a history lesson?”

“A warning, lady.” His words were almost earnest, his presence hedging closer. Elain wished she could see him. “Your mate has warded your home and it is not so easy to leave things for you. I see he completed the bonding ritual…and you did not die.”

“Were you hoping I would?” she asked breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest.

“No. I hoped you would survive…just as I am hoping you survive this babe.”

Dread pooled in her stomach. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He paused for a moment. “Before the extermination, our kind took mates of our own species. It would have been rare for a male to have a human mate. Now, with so many of us scattered—”

“There are more?”

He chuckled. “Many, many more. Just hidden, not wholly aware of each other's presence. With so many of us scattered, the great Mother Goddess has clearly begun to bless us in other ways. Perhaps, after centuries of fighting, she has decided it’s best to merge us back into one species. I cannot speak to her innate knowledge, but I do trust her wisdom. A lot is riding on you surviving.”

“Like what?”

He paused again. “I have my own human mate,” he finally admitted. “I have kept my distance…I am fearful I might harm her. Seeing you accept the magic so easily, it has given me hope. It will give the others hope, too. We could reunify, we—”

“The rest of the humans would never allow it,” Elain insisted, shivering at the thought of a male like Lucien stalking the city for one of her sisters. “If they find out, they’ll begin hunting your kind again.”

She heard him click his teeth impatiently. “People are tired of the swaggering males sending good females to die. Every year we lose another breeding female to the continent. There is discontent, restlessness. The males will try and stir up their usual fear believing there are very few of us left but Elain, there are many of us left. An army’s worth of males who remember the cruelty of the humans very well and who might be fascinated to see a hybrid child born to a female human mated to one of our own.”

“I’m not going to help you start a war,” Elain whispered, still staring into that reflective pool. The presence behind her crept closer, revealing the body of a man…but not his face. He was dressed finely, like a great lord in his tailored black pants. His onyx and silver jacket was buttoned to his neck, likely hiding whatever marked him as other. He might have blended in entirely, were it not for the massive, shadowy wings at his back.

“War is inevitable,” he murmured. “It has been for centuries. Your males went looking for you and returned with your bloodied clothes, satisfied you were dead. Your sisters are not so certain. They’re out for blood and I have it on very good authority that if they do not settle, one of them will go next year…and the third will take a husband to avoid the same fate.”

“I wrote them,” Elain whispered.

“Yes,” the male voice murmured. “A terrible mistake on your part. It has made the males suspicious of their insistence that you are alive. Even,” he interrupted her protest, “If you had died like you should have, the males are restless. War has been brewing before they were born. They are emboldened by their attacks on their own females. They crave the taste of blood.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Elain asked, wanting to return to the safety of her bed. 

“They’ll come for you first,” the man murmured. “And I want you to be prepared. Move higher into the mountains…travel to the Illyrian Steppes. There is a rather large collection of us still living together. Their leader will help you, if he knows you are mated to a male and carrying his child.”

“What’s his name?”

“Cassian,” the man murmured softly. “I have been unable to reach him…perhaps you could tell him that we spoke?”

“And do you have a name?”

Another pause, and then— “Tell him the Prince of Nightmares is looking for him.”

Elain woke with a loud gasp, back in bed just in time to hear footsteps pounding on the stairs. Lucien burst into the room, slick from the rain and coated in a fine layer of ash, his eyes a burning gold. His nostrils flared. “I can scent the male,” he growled, looking around the room. Elain sighed.

“Good morning, Lucien,” she grumbled. “It was nice to wake up in your arms. I had the most terrible dream my mate spent the evening flying about the valley looking for threats when he should have been warming my bed.”

Her sarcasm did not deter him. Lucien paced the room as if he might find the man who had snuck into Elain’s dream hiding beneath the bed. She kicked off the blankets with exasperation. “There is no one here, Lucien!” 

He stilled, catching the anger in her tone. Golden eyes shifted back to russet and finally he had the decency to look a little shamed. 

“And even if he had been, what good were you all the way out there? When another of your males can slip into my mind and talk to me?” she demanded, shoving past him for the hall. “Good thing he only wanted to talk about your kind being hidden and not carve out my mind or—”

“There was a male in your mind?” Lucien interrupted, padding after her into the bathroom. 

“Yes,” she said, rounding on him. “Talking of the Illyrian Steppes and a man named Cassian that he wants us to go meet.”

Lucien considered that. “And…and you trust he was not trying to harm you?”

“He says he has a human mate, too,” Elain explained, softening only a little. Only because Lucien was towering over her with his big, golden body utterly unclothed. She had such a weakness for him stripped to nothing, vulnerable and soft before her. “He is watching us, to see how the baby will fare.”

Lucien’s hand immediately flew to her stomach, his pleasure immediate. “Our baby,” he murmured, reminding her why she was angry with him. Elain pushed at his chest, shoving him into the hall so she could use the bathroom without him hovering over her with his big, happy eyes. 

Lucien was still waiting in the hall when she emerged, towel wrapped around her body. He yanked the edge, barring her body to him while she squealed, darting back into their bedroom. Lucien was just behind, catching her gently about the waist and setting her just beside the bed.

“Now you want to be affectionate?” she complained when his hand slid over her wet stomach. 

“Warning away males from my pregnant mate is affectionate,” he protested, sinking to his knees to press a kiss to her skin. “I have bathed the valley in our scent to keep you and the baby safe. I am sorry you had to sleep alone and dream of other males.”

He paused for a moment, ear pressed against her stomach. “What did this male look like?”

“He was hidden in shadow,” she murmured. “I don’t think he wanted me to know who he was.”

Lucien nodded. “It’s just as well. I might be tempted to find him.”

“Do you want to see if there are others like you?” Elain questioned, some of her anger evaporating at his obvious adoration. “It might be nice to know…”

“I will think on it,” Lucien finally murmured, kissing her stomach again. “For now, I have other things to consider.”

“Like what?”

He looked up with worshipful eyes. Elain’s toes curled at the sight. “My mate is pregnant and winter is approaching. There is much left to do.”

“Oh?”

Lucien pushed her back to the bed with a wicked smile. “I left her unpleasured last night. It would make me a poor male if I did not rectify that.”

Elain meant to remind him he had pleasured her quite well the night before right until Lucien put his head beneath her dress.

It could wait.

~*~

Elain bounded into Lucien’s wood shop mid-afternoon two days after he’d pieced together his mate was carrying his child. If he had it his way, Lucien would have tied her to the bed and kept her there for the duration of the pregnancy. He did not have it his way as Elain was feisty and very good at aiming her heel so she caught him in the jaw. Lucien didn’t dare ask her to rest again, not unless she was so sick she couldn’t stand. Then he was allowed to sweep her up in his arms and make a big fuss.

She deserved to be fussed over. He wanted her to lay back down, to snuggle beneath the blankets and let him take care of everything. It was Elain that was the problem, always moving, too curious to stay in one place and certain everything she did was good for the baby. Lucien didn’t know enough about infant care to contradict her, though he was growing suspicious she wasn’t an expert, either. 

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Lucien said, eyeing the nails scattered about the straw laden floor. She was going to pierce her foot and get tetanus and then he’d have to take her to the humans for care.

“Why not? The baby wanted to see you.”

Lucien eyed her flat stomach. “How can you be sure?”

“I just know these things.”

Elain and her knowing. 

“I wanted to see you,” she huffed, which was all she had to say. Lucien, covered in sawdust, grinned. 

“I am building the baby a bassinet,” he explained, rushing forward to sweep nails off the floor with a booted foot. “For when he is small, that way he can stay in our room while we sleep.”

Lucien only had the pieces but in his mind it would rock gently like the wind when he flew. He imagined himself sitting on the floor mimicking the feeling while Elain slept soundly in their bed. The whole scene made his chest ache. 

“He?” she teased, letting him wrap her up against his chest. “You’re so sure this baby is a boy?”

Lucien frowned. “My father had seven sons.” Another male just seemed natural. He’d given very little thought to a female and yet when he imagined a babe with Elain’s pretty eyes and soft golden hair, Lucien felt like he might cry.

“My father had three daughters,” she reminded him, unaware of the emotions roiling through him.

“A female would be good,” Lucien acknowledged gruffly. “Now go back inside before you get hurt.”

“You think the whole world is dangerous,” she complained as he all but shoved her back into the biting autumn afternoon.

“Because it is dangerous,” Lucien agreed. “And you are small and soft. Why not eat some cheese and take a nap?”

“I resent that,” she grumbled. “Have you thought anymore on going to the Steppes and—”

“No.”

Elain’s disappointment was palpable. She wanted him to see if her dream visitor was truthful and there truly were more of them than Lucien had imagined. The problem was Elain had a sense of how badly he did want to do this. Until recently, Lucien had been alone for centuries. Even with her, she didn’t entirely understand that sense of loss, of the belief that he really was the last. Even the thought that more like him had survived somewhere bolstered his spirits.

And terrified him all at once. Maybe if he’d been alone, still. Maybe if he wasn’t so terrified of leaving his pregnant mate by herself. Or worse. Elain, he knew, wanted to join him. Lucien could imagine every terrible thing that might go wrong. Even if the beasts were friendly and kind, the Illryian Steppes were brutal and cold. Elain didn’t heat herself the way he did, had only her clothes and skin for warmth. Too much could go wrong.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he added, catching how her mouth opened to argue. “In bed tonight.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t distract me with your mouth, Lucien.”

He grinned. “Why not? It’s always worked before.”

She wasn’t smiling back.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Elain began, the pull of her eyes dragging him out of his little shop and away from his bassinet. His mate was unhappy and Lucien loathed when Elain wasn’t happy. Especially now, when she was giving him everything he’d ever hoped for with no complaints, only soft smiles and parted legs. He heaved a sigh.

“Elain–”

“I want you to go. Even if you leave me behind. I’ll be fine,” she added, as if Lucien had any intention of leaving his pregnant mate anywhere but in his bed.

“Let’s wait,” he tried, desperation edging his words just a little. “When the baby is born—”

“Then you’ll be fussing that the baby is too small, too fragile, that we should wait until she’s older and stronger—”

“She?” he questioned, wondering if this was more of her knowing. Elain breezed right past that.

“And there will be another child, and then another and before you know it a decade will have passed and you’ll still be here. Alone.”

“Not alone,” he protested, crossing his arms over his chest. “It sounds like you're promising to give me a brood. I’ll be too busy–”

“Lucien!” she snapped. “You’re doing it again. I want to go before winter. Either you go by yourself or you take me with you.”

“Or what?” Lucien asked, padding towards her until he all but towered over his little mate. She didn’t cower. Elain merely put her hands on her hips, eyes blazing with defiance. 

“Or I’ll have this baby in the woods without you,” she whispered, her words a knife to the gut. “You’ll come home one day to the smell of my blood and a new baby swaddled in bed.”

“That’s cruel,” he whispered, not bothering to hide his hurt. Elain threw up her hands.

“You make all the rules and I don’t like it! You promised me freedom,” she reminded him. “And now all you do is keep me shut away in the house.”

“Because I know what could happen,” he murmured, reaching for her face. “How am I supposed to live without you?”

“You’re not,” Elain reminded him with exasperation. “Nothing is going to happen. You’ll get your brood and your people. Truly, Lucien, you could have it all.”

She turned on her heel, in no mood for his affection, which was just as well. Lucien didn’t appreciate her threat to hide the baby away or to give birth somewhere he couldn’t find her. He didn’t doubt Elain wouldn’t try. She was feisty and stubborn and so utterly frustrating because she didn’t understand. She was still so blithely human, so unaware of how the centuries of being alone had ground Lucien’s bones to nothing. She was the first bright spot, the first scrap of light he’d had since his mother died. 

She was asking him to gamble the future he’d dreamed of on the chance he wasn’t alone and Lucien was not willing to do it. He wouldn’t risk leaving his pregnant mate alone to face the world, to raise their baby among the very people who might one day rip those wings from their fragile little body.

Lucien was miserable by the time he plodded up the steps. He avoided her with a bath, shedding himself of the itching clothes he hated. With wet hair and bare skin, Lucien opened up the bedroom door, expecting more of Elain’s wrath. She didn’t need fire to bring him to his knees though he could imagine, had she been one of the Fae, she would have been utterly lethal.

She was also dead asleep, worn out from the simple, yet difficult task of growing the baby. This, he thought, was what she didn’t understand. The sight of her in the dying firelight, curled around a massive pillow she’d once told him reminded her of his body. Golden hair spread gently around her flushed face. She was warm again, buried beneath too many blankets. Elain thought the baby had raised her body temperature though Lucien couldn’t be sure. 

Lucien gently removed the pillow to the sound of her sleepy protests, sliding his body beside her until it was him she clung to. “I’m still mad at you,” she whispered, her mouth moving against his neck.

“I was alone for a very long time,” Lucien told her, twisting until their foreheads were touching. “Even when your kind sent the females, we weren’t friends. We didn’t speak. No one but you ever saw my two-legged form. I made my peace with it. I accepted my life for what it was. It was small but I was helpful. It made me feel less alone to take those females over the sea, to know they were safer, out of reach of the people who’d hurt them. And I meant to do that for you, too.”

Elain’s fingers brushed over his cheek.

“You are my mate,” he breathed. “My whole life. I only just found you and now you want to rush off into danger and all I can think about is how empty life would be if I was given this time and it was my own carelessness that stole you away.”

“You can’t protect me from everything,” Elain reminded him, those same fingertips ghosting against his lips. 

“We’re happy here. Isn’t that enough?” It was one last desperate plea. Lucien knew, looking at her earnest, hopeful gaze, that Elain could not be persuaded. 

“And what when the baby learns she has your form? Your magic? When she wants to play with other children? Or if she realizes she has a different sort of power? Wouldn’t it be nice to know there are others who can help? That if anything ever did happen—to either of us—that she wouldn’t be lost and alone like you were?”

He had to choke back his words. It was the way Elain spoke of the baby.

Her. She. A daughter, a living breathing little girl. 

Lucien knew what happened to girls alone in the world. Had seen centuries of them chained up in a tower to slake male lust for violence. Lucien practically shook as he imagined a little girl with the same banded gold and her mothers soft eyes trying to flee those males, alone without either him or Elain.

He shuddered. “Okay. We’ll look for the others.”

Elain pressed her lips to her mouth. “I love you, Lucien. Nothing is going to happen to either of us.”

But Lucien wasn’t sure she was right.”

~*~

Lucien agreed to go and, true to his word, was agreeable just as soon as he finished between her legs. She hadn’t complained—it was a wonderful way to wake up, all things considered—though he didn’t want to be touched in return. He was antsy and anxious, his dread practically palpable as he bundled her in a coat and scarf and hat. His eyes all but pleaded—change your mind, change your mind—but she wouldn’t and she wasn’t. Elain didn’t pretend to understand Lucien’s fear but she did think some of it was unwarranted. After all, his father could have taken his son and fled. He’d chosen to stay. How much about what Lucien believed was even true?

Bundled until she was merely a pair of eyes, Lucien pressed a kiss to her gloved hands. “If anything even smells wrong, we’re coming back,” he warned. Elain nodded, stumbling forward for a clumsy hug. It amused him, tugging the first smile she’d gotten all day. 

“When we get home, I’m putting my cock in your mouth,” he added, draping one last blanket over her shoulders. “I will be cold.”

She had a scarf pressed to her lips, keeping her from enthusiastically endorsing his plan. Lucien gave more often than he took and Elain jumped at the chance to make him feel as good as he did when he woke her with his rough tongue against her sensitive body. It wasn’t the time to think about it—if Lucien caught even a whiff of arousal he’d call the whole thing off to keep her trapped in bed. Letting Lucien think he could continue to use his handsome, muscular form as a distraction was a mistake. He won too many arguments simply by standing in front of her without a stitch of clothing on. 

Lucien shifted in the early morning gloom. Had autumn always been so wet? She knew Lucien didn’t like it and yet she refused to be deterred. Snow wasn’t soon behind if the dropping temperature was any indication and by the time spring rolled around she’d be far too heavy to fly. It was now or it was never.

Lucien took off, the woosh of air stealing the breath from her lungs. She’d never get used to it though admitting to Lucien she didn’t like being so high in the air or clinging to his body as he rose into the atmosphere was tantamount to never leaving their home ever again. Lucien wouldn’t forget, was too concerned with ensuring she never felt a moment of discomfort and so Elain kept her hands tight against his raised scales, grateful for his careful grace. 

She’d thought the clothes were an overreaction until the wind began to scream around her, its brutal kiss stinging beneath the layers of wool. The valley beneath them vanished to nothing, leaving only snow rolling snow drifts stretched for miles like a vast, endless sea. Elain had to close her eyes and focus on breathing through her nose when Lucien plunged into gloomy cloud cover, the once soft, drizzling rain shifting to frigid ice and snow. 

It seemed to go on forever. Lucien doved from beneath the cloud cover, circling mountain sides and pointed peaks until Elain was practically breathless from the altitude. There was nothing—no life, no trees, just the ever present ice she was certain would never thaw. Beneath her, Lucien’s tension seemed to mount the longer they searched. She felt awful. Maybe it had been nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream. Perhaps she’d gotten his hopes up for nothing. He was a good mate and she wasn’t, she thought, cheek nuzzled against his back. She tried to kiss him through the scarf wrapped around her chapped lips, her gloved hands stroking what she hoped translated into an apology.

Lucien whipped his head to the side, she thought to look at her. Elain leaned to the side, hand outstretched to pat his snout when she saw his usual russet eyes slide to gold. A streak of black and red seemed to burst from the clouds below, slamming so hard into Lucien’s body he couldn’t keep her on his back. Elain just narrowly avoided being hit with Lucien’s heavy spiked tail as she plunged to the ground, hitting the relatively soft snow below. She’d been right to think it was deeper than she was tall. Elain had to dig her away out among the furious, screaming bellows overhead. 

Lucien screamed violently to the earth like a bolt of golden lightning, his tail thrashing violently. The other dragon—larger, with what Elain though were curious red eyes, flapped huge, leathery wings  just overhead. She couldn’t get close to Lucien without risking harm and he clearly couldn’t hear her over his own snapping and snarling.

So Elain, looking at the other creature, decided to wave. 

We won’t hurt you, she hoped her body was saying. Don’t hurt us.

Lucien blew a furious cloud of steam and flame as the beast crept closer, his dark scales shifting red in the gloomy, filtered sunlight. She beckoned him closer until a beast no longer stood before her. This man shifted in pants. It was a revelation not to see another penis–which hadn’t occurred to her until she’d seen the rippling of his body shimmering in the air—and a face that was so eerily similar to Lucien’s.

Not in appearance. This man’s skin was a shade browner and instead of the lovely gold ribboning Lucien wore, he had a line of whorling red tattoos that streaked over his neck, his bare chest, and across his arms. His wings had shifted, folded and been made smaller but where will bunched against his back, the taloned tips nearly grazing his tattooed shoulders. 

“We didn’t come to harm you!” Elain shouted over Lucien’s insistent fury and the rippling wind. “We were sent to find someone!”

He grinned, running a broad hand through his tangled, shoulder length hair. “Who are you looking for?” his booming voice replied, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief. She knew who he was. 

“Cassian.”

He threw out muscular arms, striding towards her as if he might give her a hug. Only Lucien’s furious, spiked tail slamming between them stopped Cassian from coming any closer. “You found me. How lucky.”

His teasing smile told her he’d already known she was coming, that he’d been out waiting. Elain cleared her throat. “The ah…the Prince of Nightmares—”

“Is that what he calls himself now?” Cassian asked, eyeing Lucien just behind him. “Hiding in opulence, having a human do his dirty work? You should tell him to come face me himself.”

“I don’t exactly have a direct line to him,” Elain grumbled. 

“Will your male let me take you somewhere warmer? I don’t want to die today,” he added with amusement. 

“He doesn’t have pants,” Elain explained with embarrassment. Cassian looked into the golden eyes of Lucien.

“He seems wild. I haven’t seen one of his kind in centuries…where did you find him?”

Elain pressed her lips together, ignoring the ache in her body now that the adrenaline had begun to wear off. She’d fallen far, and though the snow was soft enough, she was certain she’d bruised something. 

“I don’t mind his nudity,” Cassian finally offered. “Though I doubt he wants to shift. He can wait outside for all I care, so long as he doesn’t frighten off the younglings.” That captured Lucien’s attention. He snuffed, eyes raised. 

“Very wild,” Cassian murmured. “Follow me, then.”

His body rippled, shimmering red against the hazy fog. It wasn’t like the violent shift Lucien often gave into—as if his skin were replaced by the scales just beneath. Cassian moved with fluidity, with a sort of magic that allowed him to remain two-legged even when his terrifying wings flared around him.

Elain plodded through the snow. “You hurt me when you dropped me,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss against his nose. “So now we do what I say. We’re going to follow him and you’re going to behave.”

Russet eyes blinked back to life, only to shift back into the gold. It was assent, or as close as she’d get. He lowered himself, nosing her ass as she clambered back onto his back until she had to swat him away. Cassian watched overhead, hovering like a terrifying creature of the night. The Prince of Nightmares. That was what the terrifying man of shadow had called himself. What did that make Cassian, then? He was massive, a thing of pure muscle and flesh. 

He took them deeper into the mountains, skimming close to the ground until snow gave way to a city. Lucien reared back, clearly startled by what he saw. For a moment neither of them moved, hovering in the air as they gazed down at the pointed, thatched roofs attached to brick houses. Not just houses, either. She saw shops and other buildings nestled among the mountainside. Their roads were clear  and made of dark cobblestone, the sides lined with little fences and pine colored shrubs. 

He stilled entirely at the sound of a shrieking child. Not fear. It was joy that cut through the howling wind. Elain rubbed his back, wishing she knew what he was thinking. Why hadn’t he been brought here? Why had Lucien been left to fend for himself in the wilds? 

Lucien deposited her on the outskirts, tail flicking nervously. Cassian, who’d already shifted back to his leather armored pants, glanced over. “He can come into the city. Our streets are wide enough…but if he loses his temper he’s gonna get hurt.”

Elain knew Lucien wouldn’t stay. “I understand.”

Lucien’s eyes remained nervous but russet as they stepped onto the streets. His head swiveled back and forth, watching people in very normal clothing walk about. They weren’t like him—massive, taloned wings remained pinned at their backs even in their two-legged forms. Just like Cassian’s had. Not all of them bore any marks on their faces at all. Some of the men were tattooed and shirtless but the majority might have been human, had they not bore those leathery wings.

“You stay out here,” Cassian ordered when they reached one of the little thatched homes. “I want to speak with your female. She will explain…and you will not harm anyone in this city.”

Lucien snuffed in agreement but there was fear in his eyes, radiating in waves. Elain pressed a reassuring hand on his nose before gesturing towards a large, green shuttered window. “I’ll stand right here so you can see I’m not being harmed.”

Lucien nuzzled her with his massive nose while Cassian opened the rounded wooden door. “Is it usual for his kind to be so…affectionate towards mortals?”

Elain stepped into the cozy little cottage, delighted when Cassian raised a tattooed hand and lit the fireplace at the far end of the room. Much like her own, there was a rather inviting living space that branched into a kitchen before spiraling upwards into what she assumed must be bedrooms. True to her word, Elain took the squashy sand colored chair just be the window, though Lucien’s head was still turned towards the city. 

Cassian leaned against the mantle, watching intently. She’d almost forgotten he’d asked a question. “We’re mates,” she admitted, tugging off her scarves and jackets and coats to show him the golden band ribboned around her neck. Cassian went still for a moment. She wasn’t sure he drew even a breath as he stared.

“Mates? With a human?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was why your prince–”

“He is not our prince,” Cassian interrupted hotly. “He’s a coward.”

She’d come back to that in a moment. “He sent me because he said more of you might have human mates. He—”

“Wants us to fight another war for him,” Cassian interrupted again. “The human males are encroaching, are wondering how many of us are left. I’m sure your beast doesn’t hide away like he should and draws attention—”

“He was left in that forest,” she snapped defensively. “All by himself. If he doesn’t know your ways he can hardly be blamed.”

Cassian exhaled a breath. “So I am being promised a mate for my help?” he asked.

“I didn’t come here to ask you for anything but community. We’re having a baby and—”

Cassian’s sharp gasp of air silenced her. “A baby?”

She pressed a protective hand over her bundled stomach. “Yes.”

He looked to the window with unmistakable longing. “We have not had a child born here in three decades. There are so few females left…we are too closely related, now, even if the humans had not killed so many.”

“I heard a child laughing as we came in,” Elain protested.

“Our kind age much slower,” Cassian explained. “Our babes take nearly seventy years to reach maturity. That little boy you heard is…perhaps…ten? In human years? He will grow for another forty before he is an adult male ready to live out on his own.”

“And my baby? Will they age so slowly?” she questioned. Cassian’s eyes softened.

“I couldn’t say. You would be the first mortal I’d ever met to carry a Fae child. How did he convince you? Humans detest us.”

“Not all of us,” Elain murmured. “He did not have to try very hard. He’s not like the men in my village back home. Lucien is kind–”

“He is your mate,” Cassian agreed impatiently. “To harm a mate is to harm oneself. I understand why you were sent, though I resent that our terrible monarch used a pregnant female as bait.”

“I don’t want a war,” Elain protested gently. “I just want my baby to be able to live somewhere safe.”

“You are always welcome in Velaris,” Cassian swore. “You and your feral mate. We protect our own. I will need to discuss this with the others…perhaps I could visit you?”

Elain glanced back to Lucien, still watching the village with near hungry appreciation. “We’re in the valley at the base of the mountains.”

“Hardly safe,” Cassian snorted. Elain suppressed an eye roll. 

“I don’t like the cold and he—”

“His kind once lived by the western sea. Some still do, I’ve seen his golden coloring before. I’ll send out a messenger. Perhaps he has kin. I ah…” Cassian rubbed the back of his neck. “The males will be interested in knowing more about you. About your females.”

“We prefer the two-legged form,” she admitted. “Although my sister might like to take on a massive dragon.”

There was an edge to Cassian’s eyes. “I would be happy to spar with any female who thinks she could take me on, mortal or not.”

“I think she might win,” Elain all but teased. “She has talons, too.”

Cassian came forward, his broad hand hovering over her stomach. “You have given us much to consider. Take your mate and rest easy. Tell him you are safe here. Even if you hate the snow, the humans cannot reach us. Your baby would be safe.”

Elain smiled. “That means everything to me.”

~*~

Elain was practically buzzing with excitement when they returned, stripping from her layers while Lucien paced nervously across the floor. Had he not seen it for himself, he might have thought the Illyrian community was nothing more than a very vivid dream. Beron had sworn there were no more of them. He and Lucien were the last, chained to that forest and the mortals with no hope for anything else.

He’d seen a child. Winged and strange and yet a child had run through the snow, kicking up powder and making a mess of things while his annoyed mama watched with amused eyes. Those people, that city—Lucien was coming apart even as Elain chattered.

“—baby will be safe and can learn—” “No.”

Elain froze, hand on the tail of her silvery blue scarf. “No?”

He shook his head, overcome with a wild fear. “We should leave. Leave this whole place. Go to the continent, perhaps, somewhere—”

“Lucien!” she interrupted, crossing the room to put her hands on his bare shoulders. “What is going on? Why are you trembling?”

His knees buckled and Lucien, who should have been stronger, fell to his knees. He gripped her body, pulling her soft body until he had his face buried in her stomach. He could hear the baby's fluttering heartbeat beneath her skin mingled against the steady beat of her own. Alive and safe…and not alone. Lucien inhaled sharply to keep himself from weeping while Elain threaded her fingers through his hair.

“You don’t have to do everything by yourself anymore,” she murmured. 

“Why didn’t my father tell me?” he asked, his voice ragged even to his own ears. 

She slithered to the ground, cupping his face in her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe he was scared,” she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Cassian said he’d seen others with your coloring on the western coast. Maybe relatives–”

Lucien sucked in a soft breath. “It will all go wrong.”

“It won’t,” she insisted because Elain believed the world was good and fair. It must be so simply because she willed it. As if she hadn’t been brought to him in irons, as if she hadn’t expected to die. Elain, who had pulled a spear from the gut of a wounded beast even when she thought he’d kill her. Who knelt before him carrying his child, his mark, his scent. 

“I will go where you tell me to go,” Lucien whispered, pressing his forehead against her own, nose nuzzling her face. “I will do what you tell me to do. I am yours.”

“We don’t need to do anything right now,” she murmured, kissing him again. Lucien knew where she was going with this. Her mouth was a distraction he wanted to lose himself in. “We can stay here until the baby is born.”

“And if I want to stay forever?” he questioned, tongue darting forward to trace the line of her lips. “I am a jealous male. I don’t want the others to see you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t want them to see me huge and disgusting—”

Lucien gaped. “Disgusting?”

Elain’s cheeks bloomed with heat. “It is well known—”

“Among human males, you mean. Well known among human males,” he prompted, his anger already too hot. More of their nonsense, more absurd statements from males who did not know a good thing when they saw it.

“That once a woman becomes heavy with child she’s no longer…you know.”

“I don’t.” He suspected he was about to find out. 

“He doesn’t wish to have sex with her,” Elain finished, squaring her shoulders. “Because she is no longer attractive.”

Lucien leveled a stare. “From the same males who are afraid of blood, I assume?”

Her flush deepened. “Your body changes—”

“I cannot wait,” he declared with relish, pulling her into his arms. Lucien licked the length of her neck. “I intend to keep you very, very naked. I want no more talk of what human males find appealing. I am beginning to think they do not like females at all, given their list of revulsions.” 

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, her fingertips reaching for his already hard cock. Lucien scoffed.

“I wouldn’t lie.”

“You think everything I do is appealing.”

“Because it is. You are my heart,” he reminded her, sighing when she stroked him gently. “And I pity your females left unattended while they’re pregnant. You have never smelled more appealing to me.”

“You make me sound like a meal,” she complained. Lucien tried to push her back, to spread her out but Elain was far too quick, dodging out of grasping range. 

“You are a meal,” he complained when she moved to the edge of the bed, hands on her knees.

“Not tonight. Tonight the only thing being licked is you.”

His whole body went tight. “You don’t—”

“I’m well aware I don’t have to,” Elain interrupted primly. “Can’t I just want to?”

Lucien nodded, clambering to his feet. It felt strange to walk to her, cock jutting nearly straight ahead, and pointing it at her face. Disrespectful, in fact, to get as close as he did hoping she’d open her mouth…even when that’s exactly what she did. 

“Elain—” he tried again, a half-hearted and yet valiant attempt given the way her soft mouth sucked him between her lips. His head lolled back on its own accord, his breath punched from his lungs. It was all Lucien could do but reach down and gather up her hair so it didn’t get caught against her face. It seemed polite given she had half his cock pushed into her throat and was bobbing her head, cheeks hollowed, tongue sliding up and down the ridged bottom of his length. It was maddening, her slow rhythm and the way her hand and lips created a different sort of friction. 

“Please,” he whispered, unsure what he was even asking for. It encouraged her, a smile curving that he could feel against his too-hard cock. He wanted more, wanted her to move faster, to take all of him until he could feel the back of her throat the way he could feel her cunt. Lucien pushed his hips, holding her head still to see just how much she could take. Elain’s eyes widened, her hands coming to his thighs to shove. She gagged and Lucien withdrew entirely to the sound of his gasping mate.

“Too much,” she breathed, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “That was too much.”

“I agree,” he replied, hauling her up in his arms. She was so delicate, so lovely and beautiful and so, so unhappy when he all but shredded her clothes with little more than a slice of an elongated talon. 

“Lucien,” she complained, wiggling against his grasp. Lucien merely adjusted his hold until one of her legs was slung over his shoulder, the other parted, her foot pressed against his pectoral. 

“What are you doing?” she breathed, as if it weren’t obvious. Lucien guided her onto his still wet cock, exhaling at that first slide of her cunt. 

“I’m fucking my mate,” he replied, pushing her onto him until her round ass was flush against his abdomen. “I’d like you to make a mess of me.”

Elain’s eyes rolled backwards, head going limp in his hand. He understood why–the changed angle made it seem as if he’d gone deeper, was practically invading her body, her senses. His arms trembled, not from her weight but just touching her. She was everything, his whole life draped against his body, drawing him so tight he felt truly connected. 

Elain kicked gently against his chest, straining in her effort to get him to thrust the way he knew she wanted. He couldn’t truly fuck her while he held her and just for a moment, Lucien wanted to enjoy the sight of his pretty mate in his hands, her tight cunt wrapped obscenely tight around his cock. Elain whined, rolling her hips until she’d slicked her own arousal through the trail of hair just beneath his stomach, soaking the sparse strands. Lucien lost his tenuous control then, bringing her to the bed so he could pound into her relentlessly, thumb rubbing her clit until Elain came with a breathless sob not once but twice. He quite liked the hormones she was always bemoaning—while they might make her queasy, they’d also made her breasts more generous and perhaps more importantly, her cunt seemed wetter.  

She reached for him, nuzzling her head into his neck. “Are you happy?”

He could still feel the rolling thrum of her climax against the skin of his cock. Lucien knew Elain wanted to know if he was happy about the others. He peered down at her.

“Yes.”

She was his happiness.

~*~

Cassian returned the day Lucien finished the bassinet. Elain was fussing over it in the living room when she heard Lucien’s furious bellow, his screaming snarl cut against the cheerful autumn afternoon. 

“I haven’t come to harm her!” Cassian’s voice shouted with irritation. “Your scent is all over her, I couldn’t have her if I wanted!”

Elain went to the door as Cassian muttered, “Which I don’t.”

“A hello to you too,” she murmured with dry amusement. Cassian’s head snapped to Lucien, prowling in the grass. 

“You need to teach him manners.” Cassian grumbled. “He’s too territorial.”

Elain wasn’t going to apologize for Lucien even if she sometimes agreed. When Cassian said it, she felt defensive—protective. “He’s a good mate,” she said, glancing towards the dragon that would almost certainly shift into a male to menace the other Fae. 

“Yes. With a pregnant female,” Cassian agreed, eyes falling on the mahogany bassinet sitting in the living room. “I spoke with the others. They want to see you.”

“No.” Lucien’s voice cut through the conversation, drawing both Cassian and Elain’s attention to his half naked form. Lucien was jamming his feet into pants in the doorway, his eyes never leaving Cassian’s face. “No strange males around my pregnant mate.”

“They don’t believe me,” Cassian explained. “No one thinks it’s possible to impregnate a human even if you could get close to one.”

“They’re not going to hurt the women, are they?” Elain asked suddenly, her fear overwhelming her. Lucien, too, looked at Cassian with expectant eyes. Cassian sighed.

“No. No one is going to abduct females and force them to bear children. The hope is for a mate, and mates are equals.”

Elain breathed a sigh of relief. “What’s the harm, then?”

Cassian winced, as if he knew exactly what Lucien would say. “The harm is you,” Lucien snarled furiously. “You are so….so….so casual about your safety!”

“You can’t be serious,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. Lucien stared her down. “We’re not doing this here. Not now,” she added, embarrassed for Cassian to witness this argument.

“I don’t see why not,” Lucien, blissfully unaware of the social norms that dictated such things, seemed bound and determined to just plow through every edict on manners Elain had ever been given. She was burning angry all the sudden.

“Of course you don’t!” she shrieked, her temper overwhelming her good sense. “You just push and push and push until you have your way! It is just me making compromises! You are not the only person afraid, Lucien! You, at least, have your wings and talons and scales and what do I have? A body that is easily overpowered by practically everyone, a child I am now responsible for, and a mate who thinks he should be allowed to decide what I am and am not allowed to do!”

“You are making my point–!” 

Elain cut him off.

“I was the one dragged through that forest, shackled and chained. It was my neck they restrained against your bed! You don’t ever think about what any of that was like for me! What it felt like to see you fly into that room and hope and pray you weren’t going to draw out my death!”

Lucien had gone very, very still. Elain was crying, not from sadness, but anger. She couldn’t help herself, half embarrassed by Cassian’s uncomfortable shuffling beside her, half furious Lucien had brought them to this point. 

“You aren’t the one being left gifts,” she reminded him, wiping at her face. “Or dealing with the dreams. You weren’t thrown to the ground, you aren’t a pawn. You keep saying mates are equals and yet you treat me like you are above me because you are stronger. That I’m somehow to stupid to make a good choice for myself and need you to protect me. You’re angry about the men from my village but you’re not any better!”

Lucien’s eyes went wide, his hand flying to his bare chest. She knew, in that moment, she’d gone too far. Lucien was better in every conceivable way. It was too late to take back those words and in her haze of fury, Elain wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. Let him stew, she decided. Elain shoved past him, elbowing him out of the doorway to step into the cool autumn air.

“Elain,” Lucien called miserably. “Elain, don’t…”

Fury gave way to shame and embarrassment as Elain marched down the sloping hill towards that too cold lake. Each step filled her with regret. She wished she hadn’t told him he was no better than the human men. Elain knew Lucien was going to internalize that long after she apologized. Fingers spanning her still flat stomach, she took a breath. 

“I want our baby to grow up around people who understand her,” she murmured. Lucien, who’d been trailing behind her the entire stomp towards the lake, put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her against his chest. “I don’t want them to suffer like you did.”

He buried his face in her hair. “My mate is too sweet,” he said, his voice ragged. “And I dread the thought of what could happen to you.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, well aware she’d break if she saw the anguish she heard so plain. “Who protects you, Lucien? Who keeps you safe?”

She could feel him trembling, gripping her so tight he was likely leaving bruises. “I am not important—”

“You’re wrong!” she interrupted hotly, tears flooding her eyes. “You’re important to me, to this baby! Sometimes…” her voice cracked. “Sometimes I feel like you’re doing all this preparing so you can leave. And I can’t stand the thought of it.”

Lucien tugged, forcing her to look up at him. It was a mistake. Every inch of him radiated misery. “We will go to see the others,” he said, russet eyes searching her face. “Tomorrow. Cassian knows to expect us. And…and you can do what you need to do. I will not be in your way.”

“Lucien,” she whispered but he shook his head of hair, the braid she’d placed just that morning shedding some of the little orange marigolds. 

“You were right. I am no better—”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, rising up on her tiptoes to kiss him before he could finish that thought. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Lucien—”

His mouth slanted over hers, arms wrapped around her body. “Don’t apologize,” he moaned, pulling her to the grass so she was in his lap, legs straddling his waist. “I–”

“Am perfect,” she kissed, tongue sliding against his own. Lucien groaned again, his body so warm, so hard even in the cool kiss of air. “I love you,” she added for good measure, delighted when he nipped at her bottom lip, rolling her to the ground to have her among a bed of grass. It had been so long since they’d last come together beneath a peaceful sky and yet this was right.

He was right. If she lived a thousand years, it would never be enough.

Lucien didn’t bother to undress her, didn’t bother with the slow seduction of his mouth, or dragging her out. This was a hasty apology from them both, a begging of forgiveness for their callousness, their unintended cruelty. He pushed aside the fabric of her clothes, sliding a finger over her cunt just to be sure she was ready before his was sliding into her, somehow freed of her trousers without her ever noticing. 

Lucien didn’t break the kiss and neither did Elain. The point of this coupling, she knew, wasn’t the sex so much as it was the joining. The touching, the connection, the radiating love. The pleasure was only secondary and still she took it, legs wrapped around his waist until they came together, trembling and sweaty and still kissing, over and over, that desperate hunger never leaving, never fading. 

She didn’t think it ever would.

~*~

He didn’t like it. Didn’t like how beautiful she looked in that pretty pink dress, didn’t like the care she’d taken with her hair, her face, her everything. He disliked even more the way every male in the room had stilled when she walked in, their nostrils flaring to drink in her scent. It was hell to keep himself dressed and still, to not shift as he’d promised Cassian. Lucien let Elain take a comfortable seat, one that a male yielded when she floated in, scrambling upwards and gesturing for her towards the chair nearest the fire. 

He understood their awe. She was so very obviously mortal and yet not, her skin marked by him. She reeked of his cock—Luicen hadn’t told her they’d be able to smell him all over her skin when he’d insisted on fucking her that morning, withdrawing to paint her breasts and face in his come. She’d washed but it lingered, a warning for any male who might think about getting too close. Being too friendly.

Cassian was the only male in the room he trusted, standing just beside Elain’s chair with his bright, hazel eyes. “Tell them what you told me,” Cassian prompted, cutting a glance at Lucien. Don’t fuck this up, his expression seemed to warn. 

Lucien didn’t acknowledge that at all. He’d follow their rules so long as they came no closer. Elain was perfection, glowing and smiling, one hand resting against her still flat stomach. They could scent that, too. She smiled, taking the time to learn their names, to ask after them. He was proud of how good she was at making people feel at ease, at settling the males until they were seated, no longer bristling and spoiling with tension. 

Elain spoke so sweetly that it was easy to forget the story she told was one of horror. There were things Lucien didn’t know—of this world she came from where women were pushed to mate too soon, too young with males twice their age in order to avoid being sent to the dragon. He knew he was not the only one bothered by that cruelty. All of the males blanched, revolted at the trickery, at the callous disregard for what was sacred to them. 

Her story began far before the tower, winding through a culture of fear. She had sisters, she explained. She wanted to get them out, wanted to offer a place for any mortal female that was tired of being ground to dust. Lucien could have told Elain every male in the room would agree even when they murmured their appreciation for such a plan.

The problem was Elain. She thought they ought to return, to explain the entire thing. With force, of course. Cassian caught his eye as Lucien’s fingers dug into the chair, nearly splintering the wood below. Elain twisted to look up at him with her shining eyes and he knew he’d be outvoted on this.

“Elain,” he whispered, ignoring the excitement of the other males. Cassian, too, grimaced.

“To go back risks the safety of our home,” Cassian added.

“They can’t reach us here–” one began but Lucien cut him off.

“Yet. They can’t reach you here yet.”

And Lucien knew, from the slant of their eyes and the set of their jaws, what would happen next. Elain, for all her optimism, had hoped to provide a place of safety for their child but the males were thinking differently. They were thinking of how they’d been denied what Lucien had, not because they were inept but because the human males killed children and females first when they invaded villages. The males that survived, that managed to defend their homes were left to carry the grief and guilt. He could see that hurt, that rage. If they came for human females, the males would merely slaughter whatever they could not hoard, would cut apart children that were half their own kin. 

“Then it’s war,” the male called Azriel declared. “Just as the Prince of Nightmares has decreed.”

Elain gasped. “That’s not—”

“You will leave my mate from the fighting,” Lucien interrupted, knowing full well she would be angry with him. “And I will help you through the forest.”

Cassian smiled. It was exactly as Lucien had expected and clearly as the General had hoped. Elain twisted, looking at him with pleading eyes. Betrayal. Lucien shifted, reaching for her and settling her into his lap as he took over her chair. Fingers stroking over her arm, he murmured, “I tried to warn you not to come.”

She looked so sad, her hurt so apparent. “We will try and spare as many as we can, lady,” Azriel told her when her disappointment and disapproval was too much to be ignored. 

“Your sisters especially,” Cassian added, as if he wasn’t interested in the line that Elain came from. “No one wants to see innocents be harmed.”

“But they will be,” Elain protested. “You can’t avoid it.”

Lucien pulled her against his chest at the stifling emotions roiling through the room. “She doesn’t know,” he said, trying to calm their tempers. “She was not alive for it.”

“When they came the first time, we did not attack them,” Azriel murmured, speaking for the ground. He came from the shadows holding a glinting knife. Lucien didn’t like the threat of violence or the blade wielded so casually. He tightened his grip on Elain who studied the dark haired males blue markings that trailed over his bare shoulders. “We merely defended. They came in the night. They hid, they ambushed, they drove our females and children into traps and cut them down one by one. We would defend, drive them back, but…”

Elain trembled in Lucien’s arms. She needed to hear Azriel tell this story, needed to understand why the eager males could not abide the thought of more humans coming with their weapons. 

“Are you any better if you invade?”

“We do not go to eradicate,” Azriel snapped when Cassian stepped forward. “But to warn, to reestablish ourselves. If you cannot understand the difference, well…”

“Watch yourself,” Lucien warned. “She has been harmed by those males, too.”

“We should have done this centuries ago,” Cassian murmured. “We were too afraid to diminish our numbers. I have written to the west and they are coming. We will be united for the first time in centuries—”

“If we can find the Prince of Nightmares,” Azriel added, eyes shifting back to Elain. “Can you find him?”

“I…” she looked as if she might cry. Things were not going as she’d hoped.

“She will,” Lucien said for her. “Give her some time. He is tricky.”

And that was that. Lucien left Elain to rebundle, meeting with Cassian just outside the door. “Your female is displeased with us.”

“She has a soft heart,” Lucien replied with affection. “She wants a place to raise our baby.”

“You should leave her here,” Cassian cautioned. “There is a home at the edge of the village. Smaller than your cottage but it could see you through winter. I would not leave her in that valley no matter how much she loves it. In the spring, take her west where it is warm and there are fewer humans. 

“When do you plan to attack?”

Cassian shrugged. “It will take time for the west to arrive, to study the maps and decide where is the safest place to set up a camp. We want to keep them from looking too closely at the mountains, from the relative safety we already have. Perhaps spring, perhaps sooner. If the Prince of Nightmares shows his face…”

Lucien only shrugged. “He only shows himself to her.”

“A curious thing. Keep a careful watch on her. I will come in three days for an update and to try and coax her up north.”

“We will talk more,” Lucien agreed as Elain ambled forward, her eyes—the only part of her not covered in cloth—openly miserable. “In three days. I hope to have good news for you.”

Cassian nodded. “Things will work out as they are supposed to. Trust in that.”

Lucien didn’t. He only trusted the female coming towards him, hand outstretched. “Don’t be sad,” he murmured. 

“Take me home, Lucien,” she mumbled, her words mumbled.

And Lucien could do nothing but obey.

~*~

She was dreaming. Elain knew she was and still she looked around that city square and it’s curious, burning pyre with interest.

“Why are we here?” she asked, not bothering to look at the swirling mass of shadow just beside her. Golden brown hands held a letter with familiar writing, dressed in the elegant black and silver from before. Only his face was unknowable, obscured in starless darkness she didn't dare look at. 

“You were not careful,” his voice murmured. “And your dragon even more careless.”

“What has he done?”

“Besides defy the orders given to him?” the Prince of Darkness asked, turning his gaze on her. Elain didn’t know how to explain it, how she knew his eyes studied her. Only that she did, just as she knew he would not hurt her. “Or destroy that tower until only the rubbled remains were left?”

“They can’t prove that,” she murmured, even when he placed her own letter to Ferye into her hands.

“You told your sisters too much,” the prince murmured. “And the woman from last year has returned, telling of the most unbelievable tale. The humans are coming for you, Elain Archeron. They’re coming for you both.”

She looked back at that pyre. “What a coincidence. Your kind is looking for you.”

“I am where I need to be. What did they decide?”

“War,” she said bitterly, hating the way his body seemed to ooze with delight. 

“Good. I am ready to see fae and mortals merge again. Tell Lucien he needs to leave,” the prince added. “I don’t want to watch you die.”

“Why would you—” Elain gasped, sitting up in bed. Light poured into the room nearly blinding her for a moment. Infuriating, she thought, kicking the blankets from her body. Elain strode to the bathing chamber where warm water waited just as it always did. She turned the dream over and over in her mind, wondering how long her and Lucien had before Graysen and the other figured out where they’d gone. Days? A few weeks at most? She heaved a loud sigh, disappointed and most of all, exhausted. She had to force herself from the water, to put on the velvety orange dress, to pull her wet hair from her face in a braid.

“Lucien?” she called once her shoes were on. It was unlike him to be gone for so long and not so unusual she felt any panic. “Lucien, have you eat—”

“Is that the creature's name, then?” Graysen asked when Elain rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs for the kitchen. “Or did you give it to him?”

Elain took a step backwards on instinct. Graysen, dressed in a blue dress uniform, examined his nails for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to rescue you,” Graysen replied sarcastically, looking around at her little home with his ugly eyes. “Women are returning from the continent telling of a dragon who frees women…and yet you’re here cooking it breakfast.”

“Where is he?”

Graysen chuckled, taking a step towards her. Elain stumbled back, careful to keep her hands from flying to her stomach. He couldn’t tell, didn’t know, didn’t—

The living room had been picked through, she realized when she swept inside. Cushions overturned, chairs moved…and her little bassinet kicked to its side. Graysen came right up behind her, chest pressed to her back, his hands on her hips. “Will you tell me what it was like, Elain? Fucking that monster? Did you cry? Or did you bend over willingly—”

A furious bellow in the distance punctuated Graysen’s taunts. Hands skimmed up her body, tangling in her braided hair. “I’ll bet you liked it, you fucking cunt.”

His other hand squeezed around her neck, so tight Elain scrambled to push him off, clawing and writhing until her elbow connected with his gut hard enough to make him wheeze. 

“You gave up a life with me for this?!” he demanded. “For this poverty, to raise some deformed beast like child?”

He was staring at her neck, at that ribbon of gold that marked her. Panting and wild, his usually coiffed hair falling in his empty, ugly eyes. “I would have given you everything—”

“You can offer me nothing,” Elain whispered, her voice trembling in her throat. “Nothing I want, nothing I need.”

“Is this what you need, then?” he asked, reaching for the bassinet Lucien had spent so much time working on. In one swift move, Graysen threw it against the wall, splintering it violently. Her hand flew to her mouth to hide her gasp. “This beast?” he roared, turning from the living room for her kitchen, the one place Elain loved almost as much as their bedroom. Graysen raged, ripping her plants from their hanging pots to shatter at her feet. He tore the curtains from the window, flung her dishes at the wall, at the floor, at her. 

Graysen lunged again, a knife in hand. He shoved her towards the door, the blade curved against her throat. Elain gasped at the sight of the valley, once green and lush and dotted with little flowers she spent each morning plucking so she could braid into his hair. It had become a wasteland of charred earth and fire. Lucien was covered in heavy iron chains held on all sides of his massive, golden body and still he fought, his spiked tail thrashing violently. She could see he was injured, could see the bloodied gashes over his broad chest, his sweet snout. Elain balked, dragging her heels into the ground but Lucien had seen. His fury ripped through the air at the sight, wings beating against his restraints. 

“End your fight, beast!” Graysen snarled, digging the sharpened, jagged end of his blade against her throat. Blood slid down her neck, stilling Lucien instantly. 

“Don’t,” she whispered, for all the good it did. He shifted in an instant, naked before the human men. Coated and blood and dirt, Lucien panted, one hand thrown out. 

“Let her go,” he ordered as Graysen dragged her closer. She could feel his fury digging against the arm that held her, drinking in the sight of Lucien no longer a dragon…but practically a mortal.

“You fucking whore,” he whispered roughly, pushing his knife so hard she could barely breathe. 

“Let her go,” Lucien said again, all of his worst fears coming to fruition. “You don’t need to harm her.”

“Does it…does it care for you?” Graysen asked incredulously. “And here I just assumed you liked being spread apart but this thing loves you, doesn’t it?”

“Let her go,” Lucien repeated, his jaw tight. 

“Alright, beast. I swear not to harm your pretty little toy if you come on two legs.”

He’s lying,” she gasped. “Lucien—”

“That’s enough,  I think,” Graysen clapped his hand over her mouth, digging the point of his knife against her cheek. “Women are so chatty, am I right? I would stay a beast too, if it meant avoiding their noise.”

Lucien didn’t respond, his eyes never leaving her face. She knew what he was trying to silently say when his eyes fell on the house behind them, on the carved path he’d been working on. Find the others. Elain poured her pleading into her gaze. 

Don’t make me leave you with them.

But Lucien knew Graysen would never honor his promise. That if they both came quietly, if they both complied Graysen would merely use her to secure Lucien’s cooperation before he killed Elain in front of Lucien as a means of torture. And who knew what he’d do to her in the meantime. Elain had to think about their baby.

Cassian had promised to come in two days. She couldn’t reach him any faster but she could hide herself away, could wait and hope and pray the Prince of Nightmares, who was somewhere in the city, would keep Lucien safe. 

Lucien, hands restrained by the soldiers just behind, reared his head forward as Elain twisted, letting Lucien smash his face into Graysens'. Lucien was still bigger, still stronger. 

“RUN,” he ordered, his words a terrifying snarl. “Do not come back for me.”

Elain took off, just as Lucien ordered. She would run and she would hide, just as he wanted. Just as she knew Lucien would walk the other way through the forest, would let them parade him through the city streets and make a mockery of everything lovely about him.

But Elain had no intention of leaving him.

The Prince of Nightmares wanted a war?

Elain would give them a war

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #how will i ever recapture the magic that is this fic? #i love it so much #wake up girlies elain is smashing the patriarchy #elain x lucien #oops all plot

[mosylufanfic]

I wonder for NaNo if I may ask for Catherine Morland/Henry Tilney from Northanger Abbey with the prompt "concilliabule," please?

Conciliabule: A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.

Nefarious Doings at the Vicarage

Walking in the dusk toward the lights of home, the Reverend Mr. Henry Tilney was surprised to see his eldest loping down the lane to meet him. 

"Father," he said without preamble, "you simply must rein Mother in." His expression was long-suffering and faintly bilious.

Henry looped his arm around his son's skinny shoulders. "I shall do no such thing, my lad. What's she up to now?"

"She's plotting."

"How delightful! Plotting what?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know." He sniffed. "It's really unbecoming in a vicar's wife."

Not for the first time, Henry wondered how he and Catherine had managed to produce such a stuffed shirt. Peter was naturally their pride and joy, in equal shares with his siblings, but the boy had become positively insufferable lately. 

At Christmas, his mother-in-law had said it was the age, and that all of her children had gone through periods where they were insufferable in their own particular ways. And that likely he had too.

"I have always been a delight," Henry had said, and his sister Elinor had been attacked with a sudden and violent coughing fit. 

Now he asked, "What, may I ask, is so terribly offensive about your mother's plotting?" He gently urged his son forward and they started walking again, more slowly. 

"She and the children - "

Henry rolled his eyes, careful not to let Peter see. The next oldest of the "children" was Ellie, a whole thirteen months Peter's junior. 

"- are whispering and giggling and rushing around the house and making a terrible noise." He sniffed. "I can hardly focus on my Latin."

"You can hardly focus on your Latin when it's dead silent," Henry observed. Peter's gifts decidedly did not lay in languages. 

"Which is why I really need to study!"

"One day's loss will hardly set you back for life, I think," Henry said. "Unless you believe your mother's nefarious plotting likely to continue?"

"I hope not," Peter said primly. "Father, really, can't Mother strive to have a little more dignity?"

He thought of the last time he'd dropped in on a planning meeting for the annual village fete, and the expression in Catherine's eyes as she met his over the teapot - faintly murderous, a tad pleading. He'd grimaced in return, a silent apology for the role that being his wife had imposed upon her. 

In the next moment, she'd smiled sweetly at the mayor's wife and suggested a reasonable  compromise to the pitched battle over the location of the pie tent. Which had freed them all up to move on to the matter of the sack races.

"Your mother has extraordinary measures of dignity and restraint," Henry told his son. "More than perhaps either of us realize. I would consider this, too: if the Good Lord intended us to be dignified and restrained all the time, He wouldn't have made being ridiculous so much fun."

He scrunched his face. “I have doubts about the theological underpinnings of your argument, Father.”

“Mmm, I would be delighted to hear them. Tomorrow. In Latin.”

Stymied, Peter sulked all the way up the front walk. Henry gave him a hug around the shoulders. “Come on, let’s go see what exactly your mother’s up to.”

As they stepped in the house, a very small voice shrieked out, "Papa!" Henry's shins were assaulted by the voice's owner, Agatha, the youngest, barely a year of age and just graduated from the staggering stage to something like walking. 

He hoisted her up into his arms, lifting her above his head, as she squealed with joy. From the dining room, whispers and giggles erupted and were swiftly stifled. Clearly the plotting continued apace.

Settling Aggie on his hip, he said, "Now what's going on around here?"

She wrapped her arms around his neck in a stranglehold and babbled. Since "Papa" and "Mama" were the extent of her vocabulary, this was unsurprising.

All three children between Agatha and Peter flooded out into the front hall, hugging him and chattering in an explosion of happy noise. Their mother followed more slowly, but no less smilingly.  

"Papa!" Ellie said. "You should come to dinner now."

"May I take off my hat first?"

"You might even take off your coat, my dear," Catherine said. 

He leaned over their children's heads to kiss her. "You are all kindness, my love," he said, handing Aggie over so he could divest himself of his coat and hat.

"Papa, come and eat!" Jamie insisted, tugging at his breeches.

"My goodness, I must look famished indeed," he laughed, allowing himself to be herded like a single sheep by several overeager herding dogs towards the dining room. 

He stopped short on the threshold, staring at the strings of paper chains and the crooked silver stars stuck haphazardly to the walls. The table was laid with the good linen tablecloth they'd gotten from her parents on their marriage, and their best china and silver lay at each setting. 

"What's all this?" He looked around in genuine confusion.

"Papa!"

"It's - "

"Today - "

"Bir-thay," Aggie said, quite clearly, from Catherine's arms.

Then he remembered the date, and that it was his fortieth birthday. "Why," he said. "Why, so it is."

Catherine kissed Aggie's cheek. "I had a presentiment you would have forgotten, my dear," she said to him. "Luckily, your children plotted a celebration for you."

"Just the children?"

She tucked her chin and smiled through her lashes at him, just as delightful as the girl he'd flirted with at the Assembly Rooms a lifetime ago. "Don't let your birthday feast get cold, now."

His older brother and his father might sneer at their harum-scarum household, with even the youngest children included in most meals and running about the house instead of being confined to the nursery. But it suited Henry and Catherine very well, even when it took ten minutes and a scuffle over who was kicking whom under the table to get everyone seated. 

"This is capital," Henry said, after saying grace. "What a delightful birthday feast already, and I haven't even tasted it."

"You like it, Papa?" Ellie said, as the soup was served. 

"I like it very much. Did you work all afternoon on this?"

"Yes, and we just finished when you came in!"

"Just, just finished," said little Jenny.

"Did you? You know, if Peter hadn't come out to meet me in the lane, I would have caught you all before everything was ready."

Catherine grinned broadly. "Why do you think we sent him?"

He blinked at her, and then looked at his son, who was looking very smug. 

"Why Peter, you sly thing," Henry said. 

"Yes," Catherine said, giving the top of his head a noisy kiss and rumpling his hair, "I'm terribly proud."

He squirmed away, smoothing his hair down. "Motherrrr!"

FINIS

#Henry Tilney #Catherine Morland #(Morland no longer but tagging consistency) #northanger abbey #mosylufanfic lives up to her damn name #NaNo stories #jane austen

[lowcountry-gothic]

Why Sayid ends up with Shannon—not Nadia—in the sideways church

I feel like I’m one of the few Lost fans to actually like Sayid and Shannon’s relationship, and to think they actually have chemistry together. Most people prefer him with Nadia, since so much of his life was devoted to finding her again, and I often hear the complaint that he should have ended up with her, not Shannon, at the church in the show’s final scene. 

I happen to vehemently disagree—and not just because I ship Sayid and Shannon. The two ending up together is actually a better resolution to Sayid’s character arc.

Just think about it for a second. What is the greatest obstacle to Sayid’s growth, to his struggle to heal from the pain and suffering in his past? Guilt. He feels he’s done terrible things, as a soldier and specifically a torturer, that can never be erased or justified. His moral compass is intense and exacting, so it’s nearly impossible for him to forgive himself, leading to a pattern of rehashing the same toxic cycle of doing new terrible things for “The Greater Good” (the title of a season 1 Sayid-centric episode), hoping that this “greater good” can counterbalance his sins while simultaneously knowing it never can. Ultimately and inevitably, this results in adding further guilt to his grand total. 

So what’s the solution? How can he break free? Well, he tries doing constructive (pun unintended) good by building houses for charity in the Dominican Republic. And that seems to work to some extent, in the short term. He’s never really given the chance to see if it works in the long term; but maybe that’s a good thing. 

Because Sayid is a smart guy. On some level he’s gotta realize: how do you ever erase the guilt of so much torture and killing? What is the exchange rate between one house built and one human life taken?

No, the only way out of the cycle is just that—to get out of the cycle. To forgive himself. To opt out of this transactional paradigm of redemption altogether, realizing that the worth and goodness of a human being cannot be measured merely by the sum of their best or worst deeds.

Now, stepping back for a minute, I think the main role Nadia plays in Sayid’s life is as a representation of this transactional view of his worth. She’s someone he has wronged in the past, so if he can find her, help her, and love her, he can finally be redeemed, because these positive deeds will outweigh the harm he did to her. That harm represents all his worst deeds in his mind, so mending that specific harm would represent, to him, atoning for all of his guilt. 

I would argue that this is less genuine love, and more an entanglement, perhaps what a Buddhist would call attachment. He freed her from the prison in Iraq because she had become a mirror of his cruelty back to him, choosing to show love to him rather than hate or resentment, and making him feel the weight of his actions and the pain they caused her. 

Which is both interesting and ironic, because by showing him love rather than hate—by insisting on seeing his continued humanity in spite of the inhumanity of his actions—she is showing him the true way out. 

That’s his road to healing. If he could see himself how she sees him, he could begin to forgive himself. 

But he doesn’t see any of that. He only feels the horrible weight of his guilt, and clings to her as a way to earn himself a redemption.

(I think it’s also meaningful that, while he has always struggled with guilt, it never really weighed him down in a crippling, existential way until Nadia died. To my mind, that further links her, or rather the idea of her in Sayid’s mind, to his chance to redeem himself and ease his guilt via loving her and making her happy.)

Meanwhile, in the present day on the Island, we have Shannon, who at the beginning of the show is herself stuck in a similar state of entanglement / attachment with Boone, although one based on resentment and blame rather than on guilt; she resents the love his mother never gave her, as well as the privilege and career success he enjoyed while her dreams were consistently frustrated. She is stuck in a similar cycle of taunting Boone, giving him a little of what he wants, and then pulling away from him again in an attempt to punish him or to even the score.

(None of which is conscious, of course—just as Sayid’s guilt / redemption cycle is probably entirely subconscious to him.) 

But then in comes John Locke, who tells Shannon that on this Island, everyone gets a new life, a new start, a new chance. And she listens. She at least begins to take that chance, begins to disentangle herself from Boone (though not entirely; but who among us has ever entirely reached their goal yet? It’s always a journey) and allow herself to be happy with Sayid.

So if Nadia represents Sayid’s belief in a transactional method of redemption, in which good can outnumber the bad and thus somehow undo it or give it less meaning, then Shannon represents this path of disentangling from old, toxic cycles and beginning to start over, leaving the past in the past, and living in the present moment. 

I don’t think Sayid ever really escapes his own toxic cycle in his lifetime. Without subtracting from its meaningfulness in any way, his sacrifice in “The Candidate” is still nonetheless an attempt to balance the scales. So it makes perfect sense that, in the flash-sideways world, he continues in the same vein. I think it’s significant that right before meeting Shannon again in the sideways, Sayid asks Hurley, while waiting with him in the van in front of the alley, what he has done to earn Hurley’s trust. Note the key word here: earn. 

Even now, Sayid is still thinking transactionally. But note also Hurley’s reply: he merely says, “I think you’re a good guy, Sayid.” 

In other words, Hurley affirms Sayid’s inherent worth and value and goodness, regardless of his actions.

When Sayid finally “wakes up” by touching Shannon, the memories he flashes to are not the moments when he proved his worth to her or to the others on the Island, but the simple, lighthearted moments when the two of them were beginning to build something new, when he began, for the first and perhaps the only time on the Island, to let himself leave behind the weight of his past. 

So yes, I think it’s beautiful and resonant and meaningful for him to be with Shannon, rather than with Nadia, in the church in “The End.” With Nadia, I think the implication would have been that he had finally redeemed himself, had somehow magically earned enough good deed points to climb out of that yawning pit of moral debt. But being with Shannon shows us, rather, that he’s finally ready to forgive himself—to allow himself the peace and happiness he‘d unconsciously denied himself in life by clinging to guilt as a part of his identity. He’s finally free.

#text #mine #lost #sayid jarrah #shannon rutherford #noor abed jaseem #humanity’s inherent goodness and worth #guilt #self forgiveness #in this essay i will

[dragonbanexxi]

The Dragon Queen

***Not Canon Compliant!!!****

Jaehaera Targaryen x Aegon III Targaryen

Chapter 12: Jaehaera

She sat in her large pinewood desk on the opposite side of her chamber.

Hellfyre had taken residence upon her large bed, laying on its back with his chile red wings sprawled open. The little devil was snoring lightly without a care in the world.

Azuron has taken a liking to the nook under her pinewood desk, curling around her mothers feet.

Meanwhile her Morghul sat atop her desk. Sniffing the letter Viserys had handed her earlier. Morghul tilts its small head as it takes in her mothers conflicted expression. Jaehaera gives her emerald dragon a soft pat, caressing its scaly back. The dragon only nudges her hand back to the letter.

“You’re supposed convince me to burn it Morghul, not make me read it.” She says dejectedly.

Jaehaera swears the her little companion rolls it’s golden eyes. “Fine” she huffs like a bratty child being no for something they desperately want.

Her slender hands pick up the envelope, using her deft fingers to rip it open. Her heart racing a mile a minute.

Princess Jaehaera Targaryen,

First and foremost, I want to start this letter off with an apology cousin. The years have passed and I’m ashamed to admit that the bridge torn between you and I has gone far to long without repairing. Tis I who holds the blame for that Jaehaera. As the King of The Seven Kingdoms it is my duty to look after the well being of my people, no matter if they are on Westerosi soil or out in the abroad. So for that I beg you to accept my apology cousin, a small part of me knows I don’t deserve it and that you’re not entitled to accept it. Yet a bigger part of me hopes that we can move forward and reconstruct that torn down bridge together. To put aside our family differences, for the sake of our house.

I’ve thought of you quite often throughout the years. Always wondering what has become of my silent cousin Haera. Memories of you and your late brother always bring fondness to me. Perhaps we could revisit our childhood memories when we meet again. Too my surprise, it seems you have made a good life for yourself. Whispers from Essos have reached here from King’s Landing. I guess the birds sing in the east as they do in west. Congratulations by the way, it is quite an honorable thing you have accomplished out there in Slavers Bay. I hear you freed the slaves in Meeren, Yunkai and Astapor. I hope if you do agree to parley with me in person, you’d be willing to tell me how you ended such a barbaric practice. I bet it is quite the story tell. One that I look forward to hearing.

Well now I have reached the part of the letter where I must confess my reasonings of sending my brother too you. I will also like to apologize for sending Viserys of all people. Unfortunately I too am knowledgeable about my brother’s eccentric ways. Yet out of everyone in my court, he is the person I trust most. Viserys means well even if he can come off as lacking in manners.

Moving forward there a few things I would like to speak frankly to you. The first being of my want for you to return home to the Seven Kingdoms as a princess of the iron throne. You are a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon runs through your veins as it does mine. A Targaryen alone in the world must be a terrible thing, but you don’t have to be alone Jaehaera. Return home cousin, I vow as the king of the seven kingdoms you will be under my protection. No harm will be displayed upon you, and I swear to defend you against those who wish ill by you. You have my word.

I will not lie to you. I have been king now for the better part of decade yet I’ve only served as a true regnant for two years. The foundation of my rule is a fragile one, lords who supported your father are not content with me. Only I and my most trusted men know of the assassination attempts against me. Perhaps it’s foolish of me to ask for you help, and perhaps it’s even more foolish of me to think you’d willingly agree to give your help to me.

However here I am cousin. I come forth as not a king, not even as your cousin, but as a humble man; to ask you to come to Westeros and parley with me. Let us bring peace upon our divided factions once and for all. I will await your response eagerly cousin.

Sincerely,

Aegon Targaryen the third of his name, King of the Andals and of the Firstmen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm.

Uneasiness sways in her belly. Oddly Jaehaera felt like his words were sincere yet she couldn’t help but feel them a little cold.

Aegon is asking too much from her. To just up and leave her people who she’d sworn protect, that was unfair. Aegon wants stability, yet why should she compromise her newly acquired status? It was not her fault Aegon cannot maintain stability in his rule. Nor was it her responsibility to bring it to him. The court made him king, and had allowed her to go in self exile without a second thought.

She feels a wave of pain pulse in her skull. Clutching her head in her slender hands she sighs tiredly. Getting up she blows on her candles, darkening her room.

Jaehaera couldn’t bring herself to think anymore more of returning to Westeros tonight. She ushers Morghul and Azuron to bed with her. They curl up to their brother Hellfyre who gives a content sigh.

Tomorrow, she’d worry about Aegon and Westeros tomorrow.

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

A short chapter this time! Next chapter will be an Aegon POV from back in King’s Landing :)

Thank you guys for all the comments and likes. I greatly appreciate them all! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Comments are always welcomed!!! :)

#aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera targaryen #jaehaera targaryen x aegon iii targaryen #jaehaera x aegon iii

[hey-michael-young-history]

Do you have any new subscorp headcanons?

Let’s see if I still got it!

My head canon is that Kuai Liang struggles with boundaries in a monogamous relationship. Not because he’s particularly flirty or has interest in other people but because the Lin Kuei never taught him boundaries. Other than Sektor, Kuai spent his entire life in the Lin Kuei. We excuse Sektor because he’s a little twerp but Kuai actually has to function in the world so he either completely misses people flirting at him or he engages with them because he’s trying to work on being more social. This is particularly bad with Johnny Cage who is disarmingly charming and handsy. Kuai doesn’t fully understand why this frustrates Hanzo but he’s trying to navigate social situations better.

My hc for cryomancers is that they’re born cold but they yearn for warmth of other people. There’s more to it but it’s possibly a spoiler for While I Breathe, I Hope. In a way, Kuai was drawn to Hanzo (as a human and not a wraith) and his warmth.

They don’t actually discuss the past. Hanzo talks about Harumi, because it’s one of the ways he keeps her love, but he doesn’t actually talk about the death of his family beyond anger. Kuai Liang doesn’t pry out of respect and because while he doesn’t fear Hanzo, he suffers from PTSD for many, many things, but near the top is Hanzo stabbing him and setting him on fire. They bicker and discuss things freely but that whole kamidogu incident and Hanzo’s life with Harumi and Satoshi are two things that NEVER come out of the vault. Not until they have no other choice but to face it.

Everyone thinks that Kuai is a powder keg ready to explode because he holds it all in, but Hanzo’s the only one who knows that it’s already happened. It was just more of a “giving up” than an explosion. Kuai turns his rage inward, leading him to be highly functional despite his major depression. He’s quick to blame himself for others’ failures and forgives without a second thought. He would take back Frost as a student if she even hinted at it. Bi-Han has fully embraced darkness but Kuai holds on to the hope that they can be brothers again. He even forgave and became friends with Hanzo.

The Lin Kuei taught their warriors that their lives are for the service of the Lin Kuei. It left Kuai with an subconscious feeling of worthlessness because the warriors of his time understood and accepted that they would eventually die for the Lin Kuei. He teaches his students to live for the Lin Kuei. And he feels like a hypocrite because it’s just been ingrained in him to choose death over failure. The one time he disobeyed, he was cyberized anyway, killed, resurrected as a revenant and committed horrible atrocities, only to be revived, possessed, and commit more terrible atrocities.

He freed himself from the tyranny of the Old Lin Kuei but not before it destroyed his sense of self and worth. His takes it upon himself to fix and help others to stave off his survivor’s guilt and his resentment of being used, even after escaping.

Hanzo is the opposite. His rage is an indiscriminate force of nature that will swallow anyone in its path and he has no qualms about releasing it upon the world. But he’s had time for self reflection. He had to heal to teach his students and keep them from dedicating their lives to vengeance, as he once did. Hanzo’s depression is more situational (his down days revolve around his slain family) and he has tunnel vision once he gets to the root cause of whatever pissed him off but he’s still high functioning.

In the beginning, Hanzo’s need to assign blame and Kuai’s tendency to self blame was T O X I C. But it brought down barriers and allowed them be vulnerable enough to have real conversation.

Their fire and ice don’t mix but even the laws of nature cant stop them from being together ❣️

#mortal kombat #subscorp #head canon #kuai liang #hanzo hasashi

[scarlettatg]

The Handmaids Tale

Episode 501 Morning & 503 Border

I just came to say, uh... well done. You did something terrible that needed to be done. I understand what that costs. May he rot in hell.

Praise be.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

I'm one of the women you traded for Waterford.

Sorry I didn't do it sooner.

I don't know how you managed it. Getting us out. And all those kids.

I was lucky.

Women always say that when they've done something extraordinary.

The only times June has been treated like a normal person, not like a victim. Not like an unstable woman. Not like someone that needs to be watched, babysat or constantly supervised. The only time she felt validated and not like she has to hide herself and her feelings to make others comfortable, or worse not to disappoint the people she loves. This understanding and admiration for her sacrifices and consequences comes from strangers which makes it even harder and more meaningful. I understand her loved ones want her to be ok, but minimizing her and expecting her to move on is condescending. Yes she has to work to fit into this society, but she is still a woman that fought against a system, that made mistakes but was able to do extraordinary things. The scene with Tuello is one of my favorites so far because it has so much meaning, especially in a moment where June needed it the most.

“I understand what that costs.” Tuello understands what killing Fred costs to June. The guilt, her internal battle with morality, her questions to herself of who she becomes now, the grasping with the reality that she enjoyed what she did and what she did was brutal; but so was the brutality Fred more than willingly subjected her to. Brutal was the system Fred helped built. Tuello as a man will never fully understand what systems like these do to woman and I’m thankful he didn’t put her down or tried to minimize her actions by pointing out the consequences and the negatives of what she did. June knows this, she battles with this and everything else constantly. She doesn’t need people to keep reminding her of her mistakes.

“Women always say that when they’ve done something extraordinary.”

Yes we do, because we are made to feel we are never good enough and the consequences of what we do seem to always matter more than the good we did. Once again another stranger admiring June’s work. We have seen throughout the show that whatever June does has consequences wether they’re good or bad. She orchestrated the prisoner exchange to be able to kill Fred but she also freed women who had been working in the resistance. Her action brought her this consequence. The 5 Marthas she saved in season 3 helped her down the road. Don’t get me wrong I’m well aware June has made bad decisions that have cost her and others dearly, but if she doesn’t try nothing happens. Gilead is fueled by fear and even if you don’t do anything you’re in danger. Like Daisy said to her in season 4 “Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.”

Speaking of Daisy loved the parallel here. Daisy and Lily both say to her “I thought you’d be taller.” I think it’s meant to portray that they see her as something bigger than she sees herself and also as a symbol of hope and inspiration; contrasting to June’s constant feelings of guilt, failure and of being unworthy.

#the handmaid's tale #june osborne #gilead #the handmaids tale season 5

[galesautismdiagnosis]

I posted 6,890 times in 2022

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Blogs I reblogged the most:

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I tagged 1,622 of my posts in 2022

#iwtv / - 212 posts

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Longest Tag: 136 characters

#like sit and think about all the ways you have wronged me and suffer with the fact that theres nothing you can do to fix it bc i am gone

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

louis ze 21st century is so ...convenient! if i am 'ungry all i need to do is open ze grinder application and ze food comes to me! C'est merveilleux, non? I do have a question, louiee. ze people in zis app--why do zey ask me to "show hole?" what do zey mean, mon amour?

18 notes - Posted November 12, 2022

#4

I have never wanted anything more than to be in these group chats

18 notes - Posted September 28, 2022

#3

Louis, you must know zat she is lying!!! I would never call Claudia zat terrible word!!! Do u really zink I am so ‘eartless, so ‘orrible? I know you do not zink that I am listening but I am—What do mean “what word?” You know ze word Louis. It is ze word I cannot say. You know ze word!! Why would you want me to say ze word, Louis, when you know zat I cannot say it! No, I am not going to say it! You gave me ze what pass??

25 notes - Posted November 16, 2022

#2

Wild theory but what if Claudia, ever suspicious and eyes always open to things Louis refuses to see, figures out that Lestat is in Paris and currently doing…something with Armand.

Maybe she goes to meet him, finding the ugly, run down tower. Maybe he wades through dust and cobwebs until she finds him. The once beautiful and proud Lestat, now disheveled and sickly. Weak from too much time of sustaining himself only on rats, as he is too weak to feed only anything else.

Maybe she ridicules him. Taking explicit joy that despite her being prevented from destroying him, that he has lost everything.

Maybe he sneers at her. Tells her that Armand has been asking a lot of questions. That he’s been answering them. Tells her that perhaps she’ll meet the fate she once condemned him to.

Maybe she leaves the decrepit tower, thinking on whether to tell Louis. To plan yet another escape.

Maybe she finds Louis, all moon-eyed and glowing with new love. Maybe she hesitates, remembering how he chose Lestat over her time and time again. Even when she tried to save him, he still chose Lestat.

Maybe she decides that in order to save herself, she needs to give up on saving Louis.

Maybe she slips out of the theater into night, bags and coffin packed.

Maybe she hopes one day, she and Louis can meet again when he is freed and repentant. Maybe she hates him, and will always hate him. Maybe there is a wound that will never be healed, forever bleeding and forever corrupting anything they may share.

Maybe.

32 notes - Posted November 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I’m so terrified I knit this sweater too big and I refuse to frog it

47 notes - Posted August 12, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review