#ill-mannerly

[kxdazusea]

Little teen beauty fuck hard Me la chupa con antifaz de gatita Chica japonesa mamando pene en Tokyo Model boys cock gay sex After school snack Calentando su conchita estrecha Fucking Young Teen at the peach get caught Hermosa pendeja hace un pete en el auto Grace pee masturbation magic wand fingers penetration orgasm famegirls Bailecito casero sapna getting undressed on bed

#spur-galled #ill-mannerly #Hylidae #Taurini #burroweed #naley #gargalize #proterandric #furbelow #TCM #Leninism #Palaeotherium #octal #helmet #dishclout #czaristic #HEHO #vineries #pipetting #factories

[fangirleaconmigo]

I would love to hear your bitter rant abt TWN Eskel

Ok Nonny, duck and cover. Here it comes.

I tend to delay making posts like this because when I watch something (in this case, the botched Episode 2 of Season 2) and get pissed off, I like to calm down and think before I speak.

But then time passes, and it’s like….it’s too late. It’d be weird now. (this is actually the story of my entire life and communication style) But if you’re interested in my Eskel rant, I am happy to oblige.

Before I do, please know I am not just reflexively negative. I reviewed S2 Ep 1 and gave it an A. I posted a long ass blog post saying how much I loved it. The vast, vast majority of the space I take up on social media is focused on positivity and restraint. But I’m a human being too, and like anyone else on this planet, I cannot possibly be expected to love literally everything.

So DO NOT CLICK OR READ IF TWN CRITIQUE IS GOING TO BUM YOU OUT OR RUIN YOUR ENJOYMENT OF IT. Protect your peace. Curate your fandom experience. I want you to be happy and comfortable here first and foremost, I do not need anyone to read this who doesn't want to.

So, for me (book fan, fan of witchers and Eskel), Season 2 Ep 2 failed at everything it attempted regarding the parts set at Kaer Morhen. It failed at showing basic respect for the fans. It failed at telling the original story. It also failed at telling its own story. It also introduced brand spanking new misogyny to the story and to the wolves that was so goddamn disappointing to watch.

It failed at having basic respect for the fans. You can change almost everything about a story. But I firmly believe that the major things like deaths should stay the same. Killing off a character that does not die in the books is a dick move. You can only get away with it if your new story is so powerful and brilliant that it makes people appreciate it for what it is. But it didn’t do that either.

It failed at telling the original story: In book canon (on which the show is ostensibly based) Eskel is the gentlest, most gentlemanly witcher we ever meet! He is kind. He is mannerly. He is loyal. He is protective. I did a whole character breakdown here.

TWN made him a predatory, misogynistic creep. He is aggressive and shitty and creepy to Ciri. He even implies to Geralt that if he would have found Ciri, he wouldn’t have adopted her. He would have fucked her. Seriously I could barely watch, it was painful. I was ill.

But he was infected by the leshy! And we just wanted his death to have impact.

No! That story failed too! They threw the original story in the trash, then replaced it with a weak story that didn't work on it's own merits.

It failed because it did not establish Eskel as a character first. It did not establish his friendship with Geralt first. And no one in the story seemed to be surprised by his behavior. So there was NOTHING in that story that made me FEEL or SEE that it was unusual behavior for Eskel.

If a character is acting the literal opposite of their personality, people would have reacted! When he walked in acting like a giant weirdo Geralt would have hog tied him and performed an exorcism lol. He never once said what the fuck is going on with you. Neither did anyone else.

You can tell me that he was infected by the leshy and that this was unusual behavior for him, but if you show me the opposite thing, (no one taking much note of it) it is muddled, weak storytelling. The ‘after’ scene in the hall could not retroactively change the order in which people experienced his arc. Also, it couldn’t fix this glaring error.

So you’ve disappointed and screwed over people who love Eskel. And you’ve had zero effect on people who didn’t know Eskel. No one who was watching him for the first time gave a shit that he died, because from scene one he was a complete piece of shit. So his death didn’t even have an impact.

Its only job in the narrative was to be vague danger hits unexpectedly close to home making Geralt pivot from ‘hide Ciri away’ to ‘teach Ciri to fend for herself’. There were a million other ways they could have done that. It wasn’t powerful. It wasn’t necessary.

So why does that matter? I’ve seen people go “But he’s a minor character who cares?” I mean, if you don’t love that character then no, you don’t care. And you don’t have to! People connect to different characters. It is allowed. I am fully aware that this is largely a book reader complaint, and it doesn’t need to impact your enjoyment of the show. It shouldn’t! It is also an Eskel fan complaint (which includes lots of gamers), and not everyone is that either. You have my blessing and my envy to not care.

But I would like to differentiate between minor and insignificant. In the books, Geralt and Ciri are the main characters. (Geralt starts out as the main character and it kind of segues into focusing more and more on Ciri.)

And Kaer Morhen is essential to grounding, to defining, to understanding, and to humanizing both Geralt and Ciri. Kaer Morhen may only appear “live” in one book, but this place explains entirely how Geralt became Geralt. And it is (along with Yen) what gives Ciri the strength and resources to survive and vanquish her foes. She dreams about Kaer Morhen. She has visions of it. She recalls their lessons at the most pivotal moments throughout the entirety of her journey. Kaer Morhen may not be ‘on the page’ much, but it is at the heart of literally everything.

And Eskel is the witcher who (other than Vesemir) has known Geralt the longest. They are the same age. They were childhood best friends who played together. He is literally the only living person who was a child alongside Geralt. He knows him and anchors him in a way no one else could. He is singular and unique in that regard. There is something powerful about a story with beings who have been almost wiped out in genocides and are the last of their kinds. It defines Geralt in so many ways. And Eskel is an inextricable part of that.

And Eskel’s protectiveness of Ciri and his kindness to her, makes a huge difference in her life. Also, ETA: Eskel is the first witcher Ciri sees who isn’t Geralt and she is terrified because of how he looks. She is scared when she arrives at Kaer Morhen. But then she learns they are not scary. They are safe and they take care of her. So she learns not to be afraid or judge based on outward appearances. And that is because of Eskel.

So you can say that Eskel is a minor character, but you cannot say that he is insignificant to the story, because he is massively significant to the main characters.

And not only did this episode fuck up him, it fucked up that entire dynamic.

Kaer Morhen is a place of safety and family for Ciri and she calls upon it for strength for the rest of her life. And instead of Geralt walking in and saying “She is our destiny” and them pitching together to train and love and raise her, you have them ignoring her, being like ‘who the fuck is this’ and also sexually harrassing her? Like sobs What was the reason??? Then Geralt kills Eskel??? Kills him??? And Lambert is like…this is all Ciri’s fault?? What the fuck? We didn’t even know Ciri was involved yet. It was so confusing. I was like what the fuck are you saying, Lambert??? It was like a nightmare! Who are these people?? Lmaosob.

And Kaer Morhen itself, this mystical, melancholy place that is speaks of brothers lost that must be hidden at all costs, they bring like an entire group of sex workers there? Geralt can say the place is hidden. But if you show me that everyone and their mother parties there, I don’t feel it.

And the explanation of ‘they all somehow got black out drunk literally simultaneously and they get all the sex workers black out drunk and that is why not a single one of them objected to it, and then Vesemir was totally cool with it because that is both possible, and somehow makes it better?’

But even worse was the misogyny that was introduced. I’m gonna switch to feminist killjoy mode, and I know some of these things I absolutely hated, quite a few of you loved. And that is fine. I respect you and I love you and I would never tell people how to feel about it. But here is what I absolutely loathed.

As a feminist, one of the most important ways to tell if someone’s feminism is real is how they treat sex workers. Feminism is for EVERY WOMAN. ALL. NO FUCKING EXCEPTIONS. The minute someone is degrading of sex workers, I see their true colors. Their true colors are respectability politics, girlbossery, and dignity for some. It cuts through a lot of bullshit.

A lot of people see TWN as feminist. And there are FOR SURE some strong feminist themes that I appreciate. But in this episode it was just a big old rotten turd in that respect. (that’s the technical term).

They introduced sex workers so that they could show a naked dead female body. How regressive is that? What the fuck? They also introduced sex workers to act as a ‘scare tactic’ and ‘cautionary tale’ for Ciri. What the fuckkkkkkkkk man help me out here I’m crying.

And I will say that I adore 90% of what they did with Geralt and Ciri this season. I could write a positive post about that if anyone wanted to wash the taste of my disappointment out of their mouths. But again, I am focusing on this ep, and it was just a turd all the way around.

When Geralt stepped THREATENINGLY into Danica’s face because she implied Ciri could become a sex worker, what the fuckkkkk. I KNOW people think that is cute. I respect your point of view. I appreciate you. But I have to disagree. I hated it with my whole heart.

You add that to Vesemir’s little remark about Ciri dancing on tables that was supposed to upset Geralt, and we have more of the same.

Geralt HAS NEVER AND WOULD NEVER be the “I’m bringing a gun to my daughter’s first date” kind of dad. He’s never been the “I'm safeguarding my daughter’s vagina so she keeps her virtue” kind of dad.

Y’all. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I hate it. It creeps me the fuckout. The ENTIRE POINT of Geralt’s relationship with Ciri is that he protects her AUTONOMY. Not her VIRTUE. Do we not see how those two things are literal opposites? Geralt cares about protecting Ciri. From having to kill people. From being traumatized. From being killed or forced to have babies against her will. Not from having fun (dancing on tables??!!). And his worst nightmare is not a sex worker.

HE GOES TO THEM!! He isn’t disgusted by them. To have him again, STEP THREATENINGLY towards Danica to show ‘oh he’s a real dad’ I’m sorry I despise it. I hate that model of fatherhood. The one that is focused on guarding virtue. And Geralt of Rivia baby I’m so sorry that ugly bitch (episode 2) did that to you.

I can have a sense of humor about myself ok I know I’m not in the majority. I know that’s the model of fatherhood that people like. They think it’s cute. But we are all individuals and have our own reactions to things, and that is mine.

I even hated how they had him not remember Danica. Every time she was on screen it was ‘haha see how crappy all these witchers treat them?’ And they also got them all black out drunk??

Holy shit you guys. This is what the creators of this show think the ‘rugged, rough around the edges’ masculinity of witchers is all about. Gahhhhhhhhhh.

And the one bright spot, Geralt and Vesemir, they ended up taking away from me when Vesemir betrays Geralt and TRIES TO DOSE CIRI????

So look. Again. There are so many things I do love about the show. I could wax complimentary about the parts I love if you guys want me to. I love SO MUCH about what they've done with Yen. The sorceresses. I love that they've given them genuine friendships. I could also talk about that. I am obsessed with Myanna Buring as Tissaia. We know how I feel about Joey's Jaskier. I mean it's not the cast's fault! I am fully, fully in love with Yasen Atour as Coën, he was absolutely perfect. I wouldn't be so into the fandom if there weren't many things that I love.

But the fact is, TWN just does not ‘get’ witchers. They do not understand their oppressions (class, mostly) or how power structures exploit them. They made this plainly obvious in the lore they created for the sacking of Kaer Morhen and the ‘Vesemir doses Ciri’ storyline. (that is a whole other post) They do not understand this model of masculinity. They made this plainly obvious with this episode.

Which, these are big things to not ‘get’ for a show that is called The Witcher.

But this is probably just fine for most people! If they have no strong attachments to the themes and spirit of the books, I'm sure it is fine. I understand that this is a niche nerd rant and that I feel passionately about something most people do not! That’s ok. That’s the nerd life baby.

This has been my rant.

#the witcher #eskel #twn critical #critique #seriously #it's more of a rant #I'm getting all my feels out

[certifiedskywalker]

Claiming Of Mine - Daemon Targaryen

Yet another banquet at the Vale hosted by House Royce presents you with yet another night with Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I fear you have caught the eye of a certain, silver-haired guest.”

“If I am correct in which guest you’re speaking of, he looks at everyone like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he wants to devor you.”

Your pure-circumstance companion scowled at your words. “You paint him with a broad brush.”

“No,” you murmured, averting your eyes from the visiting Lady Evealyn Celtigar of the Claw Isle and her embossed crab-covered dress. Even with the crowd swirling about the hall, it took you but a mere moment to find the piercing eyes of the guest in question. Daemon smirked at you. “I draw him with a fine point quill.”

Grey Lady Evealyn’s eyes widened and her face flushed seashell pink. As her lips pursed and puckered in search for a proper response, you left the Old Crab alone to the quiet corner you had attempted to carve out for yourself. Such solitude was mythic at these banquets, as it seemed the most ill-informed gossip in the Realm always sought to flush you out. Lady Evealyn was simply the most recent in a long line of older Ladies looking to sow rumors for the mill. They were everywhere, peppered throughout the crowd, adding to the number of shining, irksome eyes. There was no shadowy solace in a room gleaming with heedful faces and glittering gems. The grandiose light of nobles danced around the hall, blinding and horribly cajoling. 

You had no choice but to fight your way through; but when it came to the beacon that was Daemon Targaryen, you willingly surrendered.

Careful not to take an improper step, you wove through the crowd and towards his brightness. You dipped and bowed whenever a handsome Lord or Lady took pause of you. After a pleasant greeting, you fed them a sorry excuse for your early leave and continued on your journey across the room. At each mannerly stop, you could feel Daemon’s sly smirk spreading across his lips, burning as the source of his light. By the time you reached him on the other end of the hall, he was grinning like a child promised a sweet.

“I see everyone and the Old Crab has taken note of your presence at this vile affair.” His words were ribbing, slanted, and laced with the sweet-sour twinge of the wine he sipped at.

“You sound envious, dear Prince.”

Daemon’s grin pressed itself into a closed-lip smile, one that did not dare reach his narrowed, crystaline eyes. This look you knew as his thin guard against your teasing, not that he would ever admit to needing a guard. No, Daemon was offensive in all manners, your banter included.

“If they knew who the heir to House Grafton bedded, they would sound so very envious,” he leaned down to you, close enough to prompt quick, gossip-starved glances from passersby. “You know how I so enjoy being the talk of these banquets. Shall we spill your secret?”

“Our secret,” you corrected, tipping your chin up to situate your lips daringly close to Daemon’s. His pale brows rose in surprise at your boldness before he put on his airs again.

“Oh, you see, pet,” he drawled, unyielding to your closing proximity, “I hold no secrets. None of my ladies and loves are hidden so. Lest you forget, I am Lord Flea Bottom.”

You fought the wild, burning urge to brush back the stray strands of silver hair that fell across the side of his face as he spoke. Daemon, eyes flicking down along your figure saw the urge in the itch that twitched in your fingers. His grin returned at the sight and you cursed yourself for so revealing your shattering resolve, your own offense dwindling like a dying fire. In an attempt to recover, you straightened your posture to the peak of proprietary.

“Yet none know of me. What does that make me, if not your lady or your love?”

You saw it then, again, what Lady Evealyn Celtigar had refused to see in the Prince’s pointed gaze: hunger. If not for the wine he held and the hoard of Valemen about, Daemon would have shed his skin into red scales akin to Caraxes’ and sunk his claws into your softest flesh. How futile it would be to try to dodge the maw of a keen Dragon. Though, to be devoured by Daemon would be, and was, worth the bite.

“You,” he said, eyes razing over the features of your face, “are simply mine.”

The last words slipped from his lips in a wine-scented whisper before he leaned back. You held eye contact as he brought his chalice up to his mouth. Before he sipped, Daemon tipped the golden rim of it towards you in the smallest of toasts. As if swallowed by flame, heat bloomed across your body at the gesture, the weight of it only for you and he to bear. Your secret.

Before you could collect yourself, Daemon quickly emptied the chalice of wine in one slug and leaned back over towards you. Mellow fruit from the Arbor Red soaked into his lips and you ached to kiss the color from his skin. Rich, woody scents and the smell of cinders distracted you from that cloying want. As did the warmth that burned out from Daemon’s limbs so near you. It was an attack on your resolve, offensive, in the best manner.

“When my lady wife sleeps, I’ll show you what that title means.”

You heard the clinking of the chalice bottom being placed at rest against the table behind you before Daemon pulled back. There was no blush on the high peaks of his cheeks, no starlit glint of mischief in his hawk eyes. Nor was there a smile, of any sort, playing on his lips. The man, no…the Dragon before you was staid, a hunter with his prey marked.

Only at your prolonged silence did Daemon’s lips slightly quirk up at the corners. He had you, and you both knew it, felt it. Granted, you were certain he had always had you. As Daemon wordlessly stalked away, you felt that he was certain in that too.

And that certainty bled into the night, licked at your wounds of waiting. You endured the pestering of fellow banquet guests, including the re-emergence of Lady Evealyn Celtigar from where you left her. She was tipsy and therefore more resigned. Though even resigned, she was talkative, rampant in her chittering about the other Lords and Ladies. The ignorance of the elder head of House Celtigar regarding the culture of the Vale, of King’s Landing, was clear in her romantic optimism.

It took every drop of desire for self-preservation to not search for Daemon while the Old Crab scuddled in and out of conversation. What a relief a simple look from him would deliver to you.

Though, a far greater relief was given when Rhea Royce bid those still assembled in the great hall a farewell. Daemon stood near his wife’s side, his sharp features dark in the torch light. His presence was symbolic only, the shadow of a crowned Dragon looming over this gathering of lesser men. For, if he were truly present, Daemon would be all gnashing teeth and laughter. That was how you met him, so many Vale banquets ago.

The Lady of Runestone made her early escape, Daemon trailing a few paces behind. You watched him go, watched how his hair washed like silver waves over his shoulders. He looked like a dark tide being shrunk by the setting moon as he washed out of the great hall. Further like a tide, you knew Daemon would return eager to sweep you away. 

Until then, you had to stay afloat within the less savory political talk that erupted in the hall to fill his absence. Pretense shed, male heirs to the Vale’s great Houses chastised their host for her hapless marriage to the Prince that had yielded no children, no sons for them to ward. For them to groom for their game. At the thought, your stomach twisted.

“Oi! No sons we know of,” shouted one lord.

“Half the bastards of Flea Bottom are of his line,” cried another. “Dirty dragonseed!”

The epithets soared like Dragon fire across the room and burned just the same. Even the mildly drunken, chronically chatty Lady Evealyn felt the scorch of their words and seemed stalled in her merriment. The Old Crab sunk in her seat at what she likely deemed slander, dress of crustaceans crumpling with her. At such a rate, she too would be able to pen a far more accurate picture of Daemon Targaryen. Though, still nowhere near as accurate as yours.

You knew him, his rarest forms and his most base. That was why, when the large, wooden doors to the great hall opened as if to welcome a new arrival, you were not surprised to see Daemon instead of another noble stranger. The crowd about you, however, was shocked silent. 

His arms were spread like wings holding the twin, grand doors open. There, centered in the strip of light, he stood, listening to the new quiet that swelled in his presence. After a tense enough pause, he let his arms fall to his side and he started down the main thorofare of the great hall. Daemon’s path was bordered by full tables and the wide, worried eyes of nobles realizing their mistakes.

“Do not settle on my account,” he boomed as he stepped. Dark, shining eyes surveyed the faces around him, marking prey. When you met his gaze, Daemon lingered, but only for a moment. “Talk of your future King, please. Give my bastards life with your words and be tried for treason when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

He stopped in the middle of the great hall as he spoke, chest rising and falling with all the presence you knew him for. A different hunger hung around him. Daemon would hunt every soul sat around him for the sport of it. Every soul save for yours, which he had other plans for.

“I am the blood of the Dragon, and we burn our enemies. I do so hope you will not find yourselves amoungst the pillars of ash.”

Stillness eeked through the crowd, with lords and ladies watching Daemon watch them. As he drank in the fear, the harsh glare he wore morphed into a lizard’s smile. He was enjoying this, just as he said he would.

Before he could bask further in the silence he wrought, a sharp, singular bloom of applause sprouted. You turned your head and saw Lady Evealyn, eyes wide and thin arms quaking as she clapped for Prince Daemon. Following the lead of their matriarch, the remaining House Celtigar envoys joined the chorus. Before long, and looking to buy themselves even a modicum of safety, the rest of the captive audience applauded. Even those of House Royce, under the thumb of Daemon’s wife Rhea clapped, though notably less committed.

The Prince threw his arms up and out as if soaking up the sound. His head threw back and his hair spilled over his shoulders. He looked glorious, kingly, and arrogant. Eventually, he gave a wave of his hands and the crowd fizzled its noise back into its rumbling chatter. Though, the name of Daemon Targaryen fell only then with niceties from noble lips.

“He could conquer Dorne with a mouth like that!”

“Fire and Blood!”

It was a wonder, how swiftly the minds of men could change with the right motivation.

“Perhaps the Vale can be redeemed after all.” At the sound of his voice growing nearer, you looked from the manic men about you and to Daemon. He approached you, shoulders back and face tilted up. He looked as he did on the back of Caraxes. Natural and wild.

Daemon kept walking, forcing you into the alcove carved out behind you. Shadows hugged you both as the noise of the hall was lessened by stone walls. You hummed at the dimmed sight of him, how he peered down at you through slightly hooded eyes that glinted still, despite the dark. 

“The Vale is in need of redeeming in your opinion?”

Daemon lifted his right hand and you caught the glimmer of his rings in the far off torch light. The back of his fingers brushed against your cheek with a startling tenderness. His skin was warm against yours, a stark contast to the cool masonry that dug into your back.

“Some parts, yes,” he murmured, taking one last step towards you. His heat enveloped you, with his chest pressed to yours. Each breath he took, you felt as your own. “Not you.”

“I’m honored,” you said, a smile spilling over your lips as you tipped your chin up towards Daemon’s. “On the behalf of House Grafton, of course.”

“Of course,” Daemon replied, leaning down to capture your lips with his. At last.

His touch was a fervor. The kiss was a mess, wet, and wine-tasting. Steadiness came only when Daemon’s hand lifted to grip your chin, holding it still. Your hands rose up along his chest, grazing the red-thread, embroidered dragon bodies sown into the black fabric. Fingertips curled into the collar of his tunic and held him close.

“Mine,” one of you mumbled, voices melding in the dimness.

“Yours,” the other replied before you moved through the shadows and out of the great hall, becoming one within the dark.

#more is on the way #daemon targaryen #established relationship #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen imagines #daemon #targaryen #got #game of thrones #house targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfic #house of the dragon #hotd fanfiction #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #got fanfiction #matt smith #tagaryen #dragons #caraxes

[cinberella]

Devil in Disguise

Artist: @skylar102

Thanks for the mood board and all the banners ❤️💕❤️

Rating: M Pairing: Malec Word Count: 48.500

This fic was created for the ​ Mini Bang 2023 presented by the @malecdiscordserver

CHAPTER 1/7 UNREACHABLE

It's challenging, almost impossible, not to look up at the restricted area where the very important people are. It is probably as difficult for Alec as it is for anyone else in the club. In fact, people keep dancing and having fun, mostly minding their own business. Or so it seems. Presumably, they are afraid to be caught gaping disrespectfully at one of the most powerful men on the planet, but it is easy to notice how the bravest ones among the crowd do attempt to throw a fleeting glance up to the VIP area, every now and then, certainly dreaming of being admitted into the inner circle of those - lucky bastards -  who can hang around the ridiculously stunning owner of the club.

Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn and prominent object of desire is the even-too-aware recipient of all the ill-concealed curiosity, reverence, and a certain amount of suspicion coming from his diverse clientele. He must know even too well the emotions he arouses in the clubbers, the power he holds over them. Well, not over Alec. He is a Shadowhunter, after all. He’s no one to be easily intimidated. But aroused? Well, that he undoubtedly is.

There is something in the way the man looks so out of reach that makes Alec crave him badly and, at least, he can fill his eyes with the Warlock’s charm and incredible persona. It’s a treat he indulges himself in, but Alec has no false hopes or dreams to be able to get closer to the man.

Up there, the Warlock looks more like a King, actually, or a God looking down at humanity from his personal Olympus; maybe it’s the ridiculously huge throne he is sitting on that makes him look so regal, but the power overflowing him is almost tangible even from the underbelly of the club, where almost everything is allowed. Almost. Warlock Bane hates troublemakers and bad-mannered people. The audacious display of his power makes people behave rather properly and, in the end, he magnanimously stands there for everyone to admire him, mannerly and respectfully, but never up close.

Does Alec play by these rules? Well, yes and no. He has the impertinence of a 20-year-old young Shadowhunter on his part, and the black stark runes on his arms and his neck dissuade the numerous bouncers in defense of the VIP area from telling him to eye up at their boss with less insistence and insolence. After all, staring isn't illegal, maybe just a little daring or even a bit rude, but Alec's gaze is irresistibly drawn to that fucking throne strategically placed in the exact center of the elevated platform. From there, the club owner overlooks all the people dancing with an oddly detached grin.

He is magnificent and Alec wants him. He has wanted the man since the first time he saw him.

Tonight is just the same story as usual. He will play his staring game for a while, drink a few cocktails, and when he loosens up a bit, letting the stress of the day bleed out of him, Alec will give in standing on the sidelines and finally will look for someone else more attainable. It’s a familiar routine by now. As is the fact that the Warlock will populate his dreams. Later and in the next few nights. But at least in dreamland, Alec can indulge in doing unspeakable things to the hottest man he's ever seen.

Anyway, it’s way too early for that; Alec is still sipping his first Cosmopolitan near the bar; his siblings already vanished into the crowd. And he is still shamelessly enjoying his show. A show offered for free.

Tonight the Warlock is even more impressively dressed up than usual. And Alec almost drools taking in all the details of his perfect facial features, focusing on the bloated makeup around his otherworldly eyes - his demonic mark on display. The Shadowhunter is fascinated by those little specks of gold in them - and ok, yes, he may have activated a couple of runes to enhance his sight both from afar and in the dimness of the club, so what?

The High Warlock of Brooklyn is a man as much feared as desired, and in Alec’s opinion he knows perfectly well how wanted he is and enjoys it a great deal. Everyone wants to be in his good graces, to get close to him, even if it means spending hours kneeling at his feet like obedient pets. Pets who are dressed - or rather undressed - only in leather and piercings, Alec muses.

Oh, Alec would kneel before him… Not up there for everyone to see, he is not much of an exhibitionist, even if he knows he is quite attractive and that maybe, in another World, he could quite fit with the picture the Warlock makes for himself.

In fact, Magnus Bane usually surrounds himself with people who are aesthetically up to it; he uses them to make his public image even more suggestive. He may be naturally beautiful of course, but the way he dolls up? Perfect. That shirt perpetually open on his chest, those necklaces, not to mention his hair, always styled in a way that seems to defy gravity.

Magnus Bane looks unattainable, no… He is utterly untouchable. He is totally out of reach, especially for rune-bearing people like Alec, who in the end is just content to admire the man from the dance floor, and bask in the energy and grandness that emanate from him. Magnus Bane is like a rock star performing on stage. For everyone to look at, and for no one to get close to. The Warlock doesn't even need to hold his own glass, there's always someone there for him to promptly bring a drink to his mouth, just at the minimal gesture of his fingers. Fingers that are often glowing with an intimidating blue light.

His magic.

Alec is fascinated by the idea of so much power held by one man alone. He sighs. Surely the Warlock is the most attractive man he has ever seen. No one on the dance floor, not among Downwolders, nor among Shadowhunters, holds a candle to him.  Not by a long shot.

Well, Alec may have this little crush on Magnus Bane, but that doesn’t change a thing. Because he is just invisible to the man. Things are not so easy between their people and as proof of this, Alec has never been with a Warlock. Not once. Yet, given a chance, he would surely have one ride on the sex carousel with this particular Warlock.

Oh well, it’s just a stupid thought that Alec doesn't waste much time mulling over. What would be the point? Magnus Bane has a reputation, although it is commonly known that he never hangs out with Shadowhunters, if not for business. He despises them, to some extent; even though, Nephilim are allowed into his club. It would be too bold a move, politically speaking, to forbid them from dancing at Pandemonium. After all the Lightwood siblings and a few other Shadowhunters from the New York Institute are quite popular among the Warlock’s fellow Downworlders. So, free ticket to Pandemonium for them. That's how it works, and honestly, it works just fine for Alec.

He enjoys his little escapades at the club and Magnus Bane never looks down at him. Even if the Warlock must be aware of his presence in his club. Yet, he just seems not to care. He just ignores him, as well as the other Shadowhunters that usually come together. Alec is again  thinking of inexpressible things he would do to the man - and luckily Warlocks cannot read minds - until the last drop of his cocktail touches his tongue and he darts toward the dance floor to find someone not so out of his league to spend the night with.

It’s easy, as usual, and once again the guy he approaches smoothly while moving to the music is a werewolf. When their gaze met, his eyes gleamed with a greenish light and Alec knows what that means. And he is game, because why not. The young man is tall and has a knockout smile lingering on his mouth. Alec immediately knows he is going to walk off with him. On the other hand, this is why he came, this is how his evenings at Pandemonium usually go since he started coming a couple of years back. He has flirted, hooked up, and even had brief flings with a considerable amount of Downworlders, mostly werewolves. His sister Isabelle, on the other hand, has a weird penchant for vampires, while Jace has a preference for Seelies. Sure, they've gotten into trouble a few times, especially Jace, for having broken more than a few hearts in his wake.

Despite them being rather reckless in their dalliances, they have maintained good relations with a lot of people, having established a few good friendships and alliances, also because, Vampires, Seelies and Werewolves usually don't hold grudges for too long, not over trivial things like hooking up with a Shadowhunter.

Maryse and Robert Lightwood, the Heads of the Institute, had decided to ignore their children’s endeavors and, admittedly, have done a lot to build courteous relationships both with the pack of New York, and the local vampire clan, surely with more orthodox methods than exchanging body fluids. Connection with the Seelie Court was a bit more difficult, but the Queen wasn’t interested in getting in the Shadowhunters’ way and the established agreement was live and let live.

As for the Warlock community, well, every interaction with the Institute was based on business, on making financial deals, especially with a few talented healers and, rarely, the High Warlock himself. Everyone knows the Heads of the Institute have a lot to be forgiven for, but their leadership seems to work out well, after all. The only ones who seem unable to overcome what they did in their youth are their own children. Stories about the abuse they perpetrated on Downworlders have somehow come to their knowledge. The truth is that while other exponents of the Circle were exiled or sentenced to death, Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood were inexplicably pardoned and were even given an Institute to run. It was meant to be a punishment, but Alec hates them for having gotten away with their misdeeds so easily.

Alec was educated to be a politician, so he understands it was all a game of power, of honoring the Lightwood name in front of the Clave, of making alliances, but he can't help but be disgusted by his parents, whose hands are stained with the blood of so many innocent people, including children. That’s unforgivable in Alec’s eyes and conceivably, that is the reason why Warlocks in New York do not normally socialize with Shadowhunters. They are the ones who have suffered the worst persecution of all. They are half demons after all. While werewolves and vampires were once human and Seelies have also angelic blood in their veins, Warlocks were treated just like their demon parents and slain without mercy. Magnus Bane, being the High Warlock in the City and owner of one of the highest-ranked clubs in the Shadow World, can't always avoid dealing with the angelic people he loathes so much. Alec knows that his mother has met him on occasion at the Institute, but the Warlock has never been officially introduced to the younger Lightwoods.

It’s almost funny that Maryse is probably ashamed of them. In her eyes, they are not capable of a diplomatic relationship with such an important representative of the Downworld. 

They are disobedient, reckless, indiscreet, often insubordinate and recalcitrant in following her orders, and always prone to defy her authority. In the last couple of years, Maryse has turned from being constantly enraged to resignedly disappointed. Alec remembers the furious quarrels when she used to try to marry him off to one girl or another from Alicante. Alec flipped her out each time, not only metaphorically, and refused to abide by her unreasonable request. The main reason for his refusal to marry a girl is that he is gay. But even if they required him to marry a guy, he wouldn't do it. No way. He values his freedom too much, he is still young and is not ready to marry and have a bunch of children - even adopted ones. Moreover, their parents know he is gay, as well as they know Isabelle and Jace are bisexual. They came out together, right on the occasion of a family dinner, when Maryse continued to insist that Alec at least should date a girl of their choice, give her a chance. Their combined - and epic - coming out only exacerbated the already tense relationship, especially with Maryse. And since then her irate screams have turned into sad, almost pitying looks. Alec doesn't know what pisses him off the most. He knew how to deal with his mother yelling angrily at him. But not with those miserable eyes. He just wanted to tell her, "there's nothing wrong with me, nothing you need to feel sorry for." 

Alec has never questioned his mother’s love for them, but he knows she considers her offsprings her greater failure. So, they never get to be involved in her business even for something simple as showing the Warlock around to allow him to reinforce their wards. No. They weren't even considered capable of taking care of a task so uncomplicated.

On the other hand, though, she was also afraid of Magnus Bane, she didn’t trust him and so maybe she was also trying to protect her kids. Alec does not know, but one thing is for sure.  The High Warlock of Brooklyn doesn't seem to have gotten over the old grievances that seem to have festered since the end of the Uprising. It's been a little over 18 years since Valentine was killed, by his own wife and the man who had sworn to protect him with his life, his parabatai no less, but Magnus Bane has been distrusting the Clave and its people with the same intensity for all these years. If not more and more profoundly through the years.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"Alec, my God, have you slept with a werewolf or have you tried something new and fucked a vampire?" Isabelle exclaims laughing and pointing at his neck.

Alec groans brushing his hand over the deflect rune on his throat, which is thoroughly bruised all around. As usual, after having been at the club and having parted ways for the night, the three siblings met at a nice bistro not far from the Institute for breakfast, before sneaking back inside. Their walk-of-shame is something that happens quite often and when they stride into the Op Room after a night out, their fellow Shadowhunters usually just give them a benevolent and a little envious look. Among all of them, they are the wildest and most devil-may-care.

"Shit… I know, he mauled my neck… didn’t he?”

Jace snorts not really in an elegant way. “You, dog!"

Alec laughs. His brother can be so crass.

“Technically, he was the dog. And a very satisfying fuck.” He deadpans sarcastically, making his siblings giggle. He knows how to be crude too apparently. But these dog-related puns with the werewolves are a common joke and no one gets offended by that anymore.

“Anyway, I'll heal it with an iratze.” He sniffs at his T-shirt and grimaces, “God, I do need a shower. What about you? All good?”

He asks casually sipping his black coffee. He must admit that he enjoyed his night with the werewolf at his place. It was intense and quite rough but it helped him to blow off some steam after the unsatisfying patrol they had been on. No demons to slay last night and a lot of pent-up energy to put to good use. Jace smirks proudly, as usual, and eloquently wriggles his eyebrows.

“Yeah, sure, mission complete. I went to Roselyn’s and well, her sister was there too, Miriel, Mariel, Muriel? Something like that, I don’t remember her name, but I do remember that she was very flexible... When I bent her over…"

"Jace, good Lord... we don't need details. We never do, really."

“Well, this could be educational for you, you know?”

“No, that would make me feel like I wanna throw up, so please, shut up.”

Alec rolls his eyes, trying not to picture his brother having hetero sex with two Seelie girls, while Isabelle is putting on her red lipstick, with a hand mirror, and lets out a muffled chuckle at her brothers’ bantering. Jace seems extremely pleased with himself.

“Ok, ok… well, I had fun anyway, thanks for asking. That’s all. But you’re such a buzzkill, bro. What about you Iz?”

“Uhm, all good. I spent the night at the Dumort Hotel, with Stéphane. It was lovely, he whispered French words to me all night, he was very… charming.” She clicks the mirror closed with a smug smile on her red lips.

“Ugh… Sure, you went there to listen to him speak French. That’s right.” Jace mocks her, with a playful patronizing tone.

“No… I went there to get laid, actually, and I did, but it was… sweet… He is a very nice guy, that’s all; maybe I’ll see him again.”

Alec thinks she might obliterate the poor guy, eventually. She never sticks around for too long with the same vampire and she has a couple of on-and-off relationships with a Seelie man and, incredibly, also with a Mundane. She says his obliviousness about the Shadow World gives her thrills.  Not that Alec cares, Isabelle can handle her flirts and hookups as she sees fit.

They dawdle at  the table, chatting and enjoying their coffees together, treating themselves also with some pumpkin muffins. Differently from the usual, there is no rush this morning. Their parents are in Idris - thanks to the Angels  - and they shouldn't be back in New York for at least another couple of days. They both have been summoned to Alicante for who knows what crisis impending the Shadow World. Not that their parents ever involve them in the Institute's political decisions. They are just little soldiers, mere executors of orders, and do not make much use of their theoretical privileged status of being the children of the Heads.

Indeed, quite the opposite of that. They are often punished for insubordination, put on ichor duty, or sent on night shift patrol for days without respite. The night before when they decided to go dancing, it was already after midnight, and they had been patrolling for more than six hours. However, the situation was unusually quiet along the streets, with no suspected demonic activity whatsoever, and so instead of returning back with the others, they ended up staying out all night. But as they say, when the cat's away the mice play, right? Or they go dancing... Or… Whatever.

Alec likes his life after all. It could be better, but it could be so much worse. And luckily he has his siblings by his side, and that’s all that matters.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

As soon as they set foot in the Op Room they stop dead, finding themselves in the presence of their parents. Well, none of them saw that coming.

Their furious, unsympathetic, disappointed parents are back. Hurray. As soon as Maryse sees them, she stalks toward them, stopping them from getting away from her clutches.

"Where the hell have you been?" She spits out through her teeth, angrily. Alec looks her straight in the eyes. He isn’t afraid, and they did nothing wrong.

"Out." He replies, flatly.

"Alexander..." There is a threatening hint in her voice, that makes Alec snap.

"What? We're all of legal age, we don't have to explain ourselves. We went on our patrol shift, dutifully, and got back in time for today's assignments. Who cares where we've been last night? Why do you even care?"

"Well, I care, because I already know where you've been... You went to Magnus Bane’s club, didn’t you?"

"And even if we were? I don't see how that can be a problem. You and Dad are such hypocrites…"

"We are just realists and we worry about you. That man… He is dangerous… And you are so naive.”

“Naive? That’s new…”

“Well, at least, you are unaware of the truth… You may not believe me, but  I was so worried… Your father and I need to talk to you, ok? It’s…urgent.”

She sounds oddly frantic and genuinely concerned.

“What is it?” Isabelle asks suddenly worried. She doesn’t like her mother’s attitude. What the fuck may have happened?

“I just can’t believe that we returned earlier from Idris just to warn you and you were dancing at that horrible place! By the Angel, how could you always be so irresponsible?”

“Mother, just tell us what’s going on, ok?” Alec interrupts her, exasperation clear in his deep voice.

“Ok…” she concedes and then sighs before continuing. “Disturbing news was brought to our attention and we must take measures about it as soon as possible. The Clave is counting on us and your father and I... you know the delicate situation we are in."

"Of course, we know, how could we not? Your alliance with Valentine has ruined our future. Despite our family name, all positions of prestige are precluded to us. Because of you and your fucking lack of judgment. So, pardon me if I don't pity you with your delicate situation."

Maybe this is not the best time to dredge up the past, but Alec is so angry with his parents. He can barely hold back. They are there, all judgmental and distraught, thinking they can tell them how to live their lives.

"Alec..." It is their father who has come forward, deeming it necessary for him to intervene.

"Look, we are perfectly aware of our mistakes and you know it. We have always been honest with you, never hidden our… past. But we were young and stupid and we've been trying for years to fix what we did and this may be the occasion to do something important. But we need your help."

"What? This again? I told you, I won't let you marry me off to secure your alliances in Idris."

"This is not what we want from you, in fact, I would say the opposite. We need your…   interpersonal skills."

Alec frowns at that. It’s quite unexpected and… unsettling. It is enough to make him shut his mouth and keep his frown on his forehead.

"What do you mean Dad?"

Isabelle asks warily, stepping closer to her brothers. Jace has only folded his arms over his chest in a defying stance.

"You know… Given your particular proclivities and tastes..." Robert begins, but Isabelle snorts loudly.

"Oh God… Proclivities?"

"Isabelle wait... This is important, ok? We need you to go on a mission for the Clave."

A mission?

They are suddenly more interested in what their parents have to tell them. This would be a first, after all. A real mission, not just patrolling around the city.

"What mission?"

Maryse sighs and looks at them more calmly, now that she and Robert have their attention.

"Someone is plotting against the Consul. There seems to be a coalition of Downwolders who believe that the Mortal Instruments are not safe in the hands of the Clave and that they are a danger to all the demon-blooded. We got very worrying intel. It seems that the leaders here in New York have allied with the Seelie Queen to carry out a coup in Alicante. Their final goal is to eliminate all the Shadowhunters, it is not clear how, but it seems there may be a spell capable of… deruning us somehow.”

Alec hears Isabelle gasp.

“What? That’s… horrible.”

“Exactly. Vampires as well as werewolves and Warlocks could be involved in this. What we ask of you is that you gather information. You are good at hanging out with them… Just be careful, now that you know the truth you wouldn’t want to trust them as blindly as you’ve done so far. You don't have to overdo it, nor expose yourself too much. Just try to figure out through the grapevines if anything is going on in the Downworld. Something shady or just… kept hidden.”

“What happened to we are worried about you. Are you ready to throw us into the lion's den now?"

Jace asks and then throws his hands in the air in an exasperated gesture. “You’re fucking incredible…”

“Jace, we are telling you this, so you can be prepared. But as I said, your peculiar skills may be too useful to think about missing this opportunity. I mean, Jace you could get closer to Camille Belcourt, while Alec may try his hand with Maia Roberts? We know you go to eat at the Jade Wolf quite often, and Isabelle? You are surely able to befriend Magnus Bane, aren’t you?”

The three siblings gape at their parents as they had gone insane all of a sudden. And then Jace chuckles hysterically, but it’s a sound that makes Alec shiver.

"You really don't know what you're talking about, do you? Camille has been deposed and the new head of the clan is Raphael Santiago, who is a very close friend of Isabelle’s. And Magnus Bane? He is just an asshole who won't let any of us get anywhere near him. And there's no way Maia could be charmed by Alec because, you know, Alec is gay and enjoys sleeping with male werewolves."

Maryse steps forward, her face a sharp, hard mask of anger, barely contained at this point.

Jace rubbing Alec’s sexuality in their face was the last straw.

“Look, I honestly don't care how you intend to pursue this task, and least of all, who you sleep with, as long as you can get info from your precious Downworlder friends. There could be a war, do you understand? A war! So we must do anything and everything to avert this crisis; we need to do it, at any cost. Also, we could finally get the chance to restore our name in front of the Clave. But we need your cooperation. So, you’ll do as you were ordered if you do not want to be transferred elsewhere with immediate effect!” The woman concludes with a wicked grimace.

“What? You can’t be serious!” Alec shouts in disbelief. But his mother laughs in his face.

“Oh, I can assure you I am. You have been nothing but a thorn in our side. And now… if you can't even achieve the one thing that is required of you, for the benefit of this family, for our future, and probably for the future of all Nephilim alike, well, I can only deem you so useless that you can go and fill the ranks in some other Institute with a shortage of personnel. You know… Seul, Lima, or Stockholm… they keep asking the Clave for recruits. And you know what? You could just go and be useful there, as far as I am concerned. Do we understand each other?”

Maryse’s outburst leaves them at a loss for words, so they just nod their heads, more to acknowledge her words than to agree with them.

“Good. Silence and compliance look good on you. You'll only report to me and your father. We count on your discretion. If there are no questions, you are dismissed. And go make yourself presentable. You look… obscene."

She adds scrunching her nose and looking intently at Isabelle’s skimpy outfit before striding away, followed suit by her husband.

Alec is speechless. Apparently, they are good to fuck around but not for real diplomatic, sensitive missions. What the Hell? Is this the idea their parents have about them?

He feels offended and unfairly belittled; it may be true that they weren't exactly cooperative during their adolescence and that they never missed an opportunity to embarrass their mother or piss her off, but Jace is a formidable warrior, Isabelle has strong diplomatic skills and Alec, well he's strong and resilient, an excellent fighter and with innate strategic and leadership aptitudes. And yet, it had always been clear that bearing the Lightwood name, they would pay the price for their parents' crimes. And they have never been inclined to make sacrifices to redeem themselves from something that wasn't their fault in the first place.

The most they can aspire to is to stay at the Institute for life, and maybe Alec can one day become Head, if he doesn't keep screwing up every chance to show off his skills.

Alec looks at Isabelle and Jace. They are as bewildered as he is, if not more. What their mother has asked them is basically to betray their friends, and double-cross them. But then another thought flashes through Alec’s mind. And an unexpected one at that.

Apparently, he now may have a chance to get closer to the man who has been living rent-free in his wet dreams for years. Sure, he doesn't like having to submit to his mother's blackmail, and honestly, he doesn't even believe that what Maryse reported can be accurate or true. New York Downworlders have been loyal friends to them, their relationship with the young Shadowhunters is based on cooperation and reliability, and now their parents want to jeopardize the lasting peace between them by sending them to spy on their allies? That’s insane. Isabelle and Jace are still looking at him with a baffled expression on their faces. But Alec snickers at them; there is nothing to worry about, actually. Maybe they just have to humor their mother for a while, faking to play along with her mischievous plan until the intel from the Clave turns out to be what it actually is, i.e. bullshit. And then everything will be back to normal.  This is just another glitch of the Clave, and Alec is used to dealing with their shenanigans. There is nothing to be concerned about. On the contrary, this could be a great opportunity. In fact, Alec now needs to come up with a plan to approach the most unapproachable of all Downworlders, a way to become his friend (and hopefully more than that). Magnus Bane is the most fascinating challenge he has ever found himself to face.  And the hottest of all. Alec is going to find out if the Warlock is really as unreachable as he seems.

But first, he needs to talk to his partners in crime, his perplexed and visibly worried siblings. They won’t let him down, Alec knows that.

#malec fic #shadowhunters #shadowhunters fic #shmb2023

[bishop-percival]

@head-chef-watchdog-quincy

(prev) "Sherri Jr! Oh she's so cute! Sorry for referring to her as a produce, I'm sure you understand with my work it can be hard to determine when something that breathes is intended for the plate or not. I have trouble separating watchdog from food, nevermind other animals, it is not personal. I promise." Quincy grinned watching Sherri Jr lick at the knife, and further grinned when Bert came over to let her sniff at his wine. "And such manners and fine tastes... What a refined little thing!" He held up his wine and gave a brief toast, keyword "brief", he did not wait for the others. "I'm so excited!" Quincy took a sip of wine and closed his eye, appreciating the flavour for just a moment... "Ah... Percival it's nice, thank you... And Bert seems to enjoy it too! Thank you from us both. So kind of you to treat us both, I'd offer some to Sherri Jr too however I'm not sure if rats can have wine... Worry not, if she gets thirsty I packed some water." What is that expression? Despite what he says about the wine it seems he doesn't care too much for it, perhaps not an alcohol person, he rushes and puts the glass down before breaking into another grin. "I haven't let myself cut meat like this in a while you know! Oh I'm so hungry too, I've been waiting for this all day! I'm ravenous!" "Enjoy your meal! Diolch da pawb!~" And with that he opened his eye and what an expression. He looked so excited. Quincy took no more time to waste in grabbing the steak in it's full, he gnawed at it for a second or two before finally digging in and tearing it apart. It seems that Quincy is very strong in both the arms, hands... And the jaws. The way he eats is comparable to a carnivorous mammal that has not eaten in a week, it's very rough. Quincy is too busy enjoying his dinner to care for manners, infact it less seems to be not caring and moreso seems to be sheer cluelessness.

“Danke, Chefkoch!” Bert paid no mind to Chef Quincy’s eating. If anything, he saw it as normal. Bert stabbed a piece of steak with a fork and happily ate. “Mmmm! Chef Quincy you’ve done it again! A wonderful meal!”

Percival, on the other hand, sat unmoved with a pout on his face. He looked at Quincy ripping into his steak and cringed. He then looked at his own medium rare steak, then at the green rat across the table. He got an idea.

“I’m so sorry, dear Chef. I’ve lost my appetite. I refuse to eat with a nasty, disgusting, possibly disease-ridden rat on the table. I don’t care how mannerly it seems. It’s making me feel ill just looking at it…” 

Bert spoke up with his mouth full. “Cry about it.”

Percival slammed his hands on the table and stood up. “Rude! Everyone is being so rude to The Most Reverend despite my many kind offerings!”

#head-chef-watchdog-quincy #long post

[samnia]

Hunter x hunter Halloween imagines

brother how about we go to that house next? !" Alluka jumped in excitement "yeah, sure" killua nodded joyful to see his little sister happy, Killua walked casully holding his custome chocolate robot candybag alluka and him crafted for fun.

, while alluka skipped holding her blue striped bag with many neon colors on it likewise stickers were a must for her, And little doodles of her and Killua companied with nanika holding hands. The drawing unsettled kids passing but they just thought it was an OC nothin more.

Both figures walked on the sidewalk until they reached the house alluka setted eyes on. Decorated with cobwebs and tarantulas along with ghost floatups . it was dead at night so the laterns in the dark grass showed the the shadows of them with the full moon,

-----------

Killua smirked entering the dusty house that had centuries old antique objects , that'd sell for Billions in markets today. but the reason behind the smirk is an image in his head full of a room with chocolate robots stuffing his mouth full

"killua , what are we doing again?" Gon impiled, confused "Hunting for paranormal if it isn't obviously" Oh yeah, gon And killua are ghost haunting areas that city locals are afraid to go in, They prepped a nen infused Spirit / Ghost detecter . now alls left is to explore! "Hey what's that sound phinks?" Shalnark questioned in another room "I don't know, wanna find out?" Phinks snapped but not necessarily "boss. said. scavenge. room. Not. look.for.fights." feitan protests

------

"AHHH!" Leorio yelped trying to gain balance "told you the old man can't be cool or do simple things .." killua lectured, gon didn't pay attention, focusing hopping the train carts and going left to avoid getting hit by one. ".. are you sure we should be trying Subway Surfers in real life?" Kurapika wondered knowing the right answer though, while staying sat on an train "watch out kurapika!" - gon

----- (NOT AN SHIP!!)

"ah! Which one should i pick alluka?" Bisky asked her temporay assistant, "woo! That one is really pretty!" Alluka said pointing the the emerald green brooch "which one should i pick?" Alluka said wanting an answer "that one would look absolutely adorabes on you!" She said pointing to the brooch with an RoseQuartz edging and an locket? Seems that it should be a picture placed there "oh, lady bisky how about we take a picture and put it inside of here?" Alluka invited her too "of course!"

------

"oh so we're shoplifting?" Shizuku said finally getting the picture "yeah!, Whoever shoplifts the most candy gets an ancient artifact we've found!" Shalnark declared war in the dimly lit building "so what happens to the candy shalnark?" Pakuounda asked "we're donating it to kids in Metor City ONLY" shalnark made it clear. an loud thud was heard as they saw uvogin stand hyped from the description of

the game. "Hell yeah! I've been waiting for some fun like this!" Only for chrollo to close his book mannerly and tell the bandits something "this sounds interesting. ill be joining" the troupe hid there shock faces seeing the head of the spider joining the fun "will you mind if i tag in?" Kalluto dibbed in, with a smirk hidding behind his fan . "hmm~" everybody's eyes shot a glare soon as hisoka dared to say. "Well the encore has been delayed already, ill join♣️"

Your still here? THANK YOUUU !!

#main four headcanons #killua zoldyck #killua hxh #gon freecs #gon #kurapika hcs #shalnark #phinks #feitan #feitan portor #hunter x hunter #hxh #dumb stuff #happy halloween #leorio paladiknight #leorio #alluka zoldyck #hunter x hunter alluka #bisky krueger #bisky hxh

[a-complex-joke]

The Toymaker Chapter 3

MASTERLIST

"Morning Pen, Hot chocolate?" Ruby said as I walked in.

"Actually no I'm in the mood for tea today, got earl grey," I said sitting at the container.

"Oh fancy, but what's up, changing your order so out of the blue is everything alright" she placed a hand on mine.

"Nothing wrong just feels like things are changing for the better, something different I just don't know what," I say thinking it over.

"Oh so you noticed the old clock working as well, Regina is finally getting this town fixed up" she joked.

"I don't think Regina has or ever will care for this town, she just likes the power of being mayor"

"I would appreciate less bad-mouthing out of you Miss banks," the all too familiar voice of Regina said behind me.

"Your coffee miss madam mayor," Ruby said becoming more mannerly.

"I don't understand why gold lets your toy store stay it's not like you get any business"

"Actually, if I was pushed out someone else would come along and who knows how loud and annoying they'd be, plus I have an inside voice rule"

She rolled her eyes before swiftly leaving

"Why does, Gold let you stay, you never pay rent," Ruby said

"I really don't know I swear" I laughed.

Gold's Prawn shop and Banks toystore pretty funny coincidences maybe it's just something to laugh at and that's why he lets me stay.

"I've never cared to ask, maybe he's in love with me" I joked

We laughed.

"Trust me, girl you could do so much better than him, maybe Leroy" she jested, earning us a middle finger from the man.

"Morning Emma" Ruby greeted the blonde.

She awkwardly waved sitting next to me,'

"Your that Toy store girl right, Mandy Brink? Was it" she said trying to make conversation.

"Penny Banks, So your Henry's mother, finally come to take him away from the evil queen" I joked.

"Oh you know about Henry's Fairy tale conspiracy," she said.

"What? I don't talk to the kid much, just the grapevine knowledge, what's this conspiracy?" I asked curiously.

"I don't think I should say, I'm only staying a week, don't want to cause more trouble than I already have"

"Nah we could use some excitement here, the most fun I have had in a long time was when a kid in my shop tripped and yelled, fuck you floor ill kill your mother"

Emma looked like she was trying to figure out whether It was a joke or not.

"Speaking of my shop, I've got to go see you around."

The days went on Eventually Emma moved in with Mary-Margaret and is staying most likely forever and yet I still have paid no rent to Gold.

"Oh Well Hello Miss Banks, heading home for the night," Gold said Locking his shop.

"Yeah, I mean I was going to go grab something to eat before but still" I laughed.

"Would you mind if I joined you, Haven't had much to eat myself"

I nodded and we started walking toward Grannie's

"So, This I kind of a weird question, Why don't you charge me rent like ever? Id think id be the first on your rent rounds" I joked.

"Let's just say, Ive owed you a great deal of things, this is just part of that"

"I have no idea what you're talking about but I'm just gonna say I'm content with it?"

"Oh, I've just realized I left something back at the shop, you go ahead ill catch up," he said waddling back.

I arrived and waited outside of the place for Gold, But he didn't show, the place closed and I started to panic, I rushed back to the shop.

"Mr. Gold?" I said as I opened the door of his shop, the window of the door had been broken, and on the floor lay, Gold bleeding out of his head.

"Oh god, should I call someone" panic has now been ramped up.

I pulled a rag from my pocket and pressed it to his head, he hissed a bit.

"Oh good your alive, hold this, and apply pressure, Im gonna call someone"

"No, I'm fine no need to call," he said trying to sit up.

"What happened"

"Ashley Boyd, she broke in and stole the contract we had, then bonked me over the head when I caught her."

I help Gold back to his place before leaving for my own and the next day Emma went on the search for the teen mother.

#OUAT #fanfic #rumplestiltskin

[marlasomething]

(my) Mag a Week: Last Guest For Mr. Spider

Hello there!

I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened. This week I am publishing late...I have a hell of a week, sorry.

For today I rolled Archivist!Jane Prentiss (HOW DOES THIS KEEP HAPPENING?!) and The Hunt (Eps. 52-57).

As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

CW: bullying, possesive behaviour, children's death, childhood trauma, mentions of paranoia

Also on AO3!

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding the reappearance of his school bully almost a decade after his alleged death.

Recorded by Jane Prentiss, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

 I want to make something clear: I do not believe in the so-called supernatural. Never have, never will. Still, whatever happened to me last week is rather… odd and I do believe in the archival and research purposes of your institution, thereof my presence in here.

 Someone had, somehow, achieved human cloning in a… worrying manner.

Yes, yes, I know how it sounds, but it is the only logical explanation (though I do not doubt you will be making your own outrageous assumptions the moment I leave this place).

It all began last Friday, when I was leaving work…I am a journalist for The Hill Top Journal, the one managed by Raymond Fielding? You might have heard about it, even if your interests focus mostly around fake information, I am almost confident you also rely from time to time in factual truths.

And there is no one better at giving them than us. I am not being arrogant; this is just an empiric fact, sort to speak.

Anyways, this is all beside the point I was trying to make: last Friday, I was leaving work and I had an er… meeting with one of my closest friends, whose name I won’t reveal unless forced to, since I respect their intimacy, when I was pushed to the ground by a figure that barely reached my hip level. And, though I am completely aware of my quite small frame (both in width and height), a person that small shouldn’t have been able to throw me out of balance so easily.

I looked up, ready to grab the person’s arm and, in case of them being a minor; find their parents for an extremely serious talk.

As I did it, I froze. In front of me, with a cruel sardonic smile I thought I was never going to see again: Mike George, my personal bully when I was growing up while living with my grandmother. It had been over fifteen years since I last saw him, but there was no mistaking him; stocky in a soft way but with the clear promise of becoming rather extremely muscular the moment he decided to ill-mannerly obsessed over sports and going to the gym in an almost pathological manner (and he had been bound to, given his social circles), skin so pale his veins and arteries could be clearly seen palpitating violently every other second, short dark hair and a nose covered in freckles despite the rest of his skin being porcelain-like in that respect. There was no mistake possible to be made: he was him , only that he had not aged a day since the last time I saw him. The time I was certain I had caused his death...

…I guess that, before carrying on with the present moment, I shall explain myself, even if just in general terms.

 When I was very young, my parents passed away and I moved in with my grandmother. I wasn’t an easy, nor a nice, child, but that doesn’t excuse the attitude most of my new classmates showed me. From the stupid fact that I am not white to the jealously it made them feel when I knew the answer before most of them…they took every single breath coming from my lungs as a personal affront, especially Michael George.

He was all the clichés a male-presenting bully of the nineties could be and, just as his role required of him, there was nothing that annoyed him more than his so smart attacks having no effect on me. That is why he started following me after a couple of months where I made sure I only cried in front of my grandmother, who deduced it was because of my parents and just joined silently on my alleged mourning.

Back then I…right now it sounds ridiculous to say it out loud but…I used to have an imaginary friend, based on the character of a rather disturbing supposedly children’s book called A Guest from Mister Spider. She was a spider, I called her Mother because, well, I am not afraid to admit I had certain issues I am still working through and that I went to speak to her every day because, even using my imagination, I ought to be accurate and precise, so I only went where a spider the size of two sumo fighters put together (and a similar, if not more violent, attitude towards people she didn’t like) to the abandon building she liked to hid herself.

One day, Michael George discovered this safe space of mine and…well, started laughing at the fact that I was speaking to a completely empty two-story house in the middle of a street full of people. At this, I did something I didn’t know I had in me to do, though it was more out of the pure instinct than it was well-thought self-defence (I was already targeted every single moment I was at school, imagine if they had known that my best friend was an imaginary spider!).

I won’t lie: the moment I pushed him, adrenaline through my veins, the pray that I had always been finally becoming the predator…but it wasn’t me, I didn’t feel comfortable fitting those shoes and regretted what I had done almost immediately.

It was too late, though. From inside the building came a noise that, to me, sounded too much as someone’s bones being chewed by powerful jaws. However, since my adrenaline was over the rooftop and I was still partly afraid of Michael’s violence, I simply decided to conclude that his neck had been broken and the echo had just distorted the original sound.

Obviously, as I wasn’t a murderer (Good lord!), I started yelling for the help of an adult.

They clearly saw the corpse inside, though I didn’t find it in me to also look to see the lifeless body of my former stalker, and they were going to take me in for questioning when the body disappeared.

Just like that.

It was as if it had never happened.

I never spoke to Mother again, and nobody, not even some of those insane crazy theorists (that, of course, I have to push away from time to time), had claimed of having seen him.

Until now.

 Until I was lying on the street, the boy standing over me with an honest expression of being enjoying himself as much as possible. I tried to mutter his name, but just stuttered, He mocked how I had finally been left out of words to speak, he mocked that I was still a scrawny four-eye badly dressed weirdo (his words, not mine) and said something incredibly mean I didn’t thought he had the intellectual capacity for. “You have too much grey hair in there for such an still innocent person”.

I was perplexed: how could this clone say things like that with such a believable speck? Once again, he being a clone is the only logical explanation came with something completely out of the reach of what the original Michael George had been capable of.

He seemed to notice how much it was costing me to process the whole scene, so he started laughing and told me that “Actually, I have you to thank for. See? The eight-legged bitch you threw me to? She tried to whisper into my ear. To play with her food, I guess. I was going to have none of it and, somehow, I was able to absorb whatever bad energy you had used with me before and…with that extra force, I ripped the spider into small bits.

So, yep: thanks again, Jonny dear”. As he finished talking, I was not only scared, but also straight-up mad. Who on Earth had decided it was fun to toy with someone’s trauma this twisted way?

And, what was even more frustrating, why did anyone decide that, of all humankind, Michael George had to be the one brought back to life? Angry as I was, I rose from the floor and pushed him against the wall and, with my usual luck, a police officer saw me.

Unsurprisingly, he wasn’t precisely critic of my attitude.

“I completely understand some kids need a special hand, Mister, but, please, do it in a more private place. He will learn the lesson either way” as he left, the clone began speaking again.

“I have to respect this attitude. And don’t worry, Sims, you will not be seeing me unless I get superbored. After all, I had been like a lot of years going from orphanage to orphanage all around the World in countries where they speak a proper language” he meant English, the ignorant twat. “Just…keep those angry issues under a thin leash. If you were my actual equal, it would be so much more fun to murder you”.

 I haven’t heard of Michael George anymore since then, though I started to look up in my free time about him and his probable aliases with the help of my previously mentioned friend, who also happened to be a former policeperson (that didn’t end well for anyone involved, but none of your incumbency), and found a rather rich amount of information that I attach to this statement. I hope that you are able to do something useful with it, though I am not completely confident about it.

Especially, after speaking to that assistant of yours; Martin. I don’t like to speak ill of people I barely know but…useless ass. That’s it.

The thing is, that I cannot simply walk into my boss’ office and told him someone had cloned my childhood bully and study my past in an almost predatory way to create the most traumatic, vivid experience possible.

So it’s in your hands…I guess.

  Statement ends.

Well, Mister Sims didn’t lie when he said he had conducted a rather thorough investigation on this…immortal boy? I don’t even know anymore. Not until what happened with Amherst.

Anyway, the only critic I have for Mister Sims is that, next time, he should try and cover better his friend’s identity. Miss Daisy Tonner, as he had even left a printed chat between the information were her number, name and face are perfectly visible. That and, please, Jonahtan, take a little bit more of care of your personal hygiene and laundry.

There where you sat, now it is filled with cobwebs and spiders.

End recording.

  SUPPLEMENTAL: I am tired, so very tired. I have always believed in the supernatural and I thought that, maybe, accepting a job here was the right option. Plus, a way to actually put to well use my degree and instead of feeling useful I am here…talking to one of the worms that survived from John’s…I mean, Amherst’s attack, the poor thing trapped in a crystal jar while Tim is…acting cold? But he had always been cold, so I don’t see why I see that as a problem. Sasha grows increasingly paranoid questioning even me and my position as Head Archivist…AND I THOUGHT I FINALLY MEET A FRIEND THAT I COULD TRUST AND FEEL COMFORTABLE AROUND.

And then, there is the question of Martin. Sweet, tender Martin, that doesn’t value himself enough and seems to have develop a crush on that asshole of Sims…I know he doesn’t like women that way but, if only he gave me the chance…

Wait, what is that worm? Do you really think you could help with…?

Oh, shit.

End recording.

#a mag a day #a mag a week #mag horror #statement #original statement #au #the magnus archives #fanfic #tma #magnuspod #jane prentiss #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #fic #the hunt #the web #the corruption #mag

[midnighttenderxcst]

I used to write a bunch of words,

Trying to explain myself in words,

As I often stutter when I speak;

I may look as a bold crazy person,

But I feel too much of emotions,

But I think too much of thoughts,

None of them is easy to tame;

I wish I weren't a sentimental person,

I wish I weren't high in empathy too,

I wish I were normal like everyone else,

But if I were different,

Would I easy to be loved?

I'm difficult yet I was ill-speak being easy,

I'm simple, yet things are always complicated;

I never thought it would be hard to love me,

I thought if I were crystal clear of what I want,

Wouldn't be a hustle;

I thought when I make it clear,

I would be loved in mannerly and kindly,

Unfortunately it couldn't be such way;

People love you for their convenience,

And despite there is nothing wrong about it,

I couldn't do the same;

I wear it out of my soul to love,

I love with all I have,

I love just a little less than I love myself more.

In the crowded place, I write again // mt.

[heartoftheserpent]

Same Dumbledore Bros person - Give me the HC's, the more angsty the better!

To me they never really got a chance to be brothers because by the time Albus was eleven, he'd had to take over his dads role and be the second parent to his siblings. The mum seems a bit checked out as well.

OKAY THANK YOU FOR WAITING i had to finish work so now i can answer this properly

okay so. I love Albus. I wish he had a great relationship with his brother. I tooootally see the appeal.

It's just not how I read things. So. Let me break down my feelings about their relationship and how I read it.

Aberforth never forgave Albus.

By the time of the FB movies, the two are certainly in contact, enough that Albus comes over often, tries to talk to him, tries to spend time with him. He's often rebuffed, but not sent away.

Frankly, in FB, they seem closer than they do in the canon books. Moody mentions in OotP that he's only met Aberforth once, and he and Albus have been friends for decades. While he's obviously doing important work for the Order in spying in the Hog's Head, Aberforth seems to do it begrudgingly. He doesn't go on missions, and he talks a lot of smack against Albus to Harry, Ron, & Hermione.

(Side note - the bit where he says that "Albus learned secrets and lies at our mother's knee" feels...very weird to me. Aberforth knows full well that the reason they kept secret was so Ariana wouldn't be taken away. Why be upset about that? Idk. It's just weird.)

Aberforth's words to Harry make it very clear that he expects Albus to have burdened Harry with something he couldn't possibly carry, that he faults Albus for expecting too much of people, that he thinks people would be better off if they forgot Albus. He literally says, "Forget my brother and his clever schemes," and tells them that they'll live longer if they do. He still clearly blames Albus for Ariana's death, and holds it against him even after ninety-nine years have passed.

And the thing is, that means that from the time of FB to the 1990s, they have literally decades to talk and to try to heal, especially if they're bonding over Credence/Aurelius or losing him or whatever's going on with Albus and Gellert, and obviously they do not, because they're even farther apart then than they are in the films.

Albus has complicated feelings towards Aberforth.

Albus is one of the gentlest, kindest people in the series, except towards those he thinks are behaving badly. He's famous for it - he's even mannerly to the Death Eaters in HBP who've come to kill him, and Harry notes how frustrating it is that he refuses to ever speak ill of Snape or Draco Malfoy. He is occasionally a bit snarky towards some of the teachers (Trelawney comes to mind), but never verging on slander.

But the first time we hear about Aberforth, Albus cheerfully tells Hagrid that his brother was arrested for The Goat Business, then claims that he's probably illiterate. This seems uncharacteristically biting for him. Then over books five and six, he mentions the barman at the Hog's Head as an informant a few times, but never mentions that the barman is in fact his own brother. He does claim in DH when he's deep in his feelings that Aberforth is "infinitely more admirable" than himself, but frankly that seems less like praise of Aberforth and more like that classic Albus Brand Self-Loathing (now even stronger!!).

The Gay Thing

It's difficult to judge Aberforth's reaction to Albus's sexuality as a thing in and of itself, because he is only reacting to Albus's one (1) boyfriend, who happens to be. Well. Grindelwald. But I'd argue he doesn't seem entirely comfortable with it.

He doesn't tell Albus, "I'm going to stay home from school no matter what you say and take care of Ariana." He says, in his own words, "You'd better give it up now."

Here we leave, to paraphrase Albus, the firm foundation of fact, and we shall be journeying together through the murky marshes and thickets of wildest headcanon.

Aberforth's version of the start of the duel is that he confronted Albus and Gellert and told them they had to stop seeing each other. Then "there was an argument." Gellert then used the Cruciatus curse on him, and they all started three-way dueling.

Albus's version in DH says that Aberforth was "shouting" truths at him, and then "the argument became a fight. Grindelwald lost control."

(I can't remember the exact wording of Albus's version in SoD, I just remember that he said Aberforth drew his wand first, "which was foolish.")

So...if Aberforth was already saying "You can't take Ariana, stop seeing each other now, you have to stay here," and Gellert was already calling him a stupid little boy who didn't understand anything, I think what escalated it from an argument into a fight is that Aberforth started tossing slurs around.

And I specifically think that because -

We've seen Aberforth use at least one slur.

When Minerva knocks on the door during the brothers having a meal, he shouts to "Read the sign, you stupid sod!"

Yep, pretty common insult. But don't forget, this is a kid who came of age when Oscar Wilde was imprisoned for Gross Indecency, for the crime of being a sodomite. We've seen tons of other insults hurled around in the books - prat, wanker, git, etc. But never this one before. I don't think it's a concidence.

Really, if he was just being rude, he could have said anything. But his instinct was to use a slur that he knows full well is entirely applicable to his brother, who is sitting across from him at the table.

He apologizes to Minerva for calling her that. But he doesn't apologize to Albus for using it as an insult. Again - yes, this is a very common insult at the time, but so was f*g in the 90s. It still means more if you're hurling it around next to your openly gay brother.

okay whew this got long, I have an entirely different set of headcanons about Percival and Kendra but this is frankly long enough.

#Dumbledore brothers #Dumbledore family #Albus Dumbledore #Aberforth Dumbledore #Grindeldore #asks

[wikimb]

I kinda wanted to draw some expressions for Dude (my OC) but I didn't have much ideas so I found this perfect template.

The best way to see details is to try to open an image on another card, not through website itself.

Now I will allow myself for a bit of commentary on some expressions.

Angry - as you see his eyes look different. They only change if he is angry enough or if he uses enough of demonic magic.

Tired - this is him post-mission in which he awkwardly used magic, while still being new to it. Now side effects start to manifest as he goes back home.

Irritated - well, you expected he is all mannerly all the time?

WTF? - his awkward use of magic, which seems going out of his control. In this panel he is still new to this ability.

Triumph - it's what he is the most competent and confident at basically... for now.

Grief - yes, he can cry, lol.

Flirty - this just isn't for him.

Silly - this is what he will usually do to kill some time or entertain himself. He can summon small flames safely without worrying about side effects coming.

Incredulous - speaking of the caption it says "Jakoś ci kurwa nie ufam", which means "I don't fucking trust you". It's a Polish meme.

Confident - finding out how to control magic and unlocking this pseudo-DT form is quite of a boost to his confidence as it opens may options.

Rage - for this one he's screaming that at the cult - especially its biggest offenders. He truly wants bloodshed there, lol.

Ill/nauseous - he won't always end up like this, definitely it's easy to reach the limits of his body at the beginning of learning magic. Later his body gets used to it what results in milder side effects, rare chance of ending up like in this image and more benefits.

#original character #oc #dude #devil may cry #dmc #dmc 5 #25 essential expressions #my art

[demonslayedher]

"Eldest Son" ramble

This is only tangentially related to general "dang, this is so real" thoughts about KnY that float around my head that I may or may not eventually compile (and I may delete this later), but last night there was a new guy in the dojo who through mild-mannerly answering questions reveals that he's been doing a wide variety of martial arts since he was 5 because he's from a bushi (warrior) family, among other fantasy sounding details about his upbringing. The other nerds and I were all probably glowing with wonder.

I don't know if people realize just how much of a thing it still is for the eldest son to inherit a family trade that's been in the family line for centuries (the oldest I've personally encountered can be traced back roughly 13 centuries, but I have noticed a lot with 1~2 centuries), but even if he doesn't take up a family trade and even if the culture of ithas gotten more lax, there's still a general implication in Japanese family structures that there are certain responsibilities that fall to the eldest son. For example, you sometimes hear of women preferring men who or lower in the birth order so that they won't be stuck caring for elderly in-laws, or there's sometimes a metaphor of "the freedom of a second son." Even though a second son wouldn't have the same inheritance of the oldest son (which would help keep wealth more concentrated) and eould need to strike out on his own, he didn't have the same responsibilities, which gave him the freedom to try new things.

These are sweeping generalizations and in modern Japanese society you could go on to say more about the complications of family registry systems and laws forcing married couples to have the same family name (there are cases of men taking their wife's name, but it's more surprising if an oldest son does this), and there are cases when a different child may inherit the family trade (second son or daughter or otherwise), though that pressure to pass it on to the next generation remains.

As for how this plays in to KnY:

1. Tanjiro's of a very conservative family, the "oldest son" pressure was of course heavy. To some extent, it also even feels like he's slightly more Kamado than his other siblings, as it will be through him that the family line and trade is carried on. Making him the only one with extra red in his appearance almost seems to indicate that.

2. Some supernatural recognition of heirs and the power of family names can be seen in the Ubuyashiki family heritage (only one male will survive each generation, girls will be afflicted by early death by illness or accident if they don't hurry and marry out, thereby changing their name)

3. The Rengoku family legacy, just all of it, guh

4. Hakuji, by agreeing to marry Koyuki and inherit the dojo, but probably also agreeing to taking Keizo's last name. It's worth noting that Hakuji might have felt some level of guilt of giving up his father's name, but as Keizo already provided him a rebirth of sorts when bringing him in, that may have helped it feel like less of a severance. (Some Edo sayings express that the bond between parents and children are for only one lifetime, as opposed to, say, three between a lord and retainer.)

5. Most of the swordsmen in the Corp were probably not from warriors families; among them, you can probably assume there were family legacies that died with them when their families were killed, for they had to take up the sword instead.

7. On that note though I AM STILL UPSET THAT KANATA AND SUMIHIKO AREN'T MAKING CHARCOAL

#tell me what happened to the Kamado ancestral home Gotouge #what happened to their fire ties while living in a high-rise in the city #why did the second son receive the Sumi name? #but that being said I love Sumihiko's second energy and the freedom he feels to sleep in and follow his parkour and animal loving heart #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #delete later #for this is rambling and relies on anecdotes and generalization

[tessiete]

"You’re burning up” for Obitine BUT ONLY IF YOU WANT TO! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

FOR YOU? ANYTHING!!! But only if you like it. If you don’t like it, please immediately erase this from your memory so we can still be friends. Anyway, there’s meant to be some stuff in here about the fever of first love, and like passion and fire and stuff, but it’s also just them bitching at each other so....I TRIED.

I love you!

IT CANNOT HAPPEN TWICE

“You’re burning up.”

“Remove your hand from my face before I remove it from your person.”

“I only meant to say that we can rest,” he explains, watching as Master Jinn forges on ahead, clearing a path through thick brush. “If you need to.”

It is safer here, out in the wilds, than on the road, the stretch between Mircine and Kar’Marev known for kidnappings, hunters, and corpses, but Satine will not be bowed.

“We may if you need to,” she spits. “I am perfectly capable of continuing without breaking, though I would not begrudge any weakness of yours.”

He grits his teeth, and she holds his gaze, steady and fever bright, the heat of her presence grinding him into deference out of respect for her position, for his master, and for the basic tenets of the Code - a Code which he seems to remind himself of continuously these days. Certainly, he has become more familiar with the first precept than ever before. He is intimate friends with it, having meditated on it for hours with no great success. There is no emotion.

“Of course, your Grace,” he says. His bow is shallow and poorly done, the curve of his lips equally false, but she says nothing. “I was only trying to help.”

“Thank you, padawan,” she says, then turns and marches on.

He catches up with her at sundown, hours later, and her condition is not improved. She stumbles along behind Qui-Gon, head bent, eyes on every next step. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps, and Obi-Wan can’t help the worried glances he keeps throwing at Qui-Gon’s broad back. He frets at the strand of shared consciousness between them, like he frets at the hem of his sleeve, and when it’s finally gone dark, he approaches his master where she cannot hear them.

“She’s ill,” he says, with no attempt at a conciliatory preamble.

“I know,” says his master. “I had hoped we might reach Kar’Marev tonight, but it is later than I thought. And I dare not brave the open plains past dusk. Not like this.”

“Then we’ll rest for the night?”

“We will,” Qui-Gon says. “Though I fear it will not help us much.”

“Master?” He shuffles nearer, and Qui-Gon speaks even lower to be certain of their confidence.

“The duchess is ill,” he says. “And if her fever persists she shall not be able to continue tomorrow. If it breaks, she shall be too exhausted to proceed. Either way, our efforts will be in vain, and worse - foolish. We gain nothing by gaining ground on foot only to lose it in body.”

Obi-Wan glances behind him as the duchess stokes the embers of their fire, banked low so as not to draw attention. She coughs, and it sounds as though it catches on every ribs, rattling and severe.

“Is it so serious?” he asks. “We are at least a day’s walk from help in any direction. What if she gets worse?”

Qui-Gon huddles close, scratching at the edge of his beard. “There is a plant,” he says. “A weed, really, and so it should be in no short supply. If I can find it, we may make a tea of its leaves.”

“A local remedy,” says Obi-Wan, looking skeptical. “Will it cure her?”

“It might alleviate the worst of her symptoms.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Show it to me, master,” he says, closing his eyes to search out the gossamer impression of light and colour in the Force. But his master frowns, and holds him at arm’s length.

“No, Obi-Wan,” he says. “I shall search. You must stay here, and care for Satine.”

“What? But master, surely it is better that I go!”

“I know what I’m looking for, where to find it, and how much we need.”

“There are hunters on the prowl -”

“- And the only company worse than yours, should one find her here. Stay, padawan, and watch over her.”

She coughs again, and he throws a doubtful glance over his shoulder before applying to Qui-Gon once more.

“Master -?”

“Be kind,” he says. “And patient. Trust in the Force, and I shall be back soon.”

But Qui-Gon is not back soon, and the night grows cold and dark around them. The creakers in the grass go to bed, and the home world Mandalore hangs heavy in the sky until the clouds come in and shroud it from view. Obi-Wan smothers the fire with sand, the red heat of it glowing bright in the absence of planetlight. He worries it might draw the eye of any unsavory observers, and trusts that Qui-Gon will be able to navigate without it. He can feel him, far afield, illuminating the shadows like starlight falling softly over leaves, and moving father still.

“Do you think Master Jinn will return before dawn?”

Satine sounds miserable, her voice crackling in place of tinder. She clears her throat, and clutches her thin cloak more closely about her. 

“I hope so,” he replies. “Maybe sooner.”

“I had not thought reconnaissance something so eagerly done at night.”

They had decided between them it would be best to keep Qui-Gon’s purpose from the duchess. Qui-Gon had said that she was already struggling under the weight of so many expectations of infallibility that one breach might be enough to topple her. Obi-Wan had simply desired an evening free of insufferable debate. If Satine suspected either reason, she would be offended, so Obi-Wan shrugs, and unrolls his bedkit.

“Master Jinn felt it would be better if he used the cover of night to clear our path than simply hope we don’t stumble across some hive of villainy in the daylight.”

“And you agreed with him?” she says.

“I trust him,” he says, unflinching. “Master Jinn is very experienced in matters of this nature, and I trust him to lead us safely.”

“So long as the Force wills it,” she mutters. It is not his imagination that some bitterness sours the air, then, and he feels it twist against his spine, drawing him stiffly upright to counter her.

“Yes,” he says. “But you seem to be labouring under the presumption that trust in the Force is tantamount to resignation to our fate.”

“Isn’t it?” she demands. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks flushed pink and raw.

“Isn’t pacifism?” he retorts. “Or would you contend that laying down arms in the face of violence and oppression a brave choice?”

A twig snaps in the distance, but Obi-Wan feels no danger stir in the Force. Foolish - for she scowls at him, baring her teeth like a feral strill on the hunt. 

“What do you know of bravery, padawan? You have always been at heel, always in the shelter of your Order, and your Temple, and your Master Jinn. You know nothing of fear.”

“And you know nothing of me,” he snaps. “But I would fight. I would sacrifice everything for what I believe is right. I would die for it.”

“And so would I.”

“I would kill for it,” he says, and she is silent. He feels his victory at hand, and her silence. his reward. Finally. “Don’t speak to me of bravery. You have fine ideals, and beautiful dreams, but I have seen the galaxy, and I know what it is to face villains who would destroy everything you love simply for the sake of seeing you suffer. I would not wish that on you, but your pacifism will not save you from it. I’m sorry, but I cannot see peace for your warrior kind.”

Satine sniffs. She coughs. He feels a sharp tug in his chest, looking at her already so weak and downtrodden by illness, and now battered by his own unruly emotions. But then she throws back her head. Her hair is lank, the lily-white gold of its strands turned dusty with neglect, but she is somehow regal still.

“We are not violent by nature,” she declares. “Our cultures, our traditions - there is more to Mandalore than bloodshed. And there is bravery in standing bared and open with nothing but peace, our shield between life and death. A blossom is just as noble as a blaster. More, for it thrives in harmony and gentleness. It lives, it grows, it seeds, and grows again. A blaster can only destroy. Would you have me wish that for my people?”

“I do not know your people.”

“Then do not speak for us,” she says. “I may not have seen the galaxy as you have, but I know Mandalore. Pacifism is not passivity. It is still the warrior’s way.”

Obi-Wan kicks out the end of his coarse bushcover, straightening the edges, and smoothing away bumps that rise up beneath the narrow mat. He says nothing as she coughs, not even when the next fit lasts for more than a minute. He only folds his rucksack so that his spare stockings and pants may act as a pillow, and cushion the edges of rations and various other instruments of use. He sits. He pulls off his boots, and aligns them neatly beside his bed. His stockings are next, and he lays them flat to dry in the open air of the forest. At last, the choking and sputtering behind him fade, and he lies down with his back to Satine.

“Aren’t you going to wait for Master Jinn?”

“No,” he says, closing his eyes. “And I wouldn’t advise you to, either, though I know nothing I say has any weight with you.”

“But what if he needs help?”

“Then I don’t suppose your being awake will have particular value there, seeing as you won’t lift a finger to defend him.”

He can hear as she surges to her feet, and kicks at the little rise of buried fire. Bits of sand and ash scatter at his back, but it is only a bluff.

“You’re insufferable,” she says. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” he assures her, pulling his coverlet up high, and nuzzling against his pack until it cradles his head just so. It is a warm night, and the earth still holds the heat of the day. The insects of Harswee have been until now a mannerly bunch, and Obi-Wan hopes that this resolution will last the night. He has already suffered enough. 

He waits until he hears Satine unroll her own kit, kick off her shoes, and lie down before he releases a deep breath, and relaxes into the Force.

When he wakes, it is still dark. The air has turned cold, and Qui-Gon has not returned. Instinctively, as though still a child in the creche, he reaches out to his master, first, worried that it is some disturbance there which has stirred him from his rest. But no. Qui-Gon still burns, an effulgent flicker of light somewhere out on the plains, and Obi-Wan feels a sense of comfort and reassurance pass over him like a zephyr of thought. The problem does not lie there.

Instead, he finds it lying six feet away on the other side of the smothered campfire.

Satine’s fever has gotten worse. She shivers on the ground so loudly her teeth chatter, and her shoulders shake. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her, the thin coverlet strained with the desperate desire to provide some heat. Obi-Wan kneels to press his hand to her brow, only to find her skin slick with sweat.

“Oh, Force, Satine,” he says, shaking her awake. She looks at him with glazed eyes, but her frown seems instinctive, for it falls into place immediately upon recognition. 

“I thought I said don’t touch me,” she says. There may be fire in her, but it is raging through her blood and her skin, and her words come out as thin as smoke.

“Your fever is worse,” he says. 

“I know,” she replies.

“You should have said.”

He hurries back to his kit, throwing aside the cover and tripping over his boots in his haste to reach his rucksack. The careful work of folding and primping forgotten as he pulls it apart to find a small canteen of water and a packet of electrolytes. He tears the packet with his teeth, and dumps its contents into the liquid, shaking it, before returning to Satine’s side. With all the gentleness of newborn things, he slips his hand beneath her neck and raises her to rest against his chest. She protests feebly, but she cannot fight him, and when he brings the water to her lips she drinks as bidden.

“Small sips,” he says, one arm wrapped around her back to brace her, the other steadying her hand on the canteen. “You must stay hydrated.”

She nods, but pushes the drink away.

“Satine -”

“I can’t,” she whispers. She wilts against him, her head tucking itself into the crook of his neck beneath his chin. Her breath is hot against his throat, her body hotter still where he can feel the warmth of her fever radiating through the thin layer of her clothes where they touch. He puts the canister on the ground, propped up in the dirt but still within reach. 

“Obi-Wan,” she murmurs. “I’m so cold.”

“Alright,” he says, and he reaches forward to drag her coverlet from where it lies crumpled at her feet. “You’re alright.”

He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and wraps her in his arms. She responds to his touch in a manner so differently than usual he can feel his heart stutter and stop in confusion. Burrowing deeper, she nuzzles her cheek against his chest, and folds her arms between them. 

“Hush,” he says, rubbing wide circles over her back, the friction of his palm against the cover doing little to soothe her tremors, but doing much to calm his own uncertainty. 

“Is Master Jinn returned yet?”

“He will soon,” he says, though Master Jinn is still distant and cool.

“Do you promise?” she asks. She has never asked for his word before, never solicited his opinion, or sought his comfort. He pulls back to look at her face, certain he is being mocked somehow. But her eyes are closed, and her face slack with exhaustion. She tilts her chin, until her throat is bared, and she waits for him to speak.

“I promise,” he says. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I trust you. Will you wake me when he does?”

“I promise,” he repeats, staggered by this turn she so easily concedes to.

“And will you stay with me til then?”

He tightens his arms around her, cradling her head, and holding her close so that she might be warmed by the heat of his own body.

“I promise,” he vows.

And in the dark, he waits, and he watches, and he holds her until the sun comes up.

#obitine #obi-wan kenobi #satine kryze #qui-gon jinn #year on the run #my fic #please #nobody look at how many of my fics end with someone promising to stay until someone else wakes up #i don't know what's wrong with me #i swear i sleep alone just fine #and i don't think i ever made anyone promise this when i was a kid #idk #NO JUDGING #star wars #prompt fill

[digitalstowaway]

Yes to the mia & miles AU sick fic pLease 🥺

This was longer than I thought it was going to be I'm Sorry. here's the og post that this fic is about. Sometimes...... Diego cares about Miles enough to not let him die. Sorry if you're emetophobic!!

--

Diego didn’t hate Miles. Hate was a strong word, his mother always told him. And once Diego realized that Miles was an awkward, tired kid who had probably been abused for over ten years, he couldn’t bring himself to actually hate him. He felt bad for him. He could understand why Mia was falling for him more and more, taking extra steps to make sure he was safe and just okay.

And when Miles was dreadfully ill, Diego supposed that it wouldn’t hurt to go so far as to show him a little kindness.

He knocked on the bathroom door. “Kid, can I come in?”

“Yes.”

Diego had been the one to volunteer to follow Miles to the bathroom after the poor kid took off from the kitchen, the salad Lana made him half-eaten. He had looked over the plate and asked Lana if she had put pine nuts in it. And then asked, with a grimace, if she knew that Miles was allergic to pine nuts.

She had stood there, frozen and spluttering, and while Mia comforted her, telling her she couldn’t have known, Diego rushed after Miles to check to see if his windpipe had closed up yet.

But Miles was just over the toilet, heaving and sweating. His neck was blotchy with painful-looking hives that spread up towards his face.

“Your won’t stop breathing on us, will you?” Diego asked.

Miles shook his head.

It was a rare occasion that Diego actually wanted to help the kid. He couldn’t imagine the pain he was in nor the embarrassment he felt while being sick in Lana’s home.

He helped Miles out of his jacket and then his waistcoat and tie. For some reason, Miles allowed it. Maybe the kid was feeling so poorly that he was glad that someone was around to undress him. Maybe he knew he was in for a long battle and didn’t have the energy to put up any arguments with Diego.

“Is this all that’s going to happen?” Diego asked. “Because if we need to take you to a hospital, we should know now.”

“I’ll be fine. I can go home in a moment—”

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea. Lana probably won’t let you leave.” Diego undid the top buttons of Miles’ shirt, revealing that the hives were spread across his chest. “She has to finish you off. Poisoning you wasn’t enough to get the job done.”

“It’s not funny!” Lana’s voice from the other side of the door cried.

“Is she out there?” Miles asked, curling over the toilet again.

“Seems so.”

Diego had only met Lana a handful of times, but it was enough to know that she adored Miles. She coddled him, making him meals and defending him against Diego’s jabs. It was obnoxious to see Miles peek behind her back and smile as she told Diego to find someone “his own size” to pick on.

But Diego had to admit that Lana was good for him. For as many times as she scolded Diego, she reminded Miles to be mannerly and polite. And he was slowly behaving better when she wasn’t around. He didn’t have so many snarky comments or dirty glares to toss around. They were replaced with quiet “please” and “thank yous.”

He was physically changing as well. His hollow cheeks were filling out. He wasn’t so pale and distant-looking all the time, showing that Lana’s meals were letting him catch up from whatever neglect his body had been through.

There was another knock on the door. Miles wrapped an arm around his stomach, moaning.

“Miles?” Lana cracked open the door just wide enough to poke her head through. “I’ll let you get back to your privacy in a second, but take the spare bed when you’re feeling better, okay? You can stay here for the night.”

Miles responded with a whimper. Diego nodded on his behalf.

“I’ll make sure he gets there.”

Lana’s head disappeared. Her arm followed with a small stack of towels she laid on the sink.

“Miles?” she said, her face reappearing. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be,” Miles choked out.

“I should have known you were allergic to pine nuts.”

“There was no way for you to have known.” His face scrunched up. He bared his teeth. “Get out. Please.”

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m really sorry!”

Miles retched. The door closed.

Diego didn’t know what to do. Miles looked to be in pain, his body spasming and tensing up. Anything Diego could think about giving him—antihistamines, tea—would surely be brought back up in a matter of seconds.

Diego looked away from the yellow bile Miles spit up and turned to the towels Lana had laid out. There was an impressive variety. A few small clothes and various sizes of hand towels. Diego grabbed a smaller washcloth and wet it in cold water.

Miles shook on the floor. He whimpered again. It was odd to see the kid so vulnerable.

“When I said get out,” he said through labored breaths, “I meant you, too.”

“Too bad, brat. You’re stuck with me. I know you probably really want to be alone right now, and I can’t blame you, but I think someone should stay here. So it’s either me, Lana, or Mia. And Mia is a sympathy puker.”

“And Lana would probably cry.”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll sit here in silence if you let me make sure you’re not going to keel over.”

Miles was retching again, and Diego felt terrible as he saw tears begin to collect with the sweat on his face. Miles sounded like he was choking, fighting against what his body wished to do.

“Just bring it up,” Diego said.

He laid the cloth on the back of Miles’ neck and then moved it to his forehead. Miles jerked. A little more yellow bile came up. And he fell against Diego’s chest, face worryingly pale where the hives hadn’t taken hold.

“Miles?”

Diego grabbed his shoulder, making sure he didn’t slide head-first into porcelain. He pressed the cloth to Miles’ cheek. And for once, Miles actually looked like the kid he was. He looked small and fragile, and Diego worried that he would break if he held him too tight.

“Why are you being kind to me?” Miles asked.

“Because if I leave you to die on this bathroom floor, Mia will be upset with me.”

“I won’t die.”

“I don’t know. You look halfway there.” Diego ran the cloth to Miles’ neck. “Has this happened before?”

“Obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know I’m allergic.”

“I mean recently.”

Miles sighed. He pushed himself up and dropped his head over the toilet again. Diego steadied him.

“Not since I was a teenager,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, because that was so long ago.”

“A young teenager.”

Diego tried imagining Miles even younger than he was. He had trouble taking a few inches off his height (and Miles was already not that tall) and a little sharpness from his jaw. And where was Miles? With his mentor/adoptive father—or whatever fucked up relationship they had.

He had imagined, judging from the pictures Diego saw when he was being nosy, that Manfred von Karma lived in a gothic mansion with stone walls and long corridors lined with candles. He couldn’t imagine anyone there with anymore fondness for Miles than Diego had for him. No Lanas or Mias.

Miles cried out, his hand grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Diego didn’t say anything but laid his hand on his back.

—

It was hours later, after alternating between dozing and retching, when Miles was ready to pull himself off the bathroom floor. Diego hovered and when Miles’ face turned a dramatic shade of white, he quickly threw Miles over his shoulder.

“Put me down!”

There were weak punches at his back. Diego ignored them as he carried Miles to the guest room.

“This is indecent!”

“Calm down. You wouldn’t have made it here by yourself.”

Diego threw him on the bed. He pulled Miles’ collar open, looking at his chest. The blotchiness had died down. It didn’t look so intense. The angry welts were gone, replaced with a splotchy rash that looked like clouds.

Miles didn’t put up any more of a fight. He crawled to the top of the bed and laid down. His brow was still furrowed in pain—or maybe only discomfort at that point. He closed his eyes, curling into himself.

“Want me to tuck you in?” Diego asked.

“Please don’t touch me.”

“I think I’ve touched you enough today to last us the rest of our lives.”

Diego’s shirt was wet from the cold towels he laid on Miles and the sweat the boy had rubbed onto him whenever he swooned. He felt a touch gross, but he could only imagine how much worse Miles felt. Diego hoped for his sake that he would be well enough to drive himself home by the morning to shower and change into fresh clothes he could relax in.

Miles fell asleep within minutes. His face finally relaxed. His body was no longer so tense. And Diego was able to collapse into the stuffed chair in the corner of the room. He liked the kid the best when he was quiet.

And resting.

Maybe Diego had earned himself immunity from biting insults. Or at least a break.

Lana poked her head inside the room. “I heard you two moving around,” she whispered. “Is he sleeping?”

Diego nodded. “I think he’s over it.”

“Good.” She stepped into the room. She carried a glass of water. “I can look after him tonight if you and Mia want to head home.”

Home sounded nice no matter if it was his or Mia’s apartment they ended up crashing at that night. But he was still worried about leaving the kid.

Lana sat at Miles’ side. She brushed his hair back from his face and stroked his brow, gently calling his name. He woke slowly, his swollen eyes not wanting to open.

“You need to drink a little water. Sit up for me.”

He did so the best as he could. Diego was shocked to see him allow Lana to support his head and help him hold the glass to his lips. He fell right back asleep with Lana pulling a quilt over him.

“How do you do that?” Diego asked.

“Hmm?”

“Get him to act like that.”

“It’s all about getting him to trust you.” Lana stroked his hair one last time. “Go home. I’ll make sure he’s alright. This is my fault, anyway.”

Diego stood and stretched. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. If he had any self-preservation skills, he would have told the person who cooks for him every week that he’s seriously allergic to pine nuts.”

Lana smiled. “Maybe.”

Diego left the room and found Mia waiting for him, ready to leave. She asked how Miles was and offered to drive them back to her apartment for drinks. She was sure that he needed it after being locked in a room with Miles. How they both came out alive was beyond her, she said.

Diego touched the wet patch on his shirt where Miles’ head repeatedly fell onto his chest and said nothing.

#tw emetophobia #ace attorney #mia & miles au #diego caaaaaares

[midnightskyline]

Diamond Crown Academy OC Briallen Allira, based off the Glass Rose from Beauty and the Beast!

Credit to @phoenix-manga for DCA and just about everything except for the OC which belongs to me. I found the entire DCA concept and plot in general vv interesting and decided, why not make an oc? This is my first tumblr post that isn’t a repost- I never even planned for the acc to have any posts XD 

Biographical Information

Gender: Female

Age: 18

Birthday: March 20th

Star Sign: Pisces

Height: 176 cm (5'7 ft)

Eye Color: Rose Red

Hair Color: Ivy Green

Homeland: Rose Kingdom

Professional Status

Dorm: Chateau Beastiale

School Year: 3rd Year

Class: 3-E | Student no. 20

Occupation: Student

Club: Gardening Research Club

Best Subject: Ancient Rune Reading

Fun Facts

Favorite Food: Apple Rose Tart with Maple Custard and Walnut Crust.

Least Favorite Food: Anything overly bitter.

Dislikes: People who act dumb and or overreact to small things as well as large messes and people who lack morals/are rude and delinquent like (Uh oh Deuce).

Hobby: Studying and gardening, specifically red roses.

Talents: She is very able at reading people’s emotions and gardening.

Idol Stats

Performance: She sings rather classical and in soprano, however, she is able to go into high alto/alto if desired. Her voice is rather soft and melodic as well which ends mostly in her favor.

Choreography: She dances in ballet and ballroom dances like the waltz and Vietnamese waltz. She is able to do more modern and upbeat dances but prefers slow and old time ballroom dances much more.

Styling Jewel Outfits: Classical | Elegant

Unique Magic

Enchanted Curse, Bri is able to enchant a curse on one person that will bring unfortunate circumstances to said person after they have committed an action that is deemed morally wrong. The curse can vary from illnesses, terrible bad luck, or even the slight malfunctioning to their unique and normal magic. The curse can be lifted either once the person corrects their action or when Briallen lifts the curse.

Personality

She has a very regal and elegant like persona, sophisticated, hard working, mannerly, and polite. Many think of her as too sophisticated and often dislike her personality. There are rumors saying how she's really mean in person, which is false but simply due to how she looks and acts sometimes the rumors often keep people who don't belong in her dorm straying away from her. In truth, Briallen is rather kind once you get to know her, she may come off slightly too blunt at first but she never means any ill will.

(Clearer image below)

#briallen allira #diamond crown academy #twisted wonderland #twst oc #dca oc #twst #dca #chateau beastiale #profile

[beni-draw-ikemen-please]

Kintsugi ~ Repairing with Gold

Kintsugi ~ Repairing with Gold  ◆ Ikemen Vampire Fanfiction ◆

CHAPTER 3 - TWO SUNS

Words: 4, 596

TW: Angst and Hurt ◆ References to Depression ◆ Mental Instability ◆ Mental Health Issues ◆ Implied/Referenced Suicide ◆ Suicidal Thoughts ◆ Graphic Depictions of Sex/Intercourse ◆ Vaginal Sex/Fingering ◆ Rough Sex ◆ Non-con

Pairings: M/F  Leonardo Da Vinci x Seiya Amanogawa [OC] / Comte de Saint-Germain x Seiya Amanogawa [OC]

Chapter Index [ 1 ]  [ 2 ]  [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ] [ 8 ] [ 9 ] [ 10 ]

                               ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

A/N: This work of fiction is Canon x OC. For some reason everything is coming to me but I have no idea how to structure this properly, let alone beta >.< But still, if you made it this far, thank you for reading! Here’s chapter 3, fresh from AO3. 

                                             KINTSUGI - CHAPTER 3

                                                         Two Suns

                                      ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Seiya couldn’t remember why, but she remembered being fully awake on a Tuesday, 3:32 am and she just hauled herself yet again across the globe. 

A new apartment, a new life, another clean slate. For the fifth, or was it sixth, time in her life. 

She remembered her empty apartment, just outside Amsterdam, barely a futon and any cooking pans in possession. It was cold, but it was a new beginning and new beginnings settled her nerves. It was familiar. 

The moving, the starting -- she accustomed herself to these things, sort of like a reversed coping mechanism. Adjusting and adapting to a new place, a new environment, a whole new country was something she could do without even trying.

She was exhausted. Tired from all the big cities. 

She remembered booking a last-minute flight to Paris, and then visiting the Louvre for the sole reason of finding inspiration. She had been working non stop, and she came to Paris hoping to revive whatever creative soul or confidence she had before the past five years. 

It felt like the crowd never ceased and it took almost all of her strength and willpower to go around the people who were barely looking at the paintings. 

She remembered being exhausted, and securing a bench just outside the Da Vinci hall. 

And she remembered stopping, not particularly minding or observing a piece but stopping to draw something down her notebook. 

And the next thing she knew, the bright museum day turned into a star-lit sky. Darker than what she’s accustomed to, behind widows that stretched as high as the ceilings, wine red curtains framing the peculiar view in sight. A thick dark forest just outside what looked like a giant mansion gate. 

She forgot a whole list of things as the man clad in gold explained the rules and basics of the mansion, and her month-long wait before she could go home. 

It wasn’t particularly different from what she’d experienced before. 

Another place? Another move? Only now, it’s another time. 

Seiya didn’t really remember much, she barely got acquainted with her new apartment, and she wasn’t particularly attached to anything yet after she prepared herself to move and leave everything that’s been established in her life. A career that barely sustained her creativity; wore her energy and self-esteem down. People who only hung around because of her work, or because it was convenient at that exact place, exact time. There were no farewell parties on her behalf. 

It was as if she quietly slipped through the back door, continued to run and run and run until she was on the other side of the world. Not knowing anyone, not receiving any other calls as to why she left, no emergency contact in her wallet. Nobody. Nothing new, really. 

And yet, for the briefest moment, as she focused on him — lush locks of gold that seemed to glow and shine under the masterful lighting of the museum, and the meticulously-placed lamps within the mansion — she saw a man whom she’d hoped to be someone in her life. 

The count smiled at her, careful with his words but never mincing them around her. She felt no threat, no ill intent coming from him, and immediately, she told her heart to settle down. She could  — at least, she really hoped to  — trust this man who called himself Le Comte. Maybe, this was the reason why she followed him that day, in the Louvre. When he chuckled faintly and softly behind her back as she scribbled what she thought would be a fitting portrait of Leonardo Da Vinci himself, all tension that accumulated in her neck and shoulders seemed to melt away at the sound of his voice. 

He complimented her, saying Leonardo himself would approve of the portrait, however silly and childish her scribble looked. He said it was an accurate depiction of him. Seiya didn’t know if he was being honest, or if he was just making fun of her. But she didn’t peg him, a man dressed like a gentleman —an elegant light mohair suit and golden cufflinks — as someone who would go by so casually only to make fun of ladies wandering inside museum halls. But she had to admit, making small talk with him felt pleasant and comforting. Her first conversation in days. 

She wasn’t the type to open up so easily to strangers, let alone, let them peak inside her pocket Moleskine. But something about him, the gold of his eyes, something that reminded her of time, and something forgotten —something old and true and important—called to her and swept her off her feet. 

Enough to lure her into opening the door to an alternate timeline. An alternate universe. Where creatures of the night were made up of the greatest names in history. This was their domain. His domain and she was a visitor. And yet he was gracious enough to provide for her, much to her surprise. Why would someone like him care about someone like her? She always questioned it. And, as she learned more and more about the mansion, the household and the residents, she found herself watching the count. Anticipating when he’ll be back, what he’ll be needing next, and how she can be a part of it. 

Seiya remembered when she felt the need to draw something. For the first time in a long time, to actually sit down and make something for herself. Make something that’s not dictated by some middle-aged, kitsch cretin. Just something for herself. Something she could hold on to, whilst she lived the dream of being scooped up from her own reality and into a world of vampires, enchantment, and time travel. Who could have thought? Who could have imagined? She most certainly did, many times, many days, all those years. 

Seiya didn’t feel like anyone wanted her, really. A home was something her parents once paid for; allowance usually automatically being credited to her account. Holidays that were empty, birthdays without anyone, achievements unrecognised. It didn’t take long for her to realise that these people, who were supposed to care for her, were simply waiting for her to be old enough so they can let her be without being frowned upon by society. She quickly learned that all those years of moving and adjusting, readjusting and adapting— her so-called talent— left her with almost no one to turn to. 

No foundations. 

No shared experiences that forged true friendships. 

Nobody. 

You leave, and people feel sad, and they forget about you. 

People move on.

Or people just leave.

People move on.

They forget about you, and they move on.

A mantra she’d recite every time she decided to move again and again and again. 

The beginnings excited her, and opportunities were always present for those who were willing to take the risk. Opportunity was this haughty goddess she was now very much acquainted with. But she had no one to call to share the good news. No one to celebrate the good days with. And the bad days — the bad days were heavy and ruthless — bad days would stay for days, weeks, years. 

So, when the count explained that she’ll have to stay for a month, maybe more, Seiya felt relief seep through her veins. The tension on her shoulders and back dissipated, and for a while, she almost fully stopped clenching her jaw.

Being around him helped her feel at ease. She never had anyone to rely on, up until Leonardo. When he promised he'd look out for monsters and watch her door until she fell asleep, she felt something she never felt before. A sense of security. 

 Leonardo offered more than just a brief sense of security. For Seiya, he felt like a safe room, and she, though she does not notice it herself, was acting more and more like herself around him. Truer to herself than she could ever imagine herself to be. Because of Leonardo, and those days they spent quietly together, the evenings when they both retire together, she began to see a clearer image of who she really is and how she can live her life without the restrictions and the prejudice of the modern world she was so used to.  

The modern world is filled with mannerly empty phrases, words that seem to zigzag away further from the truth. Communication was done in a blink of an eye, but all other meanings— meanings that truly mattered— were lost even before the button was pressed. 

He must have felt uncomfortable sleeping outside her door, though. She thought. 

Seiya wasn’t sure why and what force of nature brought it back, but she felt an ounce of confidence lift her hand to catch the hem of his coat just as he was leaving. How beautiful he looked, she thought. Not at all close to that chibi drawing she did whilst sitting by that bench in the Louvre. But just as her glass-blue eyes were focusing on him and how the golden light seemed to amplify his innate glow, she saw the count’s face, clear as day, flashing before her eyes.

She felt her throat dry, at the sight of Leonardo’s eyes. The same gold as Comte’s. The same distant, unearthly, gold smoked by time, and maybe eternity herself. 

Was that the reason why she invited him to her bed?

Because his eyes resembled the count’s? 

Seiya remembered Leonardo’s weight shifting her bed as she waited for him to settle down. It had been years since she slept with someone. And the last time she did, she became incredibly attached. When you get used to living and being content with your own company, anyone else who breaches your space feels uncomfortable, until you unlearn the true meaning of solitude, until you start leaning onto that person, until you start being attached, dependent. 

Seiya knew what it was like to be alone with her own thoughts. She kept most things to herself and barely interacted. But when one person tried to get past her defenses, she gave in. She let down her guard and soon enough, she was crumbling, ready to give anything, her everything to this person at any given word. 

She knew what it was like to give her everything only to be left alone. 

She knew better. People won’t reciprocate. 

She should have known better. And yet,

And yet, she allowed herself the comforts of Leonardo’s company. The rhythm of his husked breathing was a lullaby she so desperately memorised, so once he is gone—by the time she is to return home—once the spell is broken and she is back to her own world, her own reality, she can sing herself to sleep. With his face in mind. With the image of his dark brown locks slowly fading into an ashen hue, locks that covered and framed his face that slept so serenely next to her. As if she wasn’t a stranger to this house.

Just so she wouldn’t have to rely on anyone, ever again. Not ever. 

But Seiya underestimated the romance that 19th century Paris brought, and along with it came the renaissance man. 

He was especially good with his hands, she noticed. And she found comfort in them. They were warm and larger than her own, and they easily found hers whenever she was unsure where to go, what to do, what to say. Her fingers found safety and solace between his gloved ones, and slowly, very slowly, she caught herself able to touch him freely. Leonardo touched her often, too. And Seiya did not mind, no. 

It was new, at least to her. It was different. It was a treasure she was adamant to keep around her. A soothing companion, a calming presence, a safe haven, all these things meant Leonardo in her heart’s dictionary. But something inside her doubted this dream. Doubted the comfort of his touch and if she was the one who was deserving of it. She felt, at times, like a fraud. 

Odly enough, they could communicate well, though she felt confused and uncomfortable whenever he would grumble, maybe even curse in Italian. But after a while, she grew accustomed to his quirks, even picked up a few Italian swear words. It made the count frown, but it made Leonardo smile the biggest smile she ever saw him smile. Leonardo, at least to her, was like the sun. 

A radiant and roaring presence, even if he tried his best to lay low, even often slouched when he walked, but no one could deny the presence that was Leonardo. Seiya liked that about him. Her life, for the longest time, felt like a dark room with just her in it. And she— at least to herself— believed she liked being in the dark. She was able to convince herself, throughout the years that it was cool, and calming, and no one could touch her there. It’s safe there. No one could hurt her. No one could leave her. No one could disrupt this oasis she’s built for herself, albeit the lack of light. Everything she needed, she could buy, she could get her hands on. Except for a warm, inviting and soothing source of light. 

Comte, to her, looked and felt like the sun, too. Far away, unreachable and untouchable. The brightest treasure to everything it supports, everything it touches. A gem on the horizons that pull her to her feet in the morning, and one that gently whispers goodbye as it hides itself back.

 But Leonardo was a different kind of sun. Leonardo was the sun you could embrace. The sun on midday, that dries the white sheets hanging behind the mansion. The crisp scent of cleanliness and warmth all tangled together inside the consumable, describable word of fabric. 

The sun that keeps your heart warm. Like the stained glass colourless sun that would seep between the leaves of the trees as you walk along the forest. Like the warmth you feel while you’re immersed in a novel, laying by the grass without a care in the world. 

The sun that kissed your cheeks pink, planting loving marks on the bridge of your nose and your shoulders.That sun is now slowly bringing that warm light inside her dark room. 

There was no way for Seiya to stop the light. She tried to, half-heartedly. Something inside her wanted that light, wanted that warmth. But she already made up her mind and her heart, not to yearn and not to ask for things she cannot have. In this case, in Leonardo’s case, something shifted within Seiya’s world. And it all came together with the lingering scent of velvet cigarillos, the faint smell of leather, and wood, and something metallic but sweet when it hits the tongue. Something dark, and something light, all at the same time. Everything that made up the renaissance man and more— indescribably luscious and sensuous even to someone who has their guard actively up. 

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Sebastian would notice how their new resident would ask if she could bring Comte’s meals up to his study. And, when given the chance, if she could be the one to welcome him home. Sebastian noticed the smile on her face whenever she was tasked to take Comte’s coat. Or, when he finds her with some free time in the afternoon, the blush on her cheeks when he would invite her to share some sweets over a fresh pot of tea. 

Sebastian thought it was adorable of Seiya to follow the count around whenever she had the chance. And, Sebas being himself, would reward Seiya for finishing her chores with more tasks - picking up things Comte asked for. Getting his favourite macarons and picking new tea leaves so she and Sebastian could blend a new flavour for the next day. 

When she could, she would bring back flowers for his room and his study. Yellow chrysanthemums, sometimes white. They reminded her of home, but also reminded her of him.   And she would make sure there were always fresh flowers whenever Comte was around. It was for him, though she would not say anything in words, Sebastian knew she was putting them up for the count. 

And he would notice this red leather book wrapped in black lace whenever she was working in the kitchen or carrying the residents’ meals. It would be next to her by the counter, or at the bottom of her trolley whenever she lunged it around the mansion. 

Sebastian too, had his own secret notebook where he writes his observations, the quirks he’s learned from the residents and research. But something about Seiya’s book intrigued him. But he would always brush it off, telling himself that a lady is entitled to her own privacy. 

Seiya didn’t say much around the other residents, except for Isaac and Vincent, but to Sebastian’s dismay, he was stuck with all her questions. 

Sometimes, she would just throw them at him like a curveball. With a straight face, whilst they polish the silverwares or refill the blanc bottles. 

“Why do they have to eat so much food?”

“If I sliced a finger off, would it grow back?” 

“Why do they sleep? Aren’t they supposed to be nocturnal?”

“Can they smell us like how other animals can?” 

Sebastian then learned that Seiya was simply curious and to her, she was entitled to answers if her means of travel home was inoperable, prolonging her stay in the mansion. 

She didn’t seem too displeased with that fact. And now, it had been more than a month since she travelled through the door. 

“Can they,” Seiya paused for a moment, a new question at the ready. Sebastian’s skillful hands kept with the polishing of the silverware. It was quiet as they both slowly settled the objects down. “Can they feel pleasure, like how humans do?” 

Her eyes stayed on the shine of the fork she’s been polishing. And Sebastian’s eyes focused on her hands as he waited for a follow up question. She’s heard Arthur mention this before. How a vampire’s bite can be nothing like any kind of pleasure humans can fathom. But she wanted to know, truly, if a kiss, an embrace, or just being against someone’s back gave the same kind of satisfaction and pleasure as it would give a normal human. 

“Vampires are not so different from us, Seiya-san.” Sebastian’s hands continued the work as he cleared his throat. Continuing his sentence made Seiya’s curious eyes look up at him, her pale hair, now tied into a loose bun behind her, gave him a better view of the expression on her face. 

A childlike curiosity blinked several times before he could finish his sentence. And the colour of the sky slowly widening before him as he assured Seiya that yes, vampires do feel pleasure like humans do. Not entirely the same, but it’s there. 

Seiya wore a meek and triumphant smile as she continued with her work. Sebastian was happy to teach, and help her, any way he could though they are from different timelines from the future, they grew incredibly closer. They spoke Japanese to each other, and when Dazai fancied joining in on their traditional tea ceremonies. 

She felt at home around them. Somehow, they accepted her, jaded and broken as she was, she was welcomed by the most unusual crowd. But she liked that. How they were all patched together, irregularities and quirks and all. Somehow, it all works out, and everyone lives in harmony and comfort. 

She saw it first hand, the warmth within the mansion, albeit the frequent tension. Everyone, somehow, accepted one another. Perhaps being brought back to life by Comte proved to be a necessary common ground. Perhaps, he was the one who kept the household together. 

Seiya didn’t understand it, until she started attending society balls and parties as Le Comte’s companion. 

The brilliance and radiance that is Le Comte de Saint-Germain is not limited to the walls of the mansion. Everyone wanted to meet him. Everyone wanted a moment of his time. Everyone wanted to shake his hand. The women so desperately asked and waited for a chance to dance with him. 

She remembers it well, that night. When the light of the lamps burned somewhat brighter for them, Leonardo asked about the meaning behind her name. Seiya never saw anyone so excited whilst she wrote these characters that make up her name. 

 As she settled her pen and showed him the characters, his gold eyes slowly shifted from the characters she’s written down, to her face. 

Her lips. 

She wasn’t able to notice the shift in weight, but his hand, somehow, ended up on her neck. She could feel herself trembling. 

Him, a creature of the night, with his hand on her sweet spot—the place where vampires sunk their teeth in movies she’s watched over and over again. Her eyes found herself in his as they closed the gap between them. Something about the way he pressed his weight down her neck and shoulders that tempted her to surrender her heart, even though she was in fact warned through a dream, an apparition, not to. 

“Leonardo,” her lips barely forming his name as a whisper, a prayer, a wish perhaps. She wanted to know why he was so eager to tend to her needs and why he would reach out to her, at random times during the day or mid conversation. Why his eyes felt so heavy whenever they settled on her. And why, he was holding her like this right now. 

Why now, Leonardo? She thought. 

All thoughts and questions seemed to disappear when their lips met. The taste of him, entirely new and yet somewhat expectedly familiar to her. Cigarillos, and somehow, sweet like apples. Lips so light on hers, she even questioned if they were really there. But, after a moment, his hesitation dissolved into a deeper, hotter, heady kiss. His mouth was rough, and yet smooth as his lips glide with hers. Tongue licking her lips down, and then down her chin and then back up, back to her lips and finding its way entwined with hers. She felt hunger from him, and she felt a chill down her spine. 

But Leonardo pulled away, panting. His eyes hesitated to look at her after leaving her in that state. Lips so desperately kissed and flushed. Cheeks red as his favourite apples and eyes misted with unanswered questions. 

He managed to mutter an apology, but Leonardo was surprised when he felt Seiya tug his collar and soon, her lips were once again crashing with his, only this time, she was able to show him that there was no need for hesitation. Not from him, not from her, ever. 

And so it began. This peculiar thing they did. A comforting ritual, perhaps. They would retreat in her room, sometimes his. And more often than not, the library. Seiya could imagine the scowl on Mozart’s face whenever they knocked a pile of books as they kissed. Or whenever they’d forget to fold the blankets they brought with them whenever they felt like reading by the fire. But in a sense, she felt happiness in his arms. A shriveled sort of happiness that came with the comfort and security that was Leonardo da Vinci himself. His hands always behind the small of her back, guiding her through; hands and arms pulling her close to him whenever he felt like, not that she mind, no. 

There was solace and tranquility in his voice whenever he spoke to her and reassured her he was around. She never had anyone in her life that guarded her like a prized jewel. Not anyone who made sure she knew they were around. Not anyone, unfortunately, to treat her the way Leonardo treated her. 

And everyone noticed. 

The special treatment wasn’t intended to be kept a secret. Somehow, Leonardo now can’t be found half-dead or asleep like a log someplace where people could step on him. Oddly enough, to Mozart’s satisfaction, and in the very rare occasion he would peek through Leonardo’s room, he found not chaos but a semi-organised mess. He would be where Seiya was. And he would be watching her, attending to her, making sure she was safe, comfortable and smiling. 

They were quiet. A quiet couple who barely said words to each other. But what couldn’t be said with words, they made up for with their hands and lips and sighs. Vincent would often be the last person she would be hanging around with before Leonardo finally picked her up for the evening. 

“I thought you liked Leonardo,” Vincent’s voice was hesitant, as he sat down with her by the bench near the gate of the mansion. It was dark and dusk already gnawed the day away, the glow of the moon reflecting on her pale hair. Vincent almost always found a way towards her. Their eyes seemed like signals to one another, the same crystal-clear kind of blue. The bluest of spring blue sky. 

He didn’t like seeing her like this, tears rolling down her cheeks. 

He truly believed that Seiya was fond of Leonardo. Until of course, they would have these episodes. He would walk in, and he would take her notebook away. And they would argue. It happened twice already, and until now, Vincent is unsure if he should be used to these antics already. 

He was most certain that Leonardo only wanted what’s best for Seiya. At least when they are together, that’s how it looked like. To him, to any of the residents. To Sebastian, to Comte. 

Seiya took a deep breath, after a moment of silence as Vincent asked her the question. Her hands willingly opening the book that had been thrown, and picked and wrapped in black lace. 

“I do love Leonardo,” her voice was hoarse and her lips trembled as she slowly spoke those words. It was as if they were only revealing themselves to her now, with him. The priced treasure that was the contents of her dear leather-bound book and her confession caught Vincent off guard. His hands gently picking up the book as she handed it to him. Her head lowered, pale hair falling down the side of her face like a shimmering sheer curtain against the backdrop of the night sky and moon. 

Vincent’s eyes focusing on the pages, his hands tracing over illustrations, sketches and sketches and sketches of him. Vincent took a deep breath, and Seiya waited for him to take in everything. He could’ve sworn he heard her whisper an apology in between sobs. 

Vincent did not say anything, but he sat closer to her and listened as she cried the last bit of tears she could that night. Vincent understood now, why. And he felt his heart full at the thought of Seiya, drawing away her feelings for this man. 

The way her cheeks lifted every time she finished a drawing. The blush on her cheeks as she tucks a small piece of folded paper in one of those makeshift paper pockets. His heart ached for her, and all he could offer was his hand. Seiya squeezed his hand, and he understood, somehow, it was her thank you. The most unusual person he ever met, even more unusual than Gaugin, and all those eclectic peculiar artists. 

His friend loved this man. And he could really only hope for the best. 

-To be continued-

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