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atrueneutral · 1 month

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"Yes, Raphael had a very nice mouth.

Tav wondered what he thought of hers…"

Indeed. What did Raphael think of her's? 👀

[PART I] — “You seek the means to free Orpheus from his chains, do you not? There is no other way to achieve such a feat outside of what I own, and therefore the Orphic Hammer is your best option - I am your best option. Time is becoming scarce for you and your companions. The quaking of the earth is a tell-tale sign that the end draws near, and decisions must be made if you hope to claim victory over the tadpole burrowing in your brain. The illithid cannot be trusted - relying on such a self-serving and soulless abomination brings you closer to the edge of becoming a soulless abomination yourself! I would hate for that pretty face of yours to be hideously tentacled and saw toothed…”

There came a window of opportunity to openly appreciate said pretty face, and Raphael indulged in the moment. There was much to admire; his mouse made for a fine portrait, and he mentally lamented any unfortunate decisions that would lead to beauty’s erasure by way of a grotesque transformation.

He almost shivered in repulsion.

However, it was frustrating to note that, in the middle of what was becoming the most important pitch of his centuries-lived life, his little mouse did not look like she was paying attention. Her mind was elsewhere, and the forever-maddening glint in her eyes was partially dimmed as she took to watching the recitation that flowed from his mouth.

“Meanwhile, I am honest and can be trusted. I have proven myself to be a man, well, a devil of my word! There is truth to what I say, and though I have already made my intentions with the Crown clear, should it need repeating, I will not use the Crown to dominate a mortal. My conquest will remain in the Hells, and you and yours will have played your parts.”

He took a beat and pressed onwards.

“And so, at the end, when you destroy the brain - and you will, because you must, the Crown will be yours for the taking. We will then meet, and you will give the Crown to me. In exchange, you shall have the key to your victory - the Orphic Hammer, which I will give to you the moment the contract is signed.”

At the end of his monologue, Raphael charmingly smiled at his mouse. Noticing she was slow on the draw, he raised a brow as irritation simmered; of the four in the audience, there was only one who mattered, and he was beginning to think he may as well have performed a soliloquy.

Confusion flashed across her attractive, non-tentacled features, but her expression leveled out as the gleam returned to her eyes.

“How do I know I can really trust you?” asked his mouse.

“Oh, don’t get him going again! Let’s just get out of here, yeah? We’ll figure something else out - anything is better than this…” groaned a companion from behind their leader.

He ignored the lines of malcontent - his interest was piqued along with his ire; something was distracting his mouse at a time when there should be no distractions.

What was going on in that head of hers? He’d temporarily removed any possible interference from the illithid, and she did not enter his Den overtly bothered by anything…

He would call her out - warn her to be respectful of his time. This appointment was too important to be treated as less than!

“Are you not paying attention, Little Mouse?”

“You claim to be trustworthy and yet you flipped the tables on Yurgir,” she easily replied. “You tricked him with your terms. How can I not expect the same?”

She was attempting to cover her tracks of inattentiveness, but she had been detected and caught!

“The wording of Yurgir’s contract was explicit and exact. The developments that occurred are an oversight of the orthon’s; he was shown the terms, he agreed to them and thusly signed. Is it trickery on my half or stupidity on his? But you are not so stupid, are you, my dear? At least, I don’t believe you to be stupid, even when weighed against the past folly of mortals–”

He continued with his diatribe on the intelligence of mortals, yet it alarmed him somewhat to see his mouse approaching him steadfastly with that blank and inattentive look on her face. He was unexpectedly made aware of his heart - of the beating that was quickening with each and every step of hers…

His mouse imparted herself into his personal space as she grabbed the collar of his doublet and–

HELLS, she was kissing him! His mouse’s warm, soft and supple lips - touching his! He could not say anything when seized by a kiss that was too gentle and too chaste for his liking, and, though he longed to react (claim her!), he could do nothing when both brain and body ceased in knowing how to function.

From beyond the roaring in his ears, her companions were expressing their displeasure. He would have joined them in chiding her for this impolite breach in manners and decorum - were he not reduced to being a damned silent statue!

She broke away whilst wearing a smugness that should have been his.

“I got the gist,” his mouse said. “I will need a day to think everything over but have duly taken your words into consideration. Thank you, Raphael.”

She turned and went for the door with her companions hurriedly chasing after.

When the door to the suite closed behind them, Raphael’s brow pinched as he ensnared his lower lip between his teeth and ran his tongue along its smooth surface. Her mouth had transferred a lingering sweetness to his lips - a fruit she must have eaten before their meeting…

Raphael growled to an empty room.

She’d provided him with the smallest taste, and his craving was not sated!

He needed more! He craved her lips, craved another kiss from her mouth that required teeth and tongue - he craved all of her!

She was becoming a source of weakness…

That she could stupify him with a kiss!

He needed to stop thinking about her! He wasted too much time thinking about her as it was…

Yet she’d become an integral piece to his plans… and that mouth of hers…

#my writing #raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael x tav fanfiction #baldur’s gate 3 #answered #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 fanfiction

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childofchrist1983 · 1 year

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As Christians, we long for the day we will meet our Savior face to face. We cling to the promise that the Lord Jesus Christ will soon return, and we will spend eternity living with, praising and worshipping Him. Even on our toughest days, we hold to this blessed hope. When the world feels dark and troubling, we know this is just our temporary home. Our home is Heaven with our Lord, God, King and Savior, Jesus Christ. It is this blessed hope that keeps us pressing onward and sharing this hope and His light and Truth with the rest of the world.

May He give us peace knowing He is with us and that He a plan for our lives. May our belief in Him and His Holy Word and in His endless power and possibilities draw us and others to Him daily. May we make sure that we give our hearts and lives to God and take time daily to seek and praise Him and share His Truth with the world. May the LORD our God and Father in Heaven help us to stay diligent and obedient and help us to guard our hearts in Him and His Word daily. May He help us to remain faithful and full of excitement to do our duty to Him and for His glorious return and our reunion in Heaven as well as all that awaits us there. May we never forget to thank the LORD our God and our Creator and Father in Heaven for all this and everything He does and has done for us! May we never forget who He is, nor forget who we are in Christ and that God is always with us! What a mighty God we serve! What a Savior this is! What a wonderful Lord, God, Savior and King we have in Jesus Christ! What a loving Father we have found in the Almighty God! What a wonderful God we serve! His will be done!

Thanks and glory be to God! Blessed be the name of the LORD! Hallelujah and Amen!

Dear Father God Almighty, Lord Jesus, there are many days when I am reminded that this sinful and fallen world is not my home – My home is with You in Your Kingdom of Heaven for all eternity!

When the weight of the world begins to overwhelm me, help me to cling to that blessed hope. You are returning soon! No one else in history has defeated death and no one else in history will return to Earth except for You, O Lord, with You and Your Holy Word and Kingdom living and lasting even to the end of time. Hallelujah! It is this knowledge that gives me, and all fellow Christian brethren, hope to press on and help others find salvation, peace and hope in You. Thank you for loving me enough to die on the cross for my salvation. Help me to live a life that honors You and Your Word and will always.

You have taught me the importance of developing a relationship with You. You have shown me the proper path to developing this relationship, and what You ask is simple: That I love You with all of my heart, mind, soul and strength (Mark 12:30, Matthew 22:37). Forgive me, Father God and Lord Jesus! I know that I can do better. I vow that with Your help, I shall do better. I pray this in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

You and Your Holy Word and Spirit give us hope, peace, salvation, and so much more! Let our relationship with You be the foundation and pleasing in Your eyes, so that we may hear Your praise as we gaze upon Your face and enter Your Kingdom. Lift our spirits and our hearts. Light up our lives, O Lord.

You are Alpha and Omega, the Beginning and the End! We know Your promises are true and we place our hope in You! May we continue to pray and seek You. Present us with daily opportunities to go to others with Your message of eternal salvation. May we live our lives with a spirit of thankfulness and may we always magnify You, O Lord. Allow our praises to You encourage others to seek Your face. Help us all to be humble and obedient to You. And help us to be courageous enough to seek You daily and to humbly and faithfully do our duty to You, spreading the truth of Your Gospel to all in all nations, as You commanded before You ascended back to Heaven (Mark 16:15-16). May our lives show the world Your light and Truth and that You are a loving God and Heavenly Father who delights in showing love and mercy. May we all be humbly and faithfully honored and excited to worship, glorify and serve You daily and to do Your will. You have been so good to us, far more than we as wretched sinners deserve. You are so good! So wonderful! Forever and always!

Thank you for keeping me and helping me in times where I am tempted to go astray. Praise be to You today and every day of my life and let me never forget all of the blessings that are given me by You. As much as the enemy will try, he will never be able to successful breed doubt about who You are, in the minds of anyone who truly believes and follows You. And I will follow and serve You all the days of my life and beyond! Thank you for the connection with You that we are given through Your Holy Word and Spirit. Thank you, O Lord, for all Your creation and Your miraculous ways. Thank you for being our stronghold and my refuge. Thank you for seeing us as worth the sacrifice. Thank you for sustaining us, loving us and defining us according to Your will and love for us. Thank you for making sure we are taken care of. Thank you for being the best friend we could ever have! Thank you for Your endless mercy and love that has saved us. Thank you for always protecting us and providing for us and for Your Spirit to help us when we are in need. Thank you for abiding within me and may I abide with You, my Lord. Thank you for giving us a chance to be saved from our sin and spend eternity with You. Thank you for adopting us as part of Your family in Heaven and making us one of Your own. Thank you for being our present help in times of trouble (Psalm 46:1). Thank you for always being near and for loving us. Thank you for giving us a reason to love others and so many more reasons to love, praise, serve and follow You. Thank you for Your selfless and sinless sacrifice. Thank you for Your guidance and protection. Thank you for Your Truth and light. Thank you for Your wisdom and strength and grace. Thank you for giving life to the world and to us. You give and take away – And we thank you for it. Thank you for everything! Your will be done! Blessed be Your mighty name! To You and Your Kingdom be the glory forevermore! In Your name we humbly pray, Amen and amen

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jasmariswonderland · 2 years

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“Remember to Breathe” ~ Danica’s Dorm Uniform Vignette (3/3)

“I’ll continue to strive to be someone worthy of this Pomefiore uniform!”

(A/N: The song Danica is singing is “One Last Time” by Ariana Grande, a literary choice that may or may not be foreshadowing future events in her story...)

~~~

~ Pomefiore Dorm - Danica’s Room ~

-Day of The Performance-

*Door opens and Taima walks in wearing her dorm uniform*

Taima: Heeeyyyy, Dani-chan! Your dorm leader asked me to come here and check on you!

Danica: Thanks, I definitely need it! Where’s Sidonie-san?

Taima: She’s out there chatting with Heartslabyul’s vice dorm leader, but she said she’d come here soon. *smiling* So! Your time to shine is drawing near! How are you feeling?

Danica: In an odd way, my anxiety seemed to decrease as the days passed. *exhales* And now, I’d almost say that I can actually do this!

Taima: You CAN do this! Remember what we were always saying back in middle school? You got this! I know you do and, deep down, so do you! We’re gonna take the cultural festival by storm, just you wait!

Danica: Ohhh? *giggling* You’re so sure Vil-san will allow me to let you on the team?

Taima: *slyly* Of course! Just tell him it’s non-negotiable! After today, I’m sure he’ll make a few concessions!

Danica: You don’t know him like I do but I always appreciate your positivity, Tai-chan.

Taima: *grinning* Glad to be of help! Welp, let’s head out, shall we? Your audience awaits!

*Door opens*

Sidonie: Not so fast! Special delivery for you, Danica!

Danica: What? For me? Who’s it from?

Sidonie: I’m not sure, the only note attached is one saying to give this to you before you go to the ballroom.

Danica: A package with no return address? Hmmm…

*She opens it and gasps, Taima and Sidonie gasp too, inside is the silk ribbon/rose headpiece that she wears in her dorm uniform art*

Taima: Wow, what a pretty hair accessory!

Sidonie: It’s beautifully crafted. And look at the ribbons, set them against your Pomefiore robe, the color is a perfect match!

Taima: The rose too, is it…it is! It’s the same material as the lining of your uniform!

Danica: It’s gorgeous, but there’s no indication of who sent it?

Sidonie: As I said, there was no name on the package. And I don’t recognize the handwriting on the note as belonging to anyone in this dorm.

Taima: Hehe, you haven’t even taken the stage yet, Dani, and you already have an admirer! A secret admirer at that!

Sidonie: It certainly seems that way, here, let me arrange it in your hair, on the off chance your admirer is among the audience today.

(A/N: Her sprite appears as such from this point onward)

Sidonie: There, lovely. It really makes you in your dorm uniform shine all the more!

Taima: Yeah, it brings your whole look together!

Danica:...

Taima and Sidonie: …

Danica: Yes! I think so too! Whoever sent this, must know my tastes!

Sidonie: So, my dear, do you think you’re ready now, for your grand debut?

Danica: Ready as I’ll ever be!

Taima: Great! We’re gonna head to the ballroom, see ya soon!

Sidonie: And don’t forget, keep breathing! Remember to breathe, and everything will be alright!

~~~

(Sound of chattering)

Danica: (Vil told me to wait for his cue before coming in. Wow, there are a lot more people here than I thought. But I’m not gonna think about it.)

*Vil turns in her direction and nods*

Danica: …! (It’s time, okay! Inhale, exhale, I can do this!)

*Music starts*

Danica: *with her eyes closed* (Remember what you practiced, keep breathing. You got this, Dani!) …And I know and I know and I know that you’ve got everything but I got nothing here without you…

Danica: (Okay, so far, so good, but I should probably move around some, not be so still.) *opens her eyes and sees everyone watching her in awe, she smiles* So one last time, I need to be the one who takes you home. One more time, I promise after that, I’ll let you go…(They seem to be enjoying it! Yeah, I CAN do this!)

(A/N: I’ll likely not draw it since I suck at perspective but the groovy art in my mind is of Danica performing in the ballroom, looking fully confident and completely unlike her usual self)

Danica: (My heart is racing in the best way, it’s been so long, I’d forgotten how much I love this!)

Sidonie: *murmuring* My goodness, where did that timid freshman go? She’s transformed into a completely different person!

Rook: She is magnificent! And she moves so gracefully. This pales in comparison to the videos!

Sidonie: I…think I understand now, why Vil wanted her to do this.

Cater: It’s like watching a professional pop idol! This vid is gonna blow up!

Taima: Now there’s the Dani I know!

~~~

*Timeskip*

~ Pomefiore Dorm - Danica’s Room ~

Vil: Well done, an adequate performance.

Rook: Tres spectaculaire, notre chere Madmoiselle Chanteuse! The muses have blessed you incredibly!

Danica: Thank you,Vil-san, Rook-san, I’m glad to have been able to meet your expectations. What did you think, Sidonie-san?

Sidonie: You sing so passionately, the way you put your heart into every note, it gave me goosebumps. And to think, you initially agreed to only sing one song, but you ended up singing three!

Danica: I can’t explain it, but once I began, all my fears seemed to melt away. All I could think about was performing to the best of my ability. But I’m glad there was extra audio available. Vil-san, how did you know to prepare extra?

Vil: *smiling* I always wish to be prepared for every possibility. Something told me you would want to sing more, and in the end, I was right. And now, I’m sure you now know what this means.

Danica: I understand! The cultural festival might be a few months away, but I promise I’ll give it my all!

Vil: In the meantime, continue giving your all in everything you do, Little Potato. Brilliance doesn’t come overnight, it takes perseverance.

Danica: *looking slightly weary* Yes, I…I understand.

Vil: Do you? In that case, I never again want to see you have doubts about something I know you’re capable of. Strive to be someone worthy of wearing that Pomefiore uniform.

Danica: I will! I promise!

Vil: Good, now one last thing, Cater informed me that the video of today’s concert is already going viral. He said he’ll give it to you on Monday if you promise to join the light music club. Also…what the?

(Danica has dozed off on her bed)

Vil: SHE FELL ASLEEP?!

Sidonie: *chuckling* Poor thing, this past week has left her so stressed, first about her evaluation and then about today’s show.

Rook: Ahh, some much-needed rest will do her a world of good then.

Vil: Wake her up! She’ll get her robe wrinkled and I wasn’t finished…

Sidonie: Please, Vil-san. Just this once. I think you owe her that much.

Vil: I can’t allow her to sleep in her uniform! It’ll set a bad precedent…

Sidonie: Who else is gonna know?

Vil: …

Sidonie: Or perhaps, after I wake her, I should tell her how you had already decided to…

Vil: Fine! I’ll concede this one time, but she will be hearing about this!

-END-

#twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #pomefiore oc #OC: Danica #things i write

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iky92791 · 29 days

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DISCLAIMER: Not an April Fools jape. (Just coincidental timing.)

Art is hard. And while I enjoy it and have some talent, I can objectively assess that my skill level isn’t at a point in which I’m comfortable saying that my ability does justice to breathing life into the story I’m crafting. Coupled with that is the fact that I am by no means a fast artist. That adjoined with my very limited windows of availability to get art done leads to a VERY crawling pace. At the rate I’m going and the fact that situationally, not much is likely to change for me in the near future that would offer more opportunity, I won’t conceivably be able to cover the breadth of what I have planned in a reasonable about of time.

So I give up.

(Ok, that part was an April Fools silly. GOTTEM.)

No, rather than abandoning my passion, I’m changing gears and now following a path that aligns me even further with the aspect of creation that I’m more passionate about - the writing.

It took me some years to fully realize it, but even more than I’m an artist…I am a writer, and I believe that’s a talent and skill that comes more natural to me. It’s also what offers me a canvas to create upon far more extensively than I can manage visually. Words are my true tools of the trade, and I believe that I can truly conjure the spirit of what Skull Hero is supposed to be through my writing. Not only that, but the pace in which I can produce via writing vs. art is day and night. I can write so much more quickly, organically, and comfortably than I can draw. Through this methodology, Skull Hero will see the light of day much sooner and go on to tell the extensive tale that it totes along with it.

And Skull Hero is just the beginning of an immense universe. I want to be able to grant the world the opportunity to experience it. I believe with whatever may be lost by sloughing off the visual aspect of the story, SO much more will be gained. And I will be operating within a much healthier and more confident state of mind…as grappling with the art process has been weighing me down and pooling up some negative feelings that I’d rather be without.

So henceforth, I shall carry onward with Skull Hero as a written book series. How and if it may later be adapted into visual mediums are scenarios for a later time. Here and now, I’ve got a story to share and the capability to forge it. So that’s exactly what I intend to do.

(Also interestingly, my very original conceptual premise of Skull Hero was for it to be a novel.)

My apologies for the lengthy statement…but there’s plenty more where that came from. More so than my art, my writing is something I’m genuinely proud of, and I hope it can be something to be appreciated by you all. So thanks to those who have anchored their interest thus far. I hope you and others will continue to stay along for the journey ahead.

💀🗡️🌀

#Skull Hero #writing #fantasy #fantasy novel

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allegra-j-joann · 2 months

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The Library of Babel

“The Library,” my father told me that time many years ago, though day and year are both derivatives of time and thus are hardly applicable to the situation here and are only used for the reader’s ease of understanding “is vastly vast and spirallingly endless through all of existence, just rooms upon rooms, and librarians in all.” I watched him as he sat with the book open on his lap, his frail hands hiding the scrawled letters from where I stood, he coveted those letters as though they were written in gold. I tore my eyes from the paper and back to my father, who was so pale and fragile now I might have mistaken him for paper, were he not speaking aloud “what book do you suppose you’ll read?”

“What do you mean ‘what book’?” I simply grow irritated when he asks such questions of me “I’ll read as many as I can possibly fit into my life” I raise my arms to the vast room around me and he shakes his head.

“That is why I ask which one, by the time you have finished your first then your time will be over, you may not age now, but you gain a year for every page you will turn” he sighed, turning to the next page of his own book, there were only a few left now.

“Then I shall go and find the best book in the library, and I shall read that,” I left the chamber, I wouldn’t find my book there anyway, I was sure it was somewhere else. Buried amongst the many other identical covers, perhaps already being read by another librarian in some far off hexagon.

No room that I entered over the next decade, though once again decade, being a time word, has no real application, seemed to pull at me the way I imagined it must. My feet carried me endlessly from chamber to chamber, my fingers brushing across spines of silk and leather as breeze hushed its way through the shaft in the center, making me imagine occasionally that it came from somewhere beyond the chambers that ought, really, to just be stuffy, still and musty. When I came across them sitting in their corners, I would speak to the other librarians, all with their dull clothing and lined faces but glowing eyes, they all spoke of the same things in the same tones as my father had so long ago; Golden ink in spiralling handwriting, written by who I wondered, leading them word by word through odd narratives that sometimes meant nothing at all, heavy pages that sometimes were difficult to turn yielding secrets that none would share with me.

Once or twice, like dreaming, I would feel a tug and open a book on the nearest shelf, I later found the name of this tug on one of the pages, Curiosity, But I never was able to read more than a page before finding myself confused and agitated. This was foolish, I could always assure myself, surely if it meant for me to read it the letters would not swim before my eyes the way they did.

The philosophy had always seemed sound to me as I walked ever onwards, If I’m meant to read through the whole book then it will make sense. There was only one librarian I met who ever made me think otherwise, he sat in hexagon in circuit 15-94, the creases in his stony face seemed to crack and split as he lifted his head to look at me. There is little I had seen in the library that could have compared to this librarian, his eyes no longer glowed like the others, his hands wavered over the page of his book “ah, young one,” he spoke hardly above a whisper but, oh how it filled the room “you haven’t chosen a book yet?”

“No, I haven’t, I haven’t found any that draws me in” I admit, looking around at all the identical shelves and spines, where was the last hexagon I’d felt a tug in, it must be so far from here.

The man simply shook his head “then you may well have walked past it, you won’t know your book until you read it, you just have to pick one” he sighed “though you may be searching the wrong level too, perhaps you want the round room” seeing the confusion on my face he continued, ushering me to sit down “it has been a whisper amongst the librarians, they’ve seen the words in their books and told it to passersby, a hexagon that is not, it is just one continuous wall with only a single shelf with a single book, whose spine goes all the way around”

“What does that mean, how do I find such a room?” I knelt in front of him, He merely shook his head and looked back down at the book resting open on his lap, its ink didn’t look dull to me, though, neither did it didn’t shine the way I imagined.

“only a whisper, Young one, any librarian with a bit of sense\ knows no such room can exist, a room with only one wall, could you believe such a thing? Nay, it can’t exist” his breath came hollow as he laughed. He tried turning the page again, but his hands shook so that he couldn’t lift the corner “do help me won’t you, young one?” I reached carefully to flip the thick, yellowed paper over.

I sat in quiet contemplation of his words as he read on, some part of me, deep in the core of my brain, agreed with him. How would such a room fit into the library, where every hexagon locked together. With only one wall, where would the door be? And what of the round book. I sat imagining it, were it’s spine a ring top to bottom, there’d be no way to turn the page, inwards or outwards, it would simply be too inflexible, but were it’s spine a ring, side to side, there would be no first page to start at, and no last page to end it, I salivate at the thought of all the knowledge that could be in such a book, with such impossibly infinite-seeming pages, and perhaps if I never reached the end of the book, I could never run out of time, though I might grow very bored of that with no time to pass or kill.

I am hardly through these thoughts of mine when the librarian in front of me reaches the very last letter of the four hundred and tenth page of his book, letting it rest on his lap as he leaned back, the air between us became ever still and I knew that I was alone. In the feeble and inadequate light cast by the globes that grew from the wall the man looked unnervingly like my father, though I was a good many leagues from the hexagon where he had settled to read, I wondered if another librarian had come across him before he finished the last few pages of his book. Gently as I can, I take the man and push his body into the shaft at the center, his book clutched to my chest to be put back on the shelf. I pause. I think I should simply pick a book, rather than search for the impossible room. Quietly I take my seat and open to a random page of the book the man left behind, finding, halfway down, seven simple words “I Live, I die, I am gone”.

#short story #fiction #short stories #writer stuff #creative writing #writing #drabbles #writerscommunity

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favoniuscodex · 3 years

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inheritance scarf scene - diluc’s pov

ahahahaahahhahah ask and you shall receive! for the lovely @chapioca ,,, a reward for drawing me a pic of diluc smiling ,,, :3333 ,,, sorry for anyone who has notifs on and sees inheritance in the title of the post.

side fic to inheritance, my (decently?) long diluc royalty!au series. find the series here if you’re interested!

pairing: prince!diluc x f!knight!reader word count: 1.8k plot: diluc’s point of view of the scene in inheritance part 1 where he gives the knight his scarf. warnings: spoilers for inheritance part one and act two scene 2 if you haven’t read them already. a/n: haha look at this emotionally constipated dude. the knight should’ve picked kaeya lmao. no beta reader for this one and i havent read over it so sorry for any mistakes!

Much to his behest, Diluc enjoys your company.

The prince has never been one to make such informal attachments to others. Granted, he’s never really been given the chance, but that’s besides the point. For Diluc, the Venn diagram of people he cares about and his family members was a single circle, until, of course, you barged your way in. Sure, he could give a good public relations answer about how Diluc was indebted to the people of Mond for respecting and acknowledging his family’s authority over the territory and allowing his father to lead, but as of now, nineteen-year-old Prince Diluc couldn’t really give a single shit about whether the people of Mond liked him or not.

Of course, Diluc had basic human empathy to wish for his constituents’ needs to be well taken care of, but he had no desire to be viewed as some great savior or leader in their eyes. He wanted to bring honor to his father and be viewed as a righteous man in order to bring the Ragnvindr family honor, but, for himself, he longed not for the praises of his citizens but rather to be left alone. A mutual respect of his boundaries while he respected theirs, if you may.

But you? You had barreled past his walls without him even knowing it, whether it be your smug expression hidden behind a thin veil of stoicism whenever he begrudgingly admitted you were right about something that he had previously asked your advice on (and ignored, of course) or the way you stare at him with steely resolve in your eyes as he challenges you. In those moments, Diluc fails to understand how you don’t have a Vision, as the pools of your irises crackle with the electricity of subdued defiance and you set his heart ablaze with invisible flames.

In the midst of the winter chill that surrounds the both of you, Diluc fails to understand how, even now, you make him feel warm inside. You walk beside him in silence, your eyes looking past him, always looking past him as you scan for threats. Your posture is always on the defense, ready to reach up and grab your sword at any moment. Diluc wants nothing more than to sling an arm around your shoulder and ease the tension within them, to tell you that he isn’t fragile and that it’s okay to drop your guard at times.

However, duty calls your name like a siren luring a sailor and Diluc is left standing at the shore, watching you drift further away from him on the tides. Your back faces him as you swim toward righteousness, a perfect subject of the throne, a perfect potential quee-. The prince shakes his head slightly to clear such intrusive thoughts out of his head and as you look at him out of the corner of your eye, alerted by even the most subtle of movements, he hopes the wintry air gives you a reason to overlook the slight flush on his cheeks.

You do not smile at him and instead continue marching onwards. You’ve always been quiet and Diluc has been the same, never enjoying forced small talk and instead relishing in the silence between the two of you. He was never sure if you enjoyed the quiet moments you shared together or if you were simply counting down the seconds until your shift ended. Diluc wishes he could find the courage to ask what you truly think of him, but he knows that you would simply plaster a false smile and tell him what he wants to hear in your neverending duty to protect the throne. Whether such information would be true or false would fall beyond Diluc’s realm of knowledge, but maybe he just tells himself that you would lie in order to avoid finding out the truth, in order to avoid fraying the tapestry of your relationship with him. Maybe, if Diluc had not been of noble blood, the two of you could have been far better friends than you are now. Maybe, if Diluc had not been of noble blood, the two of you would have-

His gaze pierces into you as you walk slightly in front of him on the defensive. Diluc doesn’t realize he’s staring until he witnesses you shiver, which snaps him out of his morose thoughts. You’re cold. Of course you are. While Diluc is bundled up with a scarf and a proper coat, you’re wearing a thin coat designed for autumn and the armor upon you likely only attracts the cold rather than repelling it. He’s a fool for not realizing it sooner and feels sick to his stomach at the thought of you having gone through unnecessary discomfort for the sake of his own whims.

Diluc has never been fond of the throne but has always prided himself on being a good heir, but how can he pride himself on such things when he makes the woman he cares about most, his most loyal knight, face the winds of winter all due to his own selfishness? He stops in his tracks, which causes you to pause as well and turn around to look back at him.

“Are you cold?” Diluc asks, regretting the way his voice sounds annoyed, but feels too awkward to correct it. You seem to take no offense to his question, yet he sees a nervousness arise in your eyes.

“No.” The word falls from your lips and suddenly Diluc understands your nerves. You were afraid to lie to him, yet you did. Unfortunately for you, the prince was more than willing to call your bluff as he narrows his eyes at you.

An idea hatches in his brain and it’s terribly selfish. Unfortunately for him, Diluc wasn’t afraid to be selfish.

“Take my scarf,” He insists and he watches your eyes widen slightly in surprise and confusion before your neutral expression returns.

“I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” You insist and he feels his heart rate quicken at your polite tone. Diluc wants to both yell at you and kiss you due to your insolence and your refusal of his orders, even if your intentions are kind. He wants to do something for you and he’s willing to drop onto his knees and beg you to let him do this for you.

“You’re cold, therefore take the scarf.” His explanation is simple, but it is one of annoyance. He doesn’t trust himself to speak any further.

“It’s my duty to ensure your comfort. Therefore, you keep the scarf as you should stay warm,” You explain and Diluc’s inner conflict on whether he should embrace you or scream at you subsides with an odd warmth in his chest. The prince wants to kiss you, he wants nothing more than to warm your face in his hands, to wrap you up in his coat and watch as you walk around in what is blatantly his, a mark of possession that announces to all that you belong to him.

However, you don’t belong to him and Diluc is far too aware of such a fact. It eats away at him at night, it eats away at him as he stares at you when your gaze is turned the other way, and it eats away at him when the two of you are apart. Therefore, he can offer you no more than his scarf at the moment and will have to make do with the more subtle of the options he can provide you at this point in time.

“It would make me more comfortable if you wore the scarf instead,” Diluc insists and he knows he’s coming off as an asshole at this moment, but he would give you the world if you let him, so why won’t you take something as simple as a scarf? He decides this is a battle that he must win and preps the arrow of his words on the bow of his lips and fires, aiming for the bullseye of your pride. “Plus, what kind of prince would I be if I let my constituents suffer on my behalf?”

You freeze at his words, eyes widening in surprise and indignation as you realize exactly what game the prince is playing at. He’s aware that you’re aware of the implication of his words, yet he can’t bring himself to care as he seizes your hesitation to transfer the scarf from his neck to yours. His gloved fingertips brush against your neck and Diluc wonders once more if you have an Electro Vision hidden within your uniform from the way the mere gesture sends lightning bolts rippling through his fingers and up his arms, shocking the butterflies within his stomach into overdrive.

Diluc steps closer to you as he adjusts the fabric around your neck, narrowing his eyes as he does so. You deserve nothing less than the best, so the prince makes sure it looks perfect before stepping away from you, still staring at the scarf. Heat spreads throughout his body at the sight of you in his scarf, but he decides to tear his gaze away from you before the thoughts can consume him whole.

“There. Now was that so hard?” The words come out as a sneer and Diluc doesn’t want to sound so mean, but his emotions are a whirlpool inside of him as his heart beats in overdrive and adrenaline rushes through his veins at the thought of you wearing his clothing. Before his face can fully blossom into the color of a cherry tomato and before Diluc would be unable to blame the red flush on the chilly air of Mondstadt, he elects to move in front of you this time.

He notes how it takes you a moment to scamper after him and he notes your silence on the way back to the castle. Diluc is appreciative of the avoidance of the subject at hand, but when you catch up to him, he notes that you no longer shiver. While his heart soars with pride at being able to get away at such a brazen act of affection, his stomach can’t help but drop at the thought that you likely view it as no more than the chivalrous actions of a prince and not one of a…

Diluc refuses to dwell on the thought, nor does he ask for the scarf back. Maybe, just maybe, if you take a piece of him back with you to your chambers, you’ll think of him in a way that extends past the realms of your knighthood. It’s a hopeless dream, yet one Diluc cannot help but indulge in nonetheless. After all, the prince has always known himself to be selfish.

#diluc x reader #kinda nervous to tag it as that since it's a side fic BUT still it counts #anyways #//diluc #//inheritance #//writing

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Droit du seigneur

Warnings: noncon, fingering, oral, cuckolding (i guess)

This is dark!king!Thor x reader in an established relationship and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The king claims his right to the first night.

Note: A medieval king Thor fic because I couldn’t help myself. Also because @lokislastlove is insatiable.

I hope y’all enjoy!

Let me know what you think! (Like, reblog, reply, leave some words, a gif, nonsensical emojis)

The tables filled quickly with the rowdy weddings guests. Some familiar, others strangers. Even a peasant’s wedding could draw the hungry and ale-starved for miles around. The lord had offered a boar for the event and roasted hare and chicken filled out the platters. It was a meal unlike any you expected at your very own wedding.

You sat at the head of the long table with your new husband, Garold. His father was a smith and he expected to take on the hammer when the time came. It was a step up for any farmer’s daughter. You wouldn’t have to work the land, nor would your children. They could learn their father’s craft or hope for a marriage even better than your own.

You were nervous. You had been for days. Garold was pleasant and sweet but to think tomorrow would see you as a real wife. It was a lot. You’d be a mother yourself soon enough just like the woman who had helped you into your dyed skirts that morning. The one who smiled at you through your vows as you looked around in doubt.

Garold squeezed your hand as it rested against the edge of the table. You dropped the morsel of chicken you’d forgotten about and smiled at him. He smiled back as you wiped your fingers on a cloth.

“Did I not tell you how splendid you look?” He asked.

“Only a dozen times,” You inhaled as you tried to settle your nerves. “Though I do not complain for it.”

At the end of the third table, a group of men drank and shouted in ribaldry. Like many of the guests, you’d never seen them until that day. They’d be gone before the morning, you were certain.

The sky dimmed and you fidgeted on the bench. Your father stood and called for the gifts; the last ritual of the day. Your mother came forward first, your dowry carefully announced and already awaiting you in your new homestead. Then Garold’s parents presented a set of silver dishes. Then several neighbours prized you with livestock and other homely goods. Several drifters offered their coin or some whittled figure.

The process was tedious and you found your voice hoarse from thanking your guests over and over. Garold yawned and shifted beside you. The tables weren’t so loud as before as the drink and time began to wear upon the diners as they picked at bare bones and the last dregs of ale.

A single figure walked up between the second and third table. He wore a plain black cloak and stood before you and your husband patiently. The crowd hushed as they noticed the wraith-like man.

Garold straightened up and nodded to the man. "Sir."

"My master did not want his gift to go forgotten," The man said as he pulled out a purse that jingled. "Gold and good tidings to the man and wife."

"Many thanks," Garold said as you smiled at the stranger. "Your master?"

Another figure rose. A taller man with wide shoulders and golden hair combed into a tie. He walked proudly forward and a tension filled the air as whispers began. You'd noticed the man several times throughout the night. His eyes were often pointed in your direction despite the distance and his voice had risen above others in booming laughs.

"Yes, his majesty hopes you are very happy and would bless your future family." The man continued as the other approached.

"You might desist, Fandral," The large man neared. "I might send my well wishes myself."

You tried to hold your smile but the way the man, the king, looked in your direction had you squirming. A man had never looked at you like that.

“Your majesty,” Garold pulled you up to your feet as he bowed awkwardly and you attempted a curtsy. “You would attend our wedding?”

“I was at the Lord of Montern’s castle and I heard word there was a celebration. I can never turn my nose up at festivities.” The king declared as every guest rose.

Two men walked up between tables as your other guests watched in communal shock.

“My wife and I thank you, your majesty,” Garold trembled nervously as his hand lingered on your arm. “And we hope you are contented in our fare.”

“Most excellent. A king can always find delight at a wedding.” King Thor of Asgardia smirked. “As decreed by law, he is owed proper accommodations; ale, board, and that fragrant bread. As fine as any meal.”

“Your majesty,” Garold nodded proudly.

“And as it has also been written, a king might claim his right to the first night.” All went quiet and you felt as if you would choke. You blinked.

“I don’t-- your majesty, I think I misunderstand.” Garold said.

“As I am here to see your union, I, as your king, may expect to bless it.” He tilted his head as Garold’s grip grew firm on your arm. “That he might see the bride to her first night in service.”

“It is an old law,” Your husband said. “I would think it forgotten.”

“But it is ever written,” Thor countered. “And I did travel far to see you wed and would require comfort for the night. I am you king and it is still the law.”

You looked at Garold as you realised what the king meant. You frowned as you knew there would be no argument.

“This can’t--” You whispered but you lost as your husband drew away, unable to meet your eye. “No,” You spoke louder, “No, you can’t.”

"I can't?" The king chuckled and signaled with two fingers.

The two men who loomed by the tables came forward. As they approached you cowered. You were seized by both arms as you tried to retreat. You were dragged around the table as you called out to Garold.

"Good man," Thor called to your husband. "I would require a bed for the night as well. You would show me to my lodgings at once."

"I…" Garold wrung his hands and swayed. "I must remain and see to the rest of my guests, my-my-my cousin, Godwin, will show you to… to it."

You watched the skinny boy, Garold's own apprentice in the smithy. The slender adolescent made the king seem even bigger as he neared. Your husband gestured him away and still would not meet your gaze.

"Garold!" You cried out as you were turned away. "Garold, please you must--"

"Go." Garold hissed. "Quietly, woman." He blinked as his nostrils flared and he stared at the tables of guests. "Now."

"Be calm, dear," The king bent to whisper to you as he slapped your ass lasciviously. "You will not be calling his name upon the morrow."

You squeaked and stumbled as his men wrenched you forward. Thor's hand rescinded as he chuckled. Godwin glanced over his shoulder every other step as he led the men past your father's barn.

You kicked as you got closer to the house Garold had built after his proposal. The furniture was crafted by the men in his family and all was ready for your domesticity.

Thor shouldered past his men and Godwin barely cleared his path. The king opened the door and stopped to look back. He flicked away your husband's cousin with two fingers then snapped them to beckon his men forward.

"Stake your watch here," Thor bid. "Fandral, send to Lord Montern that I shall return with the sun. I shall try to be…" He grabbed your arm and nearly took you off your feet. "Timely, but no promises."

He shoved you ahead of him and snapped the door shut swiftly. You struggled to break free of his grasp and he easily spun you to face him. He clung to both your arms as he squeezed tightly.

"I watched you all night. It is so endearing how you gaze at your commoner husband." He sneered. "But I thought your touch better suited a king."

"Please, your majesty, I am a smith's wife. I vowed to serve him and no other."

"You are sworn first to your God and king. It is written that my will is that of God." He bent to look in the face. "So you are bound to me above all."

"Please," You quavered.

"Come on," He threw you back, "The bedchamber."

You staggered onward, your legs threatening to crumple with each step. You fell against the door and your hand slipped past the handle. You couldn't go on, you couldn't.

The king's boots caused the floor to groan and he pressed himself to you. He reached to handle and lifted it. The door moved and you were only kept from tipping over as Thor's arm wrapped around you.

"You are… defiant. Especially for a peasant." He remarked as he urged you on, the door shut with a metal clink. "I've attended the marriages of dukes, earls, and even princes and not one bride had caught my eye as you have."

"I don't-- I don't understand--" You tore away and turned on your heel.

"I will help you understand." He grinned. "You may begin by undressing."

He untied the neck of his cloak and swept it away. He draped it over the bench against the wall and sat. He lifted his foot onto his knee and began to unlace his boot.

"Let me tell you about myself, dear," He pulled loose the ties. "I do not often repeat myself and when I do, I am not so kind as the first time."

He dropped his boot onto the floor and switched legs. You bent and slipped your slippers off. They were hand-sewn by your mother.

You stood and swayed on your feet. You could not unlace your dress upon your own. You hesitated and reached helplessly over your shoulders.

"Come," He unbuckled his belt and placed it aside as he beckoned you near. "I will help." You sniffed and took your first shaky step. "There is much I shall help you with… that I must guide you in."

He turned you and tugged at the back of your dress until it slackened.

"Tell me, has your husband even kissed you yet?"

"Your majesty…" You breathed. "Just upon the cheek."

"I always heard peasants lived as animals," You dress drooped forward and you drew away. "What else would you do without gold?"

You were quiet, unsure how to answer. You let your bodice slump and you shimmied out of your skirts. You folded your dress over the chest along the other wall. You shed your petticoat and rolled your stockings down your leg. You wore only the short shift that ended just below your ass.

"That too," He said. "The longer you play at this, the longer I will play with you, dear."

You raised your chin and swallowed. You bunched the fabric of your shift and ripped it over your head. You tossed it aside and glared at him as your heart raced. To be bare in front of a man, in front of a king…

"I realise," He rose and pushed down his trousers. He piled them on his tunic and ran his hand over the crotch if his shorts. "You are unused to the presence of a king, the respects owed. I daresay you've rarely stood near a measly earl. Even so, I do trust you can listen. Why, dear, nobility does hunger for obedience over niceties."

"Your majesty," You gritted through your teeth. Perhaps if you bided him with bitten tongue, it might pass swifter.

"To think a woman should enter a marriage and not know what pleasures should be found in a marital bed," He shoved his shorts down and your eyes went to the ceiling. "You will thank me for I have no doubt that fool you call your husband will disappoint you for the rest of your life."

He neared and brushed by you. His hand grazed your hip as he did. You turned as he climbed up on the bed and fell onto his back. His thick cock bobbed and you couldn't help but stare.

"On the bed," He wriggled as he settled onto the mattress.

You went to the bed and got up on your knees. He looked at you and snickered.

"On your feet. Come, stand over me." He waited as you stood on the bed and he grasped your ankle. "Here." He patted beside his head.

You paused and stared as you pushed your legs together. If you did as he said, he would see all of you; more than anyone ever had.

"Shall I repeat myself?" He asked dangerously.

You shuddered and stepped forward. You caught yourself against the wall as you lifted you foot over his head and faced the top of the bed.

"Down. To your knees." He commanded.

You gulped and reached to brace yourself with the wall. You got down and felt his breath along your thigh. You winced and he caught your hips.

"I would taste you… I wonder if you taste as sweet as a duchess." He purred as his hand slid to your thighs and he pulled you lower. "Perhaps, sweeter."

He forced you down until his hot breath was on your cunt and you were startled by the coolness that dipped between your folds. He purred and sent a buzz through you. He dragged his tongue up and down your sex as his hands clung to your thighs. You pushed on the low frame of the bed but could not get away from him.

His fingers spread over your thigh as his other hand gripped your hips and he rocked you. The messy noise of his lapping encased you in heat and you closed your eyes in shame. It shouldn't have felt so good. Nothing had ever felt that good.

He hummed and your thighs shook as you felt an odd tickle in your stomach. You gripped the bed frame as your other hand went to his hair and your fingers entwined in his thick locks. You mewled pathetically as you failed to fight the winding spring inside of you.

You let out a raspy moan and pushed your head back. Your breath caught in your throat as you went silent and a tingling wave flowed down your spine and legs. The sudden release left you weak and panting as you hunch over the head board.

Thor nudged you back and wiggled his head out from between your legs. He looked up at you as he licked his lips and purred.

"Sweet indeed," He caressed your sides. "Move back, kitten. Down by my legs."

You blinked at him, stunned, and he urged you off of him. You got to your knees, unsteadily, and swung your leg back. You numbly moved down the mattress and nearly fell between his legs. He chuckled as you righted yourself, your eyes floating above him as you tried not to look.

"Put your hand on me, kitten," Hi hand crawled down his stomach and his fingertips danced along his pelvis. "I will tell you how to do it."

You batted your lashes and willed yourself to listen. Let it be over quickly then you could go back to Garold. Garold! How would you face him after this? Would he want you still? Yet, his resistance had been paltry… but what could you say to a king?

Your fingers brushed the smooth skin of the king's member and your eyes were drawn down without thought. You closed your hand around his thick girth and he sighed. His hand slapped the bed beside him.

"Very good, kitten," He goaded. "Now just move your hand up and down, hold me firmly so I do not slip."

You shivered and slid you hand down his length and back up. He spasmed with a grunt. You stopped and he peered down at you.

"You may proceed until I say otherwise, sweet maiden." He commanded and you recoiled at the pet name. Maiden but not for long.

Your hand moved down again, then up, down, up, down. He twitched in your grasp and you felt the dampness between your legs thicken. Your core thrummed as you watched the motion of your hand.

"Faster. Hold me tighter," He bid in a snarl-like voice. "That's it, kitten. I will show you how to please your husband." He reached down to wrap his hands around yours and lead you. "Though I think you might please me best."

He urged you on and on and then abruptly stopped. He tore your hand from his member as his chest puffed and he pushed his head down in great strain. Slowly he exhaled.

"Very close, my sweet maiden," He intoned. "But I will not be finished with you so quick."

His hands brushed over his pelvis as he wiggled his hips. He raised his arms and bent them behind his head.

"Come over me again," He said. "Lower yourself until I am sheathed in you."

Your eyes rounded and you gaped at him.

"Would you rather I have your mouth first?" He taunted.

You snapped your mouth shut and stood as unevenly as before. You moved your feet on either side of him and eased onto your knees. He tip prodded your cunt and sent a thrill through you.

"You will put me inside of you, kitten," He snickered. "Slowly if you dislike pain."

You lifted yourself and reached below you. You grasped his member and angled it up against your folds and slid it back to your entrance. You bent your legs as he poked against you painfully.

You stretched around him and cried out as just his head felt too much. He jerked his hips below you, watching you with his cool blue eyes as your face contorted.

"More." He said plainly. "Until you have me completely."

You whimpered and sank down on him further. You exclaimed as you constricted around him, unable to go any deeper.

He pulled his hands out from beneath his head and gripped your hips. He forced you down until you hollered. You fell forward weakly but he held himself inside of you.

"Sit up," He ordered. "You can do it, kitten."

"It hurts…" You muttered as you trembled but did as he said. "Please…"

"It won't for long," His thumbs ran along your skin and he tilted your hips so he poked deeper. "Move like this."

You followed his motion and rocked atop him slowly. Your bud rubbed against his pelvis and nipped at the agony within. Your walls slickened around him and his hand drifted up your stomach.

"Just like that," He purred. "You might go faster as you see fit."

He cupped your tits and flicked your nipples with his thumbs. His eyes followed his hands and then lingered on the joining of your bodies. You grabbed his thick forearms as you sped up, chasing the cloud that had begun to dull the pain.

"Mmm, oh they did speak true when they said you peasants were little more than animals," He growled. "Look at you, kitten."

You groaned and but your lip as you tried to ignore him. You just wanted the release which dangled before you. Your grip tightened on his arms and you bucked atop him frantically. You were almost there.

"Whoa," He twisted his arms from your grasp and stilled your hips. "Naughty kitten."

He lifted you off of him until you were on your knees.

"Turn around," He directed.

You got once more to your feet. Your body seemed to move on its own whim as you turned and squatted over him again. He drew you back and guided his member back to your entrance. He impaled you entirely and let out a long groan. Your legs strained as you tried to keep your balance.

He lifted you then brought you back down. You moaned as he glided in and out of you. You reached down to lean on your hands as he led your body and bounced you a top him, your flesh slapping loudly. He groaned as his hands slipped to your ass and your muscles burned as you carried the motion, your climax rising even quicker than before.

You could barely keep going as you grasped the heavenly release within and your core bloomed. You let out a beastly snarl and sped up as you rode out the peak and slowed as you struggled to catch your breath. Thor kept one hand on your ass as his other went to your hip and he held you down, your walls clenching around him hungrily.

He pushed his hands in the crook of your bent legs and drew you back to lay against him. He turned you onto your side as he hooked his arm under your knee and his other arm wrapped around you from below. He thrust into you without relent, his sweaty torso flush to your back.

His hand covered your tit and he squeezed as he sped up and a deep growl began in his chest. You clawed at his hand and arched your back as he pounded into you. You could feel it again, that magical sensation that swelled within you. You cried out as you were once more flooded with ecstasy.

His motion turned to deep, jutting thrusts and he held you tighter as he pushed your leg even higher. Your muscles tensed and he snarled against the crown of your head. He grunted as he quaked and you felt a new warmth within you, this one slicker.

He spasmed and slowed until he was still. He went limp as he let your leg fall and he draped his arm over you as his hot breath fluttered over you. He hummed as he inhaled your scent, the air thick with sweat. He nuzzled your head and rolled his hips until you murmured.

“Sweet little wife, aren’t you?” He whispered. “But not very loyal.”

#thor #dark!thor #dark thor #thor x reader #dark thor x reader #dark!thor x reader #medieval au #au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #king!thor

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dmcvergillament · 3 years

Text

Bedtime Stories [Part 1]

Fem!Reader x Vergil

Summary: Unable to sleep, young Nero requests a bedtime story. You happily oblige and weave a tale that Vergil recognizes. Nero falls asleep to the legend of the dancer and the dragon and Vergil remembers how he fell in love with you.

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Tucking little Nero in for the night, Y/N kisses his forehead. "Sweet dreams, my little angel."

Vergil picks up toys off the floor.

Nero catches Y/N's hand to stop them from leaving. "I...can't sleep without a story."

Vergil looks up from studying a blue bird plush he found. It looked oddly familiar...

Y/N smiles and sits back down on the bed to brush aside Nero's bangs. "Alright. What story shall I tell?"

Nero snuggles up to his chin in his comforter, eyes shimmering with curiosity. He waits for his mother to begin.

"Ah! I know: how about the legend of the dancer and the dragon?" suggests Y/N.

Vergil pauses as he sets the bird down alongside a black cat on a shelf. His interest is also piqued. What fantasy is Y/N spinning now?

"In a land far, far away in a time long, long ago..." begins Y/N, twirling her hands.

'There they go again with that dramatic voice,' thinks Vergil. Still, he cannot deny how his lover never fails to spark wonder in their son's eyes. Only a few words in and she has Nero's full attention.

"...there was a dancer who could mesmerize entire palaces with every step. When they moved it was like watching petals on the breeze. The soft colors of their clothes twirling around their long legs. Stories spread across many kingdoms of not only their unrivaled skill but also that of their bewitching beauty. All that bore witness to their dance were charmed. It was like a magic spell only they could use," continues Y/N.

"Were they as pretty as you, Mama?" mews Nero, tilting his head in that way that always melted Y/N's heart.

Y/N reaches over to stroke their son's ivory hair, before opening her mouth to say---

"What a foolish question." Gliding over to the bed, Vergil sits opposite of Y/N. His eyes flicker to Y/N before he continues, "Do not compare a rose to a field of dandelions."

Nero seems satisfied with this answer.

Y/N gestures for Vergil to not interrupt before she adds, "So one day the dancer gets invited to the royal palace to perform. Afterwards, the King becomes so enthralled, he begs them to stay and marry one of his sons. The dancer politely refuses and leaves. This was not the answer the King had hoped for and so he hired a famous knight to find her and bring her back to the palace."

Rubbing his chin, Vergil wonders, 'Why does this sound oddly...familiar?'

"This knight always wore brilliant, scarlet armor, so the people called him the 'Crimson Knight'. Legends spoke of how he could slay any monster and of the sword he carried upon his back. It was a grand sword said to be enchanted with an ancient magic that allowed it to cut through even dragon hide," explained Y/N, waving her hands like she was trying to make the sword appear.

"He was a dragon slayer?" asks Nero curiously.

"No matter how tall or dangerous the monster may be, he was always victorious. While many claimed to have been witness to such a feat, no one knew for certain if he had slain a dragon. After all, dragons were the most powerful of foes. They were cunning, proud, and equipped with immense magic," answered Y/N.

"Could he beat a dragon?" questions Nero.

"He most certainly believed he could. After all, he was the Crimson Knight: the warrior of all the human kingdoms. Whenever a monster appeared, he was called in to defeat it," replied Y/N with a nod.

"Sounds like someone I know," grumbles Vergil.

"Shhhh."

"But here he was faced with a strange request: to hunt not a beast but a woman. A woman armed with only an aptitude for dancing. This was not a job for the Crimson Knight. The King---afraid he'd decline and she'd slip away---lied. He told the knight that the dancer was harboring a curse set upon her by a demon. That if she was not found and brought back to the palace to be purified, she would die. Now this resonated with the Crimson Knight. How could he let such a beauty wither and wilt from such misfortune? So he set off to find her," continued Y/N.

"How could he lie? She's not really cursed, is she?" asks Nero with a frown.

Vergil interrupts, "People lie because..." He clears his throat. "Sometimes they lie to get what they want."

"She's not really going to die, right?" whispers Nero.

Vergil glances at Y/N. "No, she won't."

Y/N nudges him with an elbow. "Shhh, no spoilers."

"So without even knowing she was being followed, the dancer hopped from town to town to perform. Rarely did she stay for more than a few days in the same area. Her heart was set on adventure and she enjoyed the journey even if it was tedious without a horse or carriage. She felt as free as the birds in the sky. With her spirits soaring, she set out for the neighboring city. However, along the well-trodden path, a man appeared. Whipping his cart into a frenzy, he was approaching fast. Spotting her, he jerked on the reins and nearly fell off the bench. 'Young lady! Young lady!' he gasped. 'Turn back now! Only death and hellfire awaits at the end of this road!' Stunned, the dancer asked him to explain. 'A dragon has appeared! He has built his den inside the ruins of the castle and he strikes down all who disturb him! The people are terrified! Protect yourself and run while you still can!' Then with a crack of the reins, his cart was disappearing down the road in a cloud of dust. The dancer stood there flabbergasted. How can there be a dragon of all things? Were they not creatures of myth? Not believing in the danger, she continued onwards despite the warning."

"No! Don't go! You'll get eaten!" gasps Nero, burrowing deeper into his comforter to hide.

Vergil snorts. "Depends on what you mean by 'eat' her."

Y/N shoots him a look. Luckily, she seems to be the only one to catch it. Nero is oblivious as he is too busy trying to blend in with his pillows.

"Anyway..."

"Our heroine reached the city and was hit by a startling revelation: it was quiet. Walking through the marketplace, she found stands of fruit abandoned and carts of goods unprotected. Where was all the hustle and bustle? Where were all the people? Further up the road, shutters rattled and there were hints of movement. The dancer wondered if she'd even be able to perform here if there was no one to be the audience. Then an idea stuck her: what if she could coax the people out with her talents? If not dancing, then maybe a lute or harp would soothe their spirits and rekindle the city's vigor. So she sought out the very reason she had come to this territory specifically: the grand theatre. There all kindred souls of music and art showcased their passions. She had hoped to connect with other performers here who were as dedicated to their craft as she was. Spotting the gold rooftop shimmering in the evening sun, she scurried towards it with a renewed excitement. Throwing the doors open, she gleefully announced her arrival."

"Only to be met with silence."

"How can a place of boisterous joy be silent? On hooks and shelves, all the instruments sat idle. Not a single string was singing. Even the tables were vacant with not even a crumb set out for the mice. 'What is going on?' she wondered. Still, she was even more determined now. Picking up a lute, she played a few notes. Testing its voice, she listened to the hearty tones and wondered how anyone could have put it down. Jumping into an energetic melody, she smiled to herself. This hall echoed the sound perfectly: each note complimented each other rather than drown in a sea of cacophony. Erasing the silence eased the chill that had settled in her chest. That is, until someone snatched the lute from her hands. 'Are you mad?!' hissed a man, 'You'll draw the beast right to us!' Confused, she asked him to explain. 'Music attracts him. If you keep playing, he'll come back!' She asked him if he was speaking of the dragon she heard about. 'Yes. He has settled into the castle on the hill. Both the castle and its lord perished many years ago. The city has never been quite the same since. Now this monster has taken over and the peace in our hearts have been shattered.' The man's words sowed worry in her heart. Yet, something struck her funny: if this dragon was so vicious, then why did it only attack, when he heard music? Did music have some kind of power over him?"

"Did the dragon not like music? Why?" Nero peeked around the edges of his blanket.

Y/N fixed her son's hair behind his ear. He was already nurturing the start of a bird's nest.

"The music made him remember..." Vergil's eyes were glossed over. Y/N could tell he was somewhere else. "Remembering was...painful for him."

Not expecting a co-narrator, Y/N waited to see if he would continue.

"See, the dragon was cursed: his memories stolen from him. Hearing a melody sometimes brought those memories back in bright flashes. Remembering what he had lost pained him more than the sharpest blade. Rather than endure his past, he silenced the melody any way he could. Even if it was...cruel," explained Vergil, his voice dry.

Was that a twinge of guilt Y/N could hear?

[Continued in Part 2...W.I.P.]

#Reader x Vergil #DMC #Devil May Cry #Nero #Vergil #Dante #Nero's mother #bedtime stories #knights #dragons

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tothemeadow · 3 years

Note

Ok, it wasn't me who requested but I would like to know if you are still willing to do a scenario where the reader is helping Douma to take a bath 👀 ((feel free to ignore it))

I can’t find the original post so I can’t remember how I wrote it before, so here we goooooo

‘into the water’ / Douma x Reader

warnings: kinda lewd?

words: 1,314

(a/n): I haven’t written for Douma in a while so hopefully this isn’t too rusty >.>

Lavender.

Sweet. Fresh. Overpowering.

It almost hangs in a cloudy haze, the warmth radiating from the water beckoning you closer; you almost feel delirious, drifting through a luxurious cloud, having just the slightest taste of what the wealthy experience. There’s a slight murmur in the room as servants draw the bath, light sticks of incense, set of the fluffiest towels you’ve ever seen.

You, however, busy yourself with scrubbing your hands raw. Amongst the numerous followers of the Eternal Paradise, you’re the one who gets to lay your hands on the lord. It’s a blessing in itself, really; you’ve heard of stories of others having their hands chopped off for touching the lord without permission. Whether they’re true or not, you don’t know, but the sheer power you’ve been granted is astronomical. You can clearly see it in the others’ eyes, the lingering jealousy that they’re not permitted to touch such a perfect specimen.

The chamber is its own separate world, set in the eastern wing on the manor. Since the stars rise from the east, so shall the Eternal Paradise’s lord. You can’t argue against that logic, especially not when you’ve seen Douma with your own two eyes. A deep, fountain-like bath sits in the middle of room, rimmed by marble and a smooth stone floor. The stone is cool to the touch, bare feet slapping quietly as the servants scurry around, finishing up the preparations. An iron wrought hanger dangles from the ceiling, fat, waxy candles tucked away in the pits, casting a brilliant golden sheen over the room.

The very aura emanating from the room itself is romantic – it reminds you of the scandalous novels your mother had tucked away, the ones your curious eyes have read at a young age. It feels like a lavender-scented dream; you, the awaiting liege, waiting for your knight in shining armor to arrive.

And, as if on cue, the servants fall into a unanimous silence as the heavy wooden doors swing open. Your breath catches in your throat as your eyes land on Douma; standing tall, he appears absolutely regal. Unmarred skin wrapped in a simple white robe, a tantalizing shoulder and sharp collar bone exposed by the fallen silk, it’s just so… perfect. Perhaps it’s the angle of his jaw, the brilliance of his irises, the soft, tussled hair draping down his back…

It’s ridiculous how gorgeous he is. How a simple human can appear so godly is beyond you, yet you’re compelled to throw yourself at his feet and kiss them silly.

He almost seems to drift through the air as he crosses to the bath. All eyes follow his every movement, stuck to his perfect physique and otherworldly features. With a single flick of the wrist, everyone bows before taking their departure, leaving only you and him behind.

“Do you mind giving me a hand, child?” Douma speaks, his voice bouncing off the chamber’s walls. Willing your legs to move, you walk over to where he stands. He towers over you, ivory skin even better up close, the natural musk of his scent instantly flooding your nostrils. You gingerly reach out to him, slipping the knot of his robe loose and pulling it down his defined arms. Your face feels unbelievably warm under the weight of his gaze. You dare not let your eyes drift down the length of his torso – especially not that precious place between his strong legs (though you’re dying to know if he’s as beautiful as you’ve painted in your mind).

The sound of rippling water fills the chamber as he steps into the bath and eases down into the beckoning warmth. Only the top of his chest onwards sticks out, his reflection bobbing with the water’s ripples. You unceremoniously drop to your knees, desperate to run your fingers through his hair, to trace invisible shapes into the expanse of exposed flesh.

“You’re hesitating,” he says, a teasing lilt to his words.

Quickly, you snap away from your reverie. “My apologies, my lord,” you mutter. To the side of the bath sits a sturdy wooden tray, lined with bottles of oils and imported soaps. Snatching up a mug, you dunk it into the warm water and carefully pour its contents over Douma’s head. “Is the water to your liking?”

Douma hums.

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, then, with you continuing to dampen his hair. It’s only when you’ve began to cleanse it with soap that he finally releases a sound – a deep, rumbling groan, the kind people only let out when they’re fully relaxed. For a moment, you hesitate, your heart thundering in your chest. Perhaps you enjoyed that little noise a bit too much.

“What are you doing?” Douma drawls, head pushing itself back into your touch. “Keep going.”

Doing as told, you work the soap in his hair into a lather, massaging his scalp all the while. Precious noises continue to spill from your lord’s lips, mixing with the lavender haze clogging the chamber. It can’t feel that good, could it? Still, you want to commit these sounds to memory, let them visit you in the late hours of the night when you can’t sleep.

It’s almost with great pain that you rinse the soap away from his hair, dragging your fingers through the long strands as you do. An abrupt moan bursts from Douma’s throat as your fingers get caught, accidentally tugging on the hair in question – again, you pause, the heat swirling in your lower abdomen making itself more and more present.

Nearly tearing your hands away, you tell yourself to get a grip. Now is not the time to be getting carried away by such silly things, even if you can’t deny the fact that you’re horribly attracted to your lord. This time, as you reach for the tray, you pick up a simple washcloth. Dipping it into the water, you watch as Douma turns to you, his eyes flicking from your hands to your flustered expression. “You should come in here with me,” he says, completely catching you by surprise.

Practically choking on your own shock, your grip on the washcloth loosens. Again, it dips below the surface before bobbing off. “My lord,” you frantically say, trying to get a grasp on reality, “I don’t understand-“ You’re then cut off by a slight whimper as Douma suddenly grabs you by the wrist, a mischievous glint in his otherworldly eyes.

“Join me.”

It’s as though your voice has completely left you at this point. Taking your silence as a yes, Douma pulls you into the bath with him, cradling your body as he eases you into the water. Immediately, your yukata is soaked as the water’s warmth permeates your being.

“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” Douma continues, his voice dropping to an even lower pitch. With his mouth right up against your ear, you shiver. An amused huff fans over the side of your face. “Though I do believe I ruined your clothes. Allow me-“ long fingers begin to tug your attire loose, “-to take them off.” A pleased hum meets your ears as you remain completely still, your eyelashes fluttering in disbelief. Never in a million years you would’ve thought something like this would happen to you. Still, his hands feel nice as they skim over your now exposed skin, tapping away one-by-one at your ribs. “That’s better…”

“Douma-sama,” you murmur. Your breath catches in your throat as his lips land on your neck, gently peppering the skin with delicate kisses. “My lord… wait, wait… let me finish washing you-“

“In time, child,” he says, a giggle following his words. The water laps at the side of the bath as he shifts away from his spot, slinking in between your legs instead. “But for now… Let me warm up my meat before I eat it.”

#kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #douma x reader #kny douma #douma #request

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dialovers-translations · 3 years

Text

Diabolik Lovers Zero Vol. 12 Azusa Mukami [Track 1]

Original title: 串刺しの蝶たち

Source: Diabolik Lovers Zero Vol. 12 Azusa Mukami [CD not owned by me]

Audio: Here

Seiyuu: Kishio Daisuke

Translator’s note: The second to last Zero CD I have to translate before completing the entire series, wooh~! I know Azusa isn’t a very popular character within the fandom, but I actually have a huge soft spot for him after translating his Eternal Blood CD. ;w; He is just such a cutie at times, it warms my heart. Hearing his ‘clone’ talk regularly completely threw me off though! He sounds so different, but in a good way! I kind of wish Azusa would start talking a little faster himself but I suppose that’s part of the charm of his character?

Track 1 ll Track 2 ll Track 3 ll Track 4 ll Track 5

→ LIKE MY TRANSLATIONS? SUPPORT ME ON KO-FI!

Track 1: Pinned Butterflies

*Creaaaaak*

*THUD*

The two of you step inside the museum.

“It’s really...pouring outside, huh?”

You nod.

“I’m glad we just so happened...to pass by a place where we can take shelter from the rain...If not, we might have ended up...wandering through the forest while sopping wet...However, if we return home late...Ruki and the others will...get worried. I wonder if we should have just...headed straight home after finishing our errand?”

You frown.

“It has been a while since we visited the Demon World...So we just wanted to make a little detour, right...?”

*CRASH*

You flinch at the thunder.

“...Oh. It struck closeby...With the weather like this...It seems smart to stay here...until the rain lifts...”

You agree.

“We’ll end up returning home late but...Let’s stay here just a little longer? Then after we’re back...We can apologize to everyone. I’m sure they’ll understand...If we explain.”

You nod.

“Mmh. I suppose we can kill some time...inside this building?”

Azusa starts looking around.

“Hm...But...I didn’t expect to find a museum around here...Seems like we are the only visitors though...Furthermore...Oh. What an impressive amount of portraits...Several people are portrayed...Seeing them all lined up next to each other like this...makes me a little anxious.”

You tell him it’s a little creepy.

“Mmh. I’m sure they would have made for nice paintings...if only their expressions were a little more bright...But they all seem to be suffering. ...That large canvas over there...The man on it looks sad, don’t you think? I wonder if he...went through a painful experience? ...This museum is kinda...weird.”

*CRASH*

“Ah...! ...Ah, are you okay? ...The thunder is a little scary here, don’t you think? It said on the guide map that there’s a basement floor as well...So should we move there?”

*TIMESKIP*

You have arrived in the basement.

“Just as I thought...We can’t hear the thunder down here...It’s less illuminated than the earlier floor but...It seems comfortable to stay at.”

Azusa comes to a halt.

“Oh. A door. I wonder what room this is...?”

He opens the door.

*Creaaaak*

“Woah...It’s so spacious...There’s a bunch of glass cases...Are they exhibiting something, perhaps...? ...Oh! There’s a lot of...insects. They all look like...specimen.”

You get scared, hiding behind Azusa.

*Rustle*

“Oh? What’s wrong...? No need to hide...They can’t move, so it’s fine...”

You still seem worried.

“Hm...There’s a lot of species from the Demon World but...I can spot some insects which exist in the human world as well...Ah! This! These are the bugs which devastated Yuma’s garden in the past...They ate the vegetables Yuma had been carefully growing...It was quite the fiasco...Me and Kou had to help him get rid of the bugs as well...Fufu~ Brings back memories...”

The two of you continue looking around.

“...Oh. Now that I got a better look, they’re displayed all over the walls as well. I wonder if that...large insect the size of a cushion is...real?”

You get scared again.

“...Oh. Ah...Huh? Your complexion looks...pale?”

You explain.

“Ah...I’m sorry. I guess these are scary to you...even if they can’t move? Yet I failed to notice...Shall we leave this room now?”

You try and act tough.

“You don’t look okay...No need to push yourself...Okay?”

*Rustle*

“Your body is...shaking. Hey, come here.”

Azusa pulls you close.

*Rustle rustle*

“I’m sure you’ll calm down in my embrace...In no time...”

He starts stroking your head.

“There, there...Everything will be okay...I’m with you...after all...”

You smile.

“Mmh. I’m glad you seem a little more...relaxed. Ah...But you’re still a little tense...I wonder if we should touch each other more...?”

He cups your cheek.

“Whenever you do this to me...I always feel really relieved...So I figured you might feel the same...How is it?”

You tell him it feels nice.

“Fufu~ I’m glad...Then, next up...Mmh.”

*Smooch*

You get flustered.

“Hehe~ You twitched just now...Hm. Seems like you’re gradually relaxing...Also the scent of your blood...has grown sweeter. Does it feel...good, perhaps? Oh. Right. If you feel good, you’ll no longer be bothered by the specimen, right...?”

*Rustle*

“Say...I’ll suck your blood. If I do that, you don’t have to worry about a thing...”

You seem a little worried.

“Don’t worry...Leave it to me. Mmh...”

Azusa bites you.

*Gulp*

*Sluuuurp*

“Haah...Mmh...Your blood is...extremely delicious. Say, do you feel good now?”

You don’t respond.

“What’s the matter? Was this...simply not enough? Hm...Hehe. However, you’re enraptured. Your cheeks are flushed and...you’ve got that dreamy look in your eyes. Haah...I wonder why you are this cute?”

You quickly cover your face with both hands.

“Oh...Why would you hide your face? I want to...see it.”

You explain.

“It’s...embarrassing? Hm...There’s really no reason to conceal it though. But...If you don’t want to, I won’t force you...You can keep your hands there, okay? I’ll suck your blood from here...”

He bites you again.

*Sluuuuurp*

“...Haah...Such sweet noises...Even though you said it’s embarrassing...You actually wanted me to do this...right? Hehe. I’ll bite other places too...”

*Sluuuuurp*

*Gulp gulp*

“Mmh...Hah...Haah...Oh. You no longer...need to hide your face? Has your mind...gone blank?”

You nod.

“Fufu~ I’m glad that’s the case. ...Your body has...stopped shivering as well, it seems...I wanted to do this for your sake but...I ended up getting a little too into it as well. Hm...The wounds aren’t deep so I’m sure the bleeding has stopped already...”

Azusa takes a deep breath.

“The whole room’s filled with the scent of blood now, huh...? It might be good that there’s...no other Vampires here. If someone else was around, it might have lead to trouーー”

A sudden gust of wind can be heard.

“O-Oh...? Ah...What was that just now...? The sound of the wind...? It kind of sounded like someone...crying?”

You tell Azusa you don’t like being here.

“...M-Mmh...Guess we should take our leave soon...? It might have...stopped raining by now. Let’s head back up.”

*TIMESKIP*

*Creaaaak*

“Ugh...Oh? Huh? We ended up in a...different room? Did we take...a wrong turn?”

Azusa steps into the room.

“It’s better lit than the other rooms...There’s a canvas and art supplies...Everything’s all over the place. ...Seems like this isn’t an exhibition room. There’s no specimen either, so don’t worry. Say...This might be a working space? Oh...If that’s the case...We might get scolded for entering without permission, right? Let’s quickly leave. It’d be troublesome if...we were to stain something important...”

He bumps into something while turning around.

*Thud*

*Flip*

“...Aah! Oh...I dropped them...S-Sorry...!”

Azusa kneels down to pick up the papers and so do you.

“Ah...Thank you for helping me...”

The two of you pick up the drawings.

“I guess we’ve got them all now...?”

*Flip*

“Oh...These were drawn with...pencil, I suppose? What a beautiful person...It’s the same woman portrayed on all of them. I’m sure she was...someone very important.”

T/N: From this point onwards, I will be putting fake Azusa’s dialogue between ( ) and changing the font to bolded italics. This CD has both the real and the fake Azusa interacting with you and each other, so hopefully that will make it a bit easier to tell them apart.

( Exactly. She was important. )

“...E-Eh?”

( To me, she was irreplaceable.... )

“...!? W-Who are you...? Where are you...!?”

( Right here. Look at the wall. )

“Oh? ...Huh? My...portrait? Are you the one...who talked just now?”

( That’s right. Nice to meet you, dear visitors. Ah. I suppose it would be rude to introduce myself from within the canvas. )

The fake Azusa steps out of the frame.

( ...Uhm, let me greet you one more time. Nice to meet you, dear visitors. Welcome to the museum. )

ーー TO BE CONTINUED ーー

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #azusa mukami #diabolik lovers zero #diabolik lovers translation #diabolik lovers drama cd #drama cd

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pretchatta · 3 years

Text

swoon june day 9: fairy tales

loosely based on the greek myth of orpheus and eurydice

rating: general (warning for character death); kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 3.5k words

---

There once lived a man who was blessed by the gods, and his name was Kanan.

Kanan was one of the Kasminauts, the fabled heroes who travelled with Janus to retrieve the Golden Flight. His skill with a blade was considerable and helped the group out of many a tight corner over the course of their quest, but it was his silver tongue that proved to be his most valuable asset.

Kanan’s divine gift had been bestowed upon him by Depa, goddess of the spoken word, and his was the gift of storytelling. When Kanan began a tale, all would stop in their tracks to listen. Men would pause in their work; beasts of the forest both great and timid would emerge from their dens; even the trees would inch closer to hear him. It was his way with words that allowed the Kasminauts to pass the Golden Flight’s devaronian guard, Jondo, as well as surmount countless other obstacles on their journey.

When their quest came to an end and the heroes returned home, Kanan decided to settle down. He found a cottage at the edge of a forest and he made it his home. Now this forest was not an ordinary forest, for it was inhabited by a clan of twi’lek nymphs, and it was during a walk along the forest’s border that Kanan’s ears caught the sound of the loveliest voice he’d ever heard. Enraptured, he sought out its source, and that was how he met Hera.

Hera was the daughter of Cham, the leader of the forest twi’lek. Her beauty and grace were indescribable, and Kanan fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. From that day he would come to the forest every morning to tell Hera one of his many magical tales, hoping to win her affections. What he didn’t know was that Hera already returned his feelings; she had heard of Kanan and his silver tongue, but wanted to see how far he would go for her.

The first tale he told was of an ancient order of noble warriors. His words painted pictures of elegant figures in flowing robes protecting the weak and caring for the needy. In his attempt to impress Hera he made it his best performance to date. So inspiring were his words that the forest itself felt inclined to grow. The trees pushed their roots further than they’d expanded in years and new saplings shot up in every direction, increasing the area the forest protected.

Kanan’s second tale was a tragedy, one of betrayal and loss and hardship. He made this one even better than his last, delving into his deepest reserves of emotion as he told it. So moving were his words that the ground itself wept. A new stream sprang from the forest floor, feeding the forest’s new growth, and the trees grew lusher than ever.

His third tale was of new beginnings, describing friendships forged and purpose found. His voice soared with his most powerful story yet and carried through the whole forest, uplifting every beast and being who heard it. That night there was much celebrating, with everyone who lived in those woods rejoicing in the life they had and the ones they shared it with, and by the following morning the forest’s population was inexplicably larger.

Hera, seeing her home revitalised and strengthened by Kanan’s tales, held no doubts in her mind of his devotion. She revealed her heart to him and they were married in a beautiful ceremony by the stream. The wedding was well-attended, with music and dancing from her people, drinking and laughter from the Kasminauts, and a special performance from Chopper, a bird that Hera had once nursed to health and who had stayed with her ever since. Kanan and Hera moved into the cottage at the edge of the forest, and they were blissfully happy together.

But it was not to last.

They were not the only ones who lived by the forest, and a man by the name of Azmorigan also desired Hera. His covetous feelings drove him to pursue her relentlessly, but never within sight of Kanan. One day, he waited for Hera to take her daily walk outside of the cottage and snuck up behind her. Hera, having been raised in the forest and knowing its sounds like her own heartbeat, heard Azmorigan approaching. She fled before he could touch her, but in her haste to escape, she did not watch her step. Her foot fell on the back of a ysalamiri lizard and it bit her ankle. The lizard’s lifeforce-suppressing venom seeped into her blood, and Hera fell to the ground.

Azmorigan fled, and it was evening before Kanan came to look for his wife. The man of such beautiful words was silent when he found her lifeless body. He was silent as he carried her back to the home they had shared, and the silence stretched for three days and three nights. Trees wilted, birdsong was half-hearted, and instruments would not hold their tune without Kanan’s words to lift spirits.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Kanan re-emerged. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn on his voyage with the Kasminauts, with his sword strapped to his hip and a small travelling bag slung over his back. He said not a word as he departed for the hills.

Kanan’s journey was a long one. He travelled out of the forest and over the hills, through fields and between mountains until he reached the sea. He took a boat and sailed over the horizon and beyond, until he found land again. He crossed arid deserts, frozen tundra and lush jungle. He saw fishing villages, market towns and cities in the clouds, but he never stopped, and he never spoke.

Eventually, he reached the cliffs at the edge of the world. There he found a cave, an opening that descended into darkness, which he entered without hesitation. The tunnel took him deep underground and far away from the land of the living. He walked, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, until he reached a gate. Standing before the gate was a fearsome sentinel, the honourable guardian Garazeb, his eyes wide and alert.

It was now that Kanan finally broke his silence.

“I wish to pass into the Land of the Dead,” he said softly.

“That is forbidden,” Garazeb growled, his deep voice like grinding rocks. “Only the dead may pass this gate. As long as I stand guard here, no living thing shall pass me, in or out.”

Kanan thought for a moment. “Very well. Then perhaps I could make your endless watch a little less dull. For I am Kanan, a storyteller of great renown.”

Garazeb did not respond, merely fixing Kanan with a stony stare, but he was not deterred.

Kanan began his tale. For the gate guardian who saw people from all walks of life pass him on their way to the Underworld, he recounted long marches to battle, legions of feet falling in step, their thunder echoing around them. He drew his sword to emphasize his words as he described endless repetitive days of marching, camping, marching, camping, always surrounded by the same faces. Garazeb’s eyes followed the blade as he swept it from side to side in an almost hypnotic fashion, drawing the same shapes over and over. Soon, the mighty guard’s eyelids began to droop. Kanan did not end his story until Garazeb finally slumped back against the wall, slid down to the ground and let out a deep, rumbling snore.

Silent once more, Kanan stepped over the sleeping sentinel and passed through the gate. He shivered as he felt the change in the air that signified he had done what no other living mortal had done: he had walked into the Land of the Dead, the World Between Worlds, the Underworld. Only his blessing from Depa protected him from Death’s icy embrace here.

The tunnel continued onwards, filled with chill, damp air, and Kanan with it. As he walked he became aware of a distant noise, a rushing, roaring sound that grew steadily louder as he proceeded. The tunnel turned a corner and Kanan emerged into an enormous cavern through the center of which thundered a wide river.

On the near shore, where the rocks were wet with spray, a man waited with a boat. Kanan approached him and spoke once more.

“I wish to cross the River of Souls.”

The man looked at Kanan. His face was young, but his eyes were old, and his expression was as cold as the waters of the river.

“I only ferry the dead over this river, and only in one direction.”

“Has anyone living ever asked you for passage?” Kanan challenged.

The man narrowed his eyes. “No. Garazeb does not allow them to pass the gate.”

“So why would you not take me across? I have made it this far, after all.”

“This river washes away all souls who are not worthy of eternal life in the fields beyond,” said the boatman. “If you attempt to cross and are not worthy, you too will be washed away into nothingness.”

“That is a risk I am willing to take.”

“Hm.” The boatman considered Kanan. “Then you will pay me for your passage. I ferry the dead for free because they have nothing, not even their lives, but this is not the case with you. What can you offer?”

After his long journey Kanan had only the barest of essentials, but he knew that what he needed he always carried with him.

“I have no money with me, but I am known for my skill with words,” he told the boatman. “I doubt you have much cause for joy down here; if I can make you smile, will that cover my trip?”

“I suppose it will. But I cannot remember the last time I smiled, and you will not be able to change that.”

“We shall see. Before I begin my story, might I have your name?” Kanan asked.

“I am Ezra, bridger of the River of Souls,” the boatman replied.

Kanan began yet another tale. For the man who had companions every day but not a single one who would stay with him, Kanan told a tale of families, of belonging, of love. His words brought warmth into the air that was chilled by the river’s spray, and light into the cavern that was out of reach of the sun. When he reached the part of the story where the father went back for his son, the corners of the boatman’s mouth twitched upwards.

When Kanan pointed it out, the boatman grumbled. “It was barely a smile. More of a spasm. Doesn’t count. But I’ll suppose I’ll allow you over. Keep telling the story though, it’s a long crossing.”

So Kanan did; he told of the father rescuing the son, and taking him home, and wrapping the boy in blankets and reassuring him that he was safe now, that nothing bad would ever happen to him, and that he was loved. By the time they reached the other shore, the boatman was smiling widely, and a few tears had run down his smooth cheeks.

“That is your second smile,” Kanan told him, “and I will want to make the return trip.”

“Fine,” Ezra agreed, still smiling. “You have earned it.”

There was no tunnel on the other side of the river, but great, rolling fields under a black sky. A road wound between them which Kanan started down. Dimly, he could see pale figures wandering aimlessly over the land. None of them drifted close enough for him to see their forms clearly and he did not deviate from his path forward to investigate. He was close to his goal now; he could feel it.

The road crested a small hill and there before him was his destination: a towering construction of smooth black stone that glinted with a mysterious light. The Palace of Malachor.

The road to the palace entrance was not empty, however. His way forward was blocked by a young woman in full armour. In the dim half-light of the Underworld the armour’s markings were greyscale swirls of shapes and patterns. A matching helmet was tucked under one of her arms.

She caught sight of him immediately.

“You are not dead,” she accused. “You do not belong here.”

“I seek an audience in the palace,” he told her.

“And I seek justice, as I did in life. I will not let you proceed until you are dead.”

Having come so far, Kanan would not let this stop him. Not when he was so close.

“So we will duel,” he said, “and if you win, I will die. But if I beat you, you will let me pass.”

She considered him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

She fitted the helmet over her head and unsheathed the blade at her hip. It was even blacker than the land around them, so dark it seemed to absorb light. Kanan drew his own blade, and their duel began.

The warrior was strong, and quick with her blade, and Kanan soon realised he was outmatched in skill alone. So he began to talk as their blades clashed, and for someone so young who needed so much armour, he told a story of acceptance. He described a young girl forsaken by her family, forced to strike her own path before she was ready. He saw his words have an effect as the warrior’s blows faltered.

He continued, describing the comfort and safety the girl found in the arms of people who accepted her for who she was, and who loved her unconditionally. Her parry went wide and Kanan’s blade slipped past the warrior’s guard to press against her neck. The tear that had blurred her vision fell from under her helmet to splash on his blade. She yielded, and true to her word, allowed him to pass her.

It was not far, then, to his final destination. The doors of Malachor opened to his touch and he stepped into the throne room. Before him sat Maul, Lord of the Underworld, and it was he Kanan addressed.

“O Great Lord of the Dead, I have travelled vast distances to come here before you. My wife, Hera, the light of my life, was taken from me too soon and now she walks in the fields outside this very palace. I have come before you to humbly beg for her return.”

Maul regarded Kanan with utter indifference.

“And why should I do that?”

Kanan took a deep breath and opened his mouth. He told Maul a story, the tale of his long journey to the Underworld, the lands he had crossed and the sights he had seen. He told of how he had surmounted the obstacles from the gate guard to the boatman to the warrior of the fields. He told all of this with his most magical of gifts, but Maul was a god, and unmoved.

He did, however, recognise Kanan’s voice.

“I care not for the trials of mortals before their demise, but you have done me a service in the short life you have led so far. In your love for your wife, you told stories which grew a forest and the numbers of those who live in it. Many of them have, in turn, died, and their souls have come to me. In return for this act I will grant you the chance to see your wife again.”

For the first time since finding Hera in the woods, Kanan allowed himself to feel a spark of hope.

“She is indeed in the fields outside,” Maul continued. “Go to the doors and tell one of your famous stories; she will hear your voice and will come to you. If you then walk back to the land of the living she will follow, and I will make sure none will stop you. But be warned: if you are to see her complete her journey, you cannot look at her while she is still in the Underworld. Do not turn around until you are both standing under the sun once again, or you will never see her again.”

Kanan bowed deeply in gratitude and thanked the Lord of the Underworld before departing his presence to do as he suggested.

Kanan went to stand just outside of the palace doors, and he knew exactly which story to tell: the story of his life. It was one Hera would know well, because she knew him better than he knew himself. He began his telling, and the slightest brush of wind encouraged him to start walking.

As he crossed the fields, he passed the warrior again. It was as he was telling of his childhood and of the importance of family and standing together. Her helmet was tucked back under her arm and she nodded at him respectfully, the faintest of wistful smiles at her lips. She gave no acknowledgement of anyone following him.

He reached the river and the boatman, whose face was back to its stony mask. The man did not hesitate as Kanan approached, remembering their agreement and giving Kanan passage back to the other shore. During the crossing Kanan told of the heartbreak of having everything he knew ripped away from him, and the boatman nodded along mournfully as he steered the boat. Neither when he boarded nor disembarked did Kanan feel the boat respond to anyone else’s movements.

He was telling the legends of the Kasminauts when he came up to the gate. The guardian was awake again and watched him impassively as Kanan approached, recounting his adventures with his brothers. The honour guard gave no indication that anyone was following Kanan but made no move to stop him from leaving the Underworld.

It was as Kanan started the uphill climb through the final tunnel that he reached the best part of his story. This was the part where his travels ended and he met Hera. The most beautiful, perfect woman, who healed him and loved him and gave him everything he needed. His words echoed off the tunnel walls along with the sound of a single set of footsteps.

Kanan had no idea if Hera was following him. He knew, he trusted, that if she had heard him and been able, she would have come to him in the field and would have stayed with him since. But what if she hadn’t? What if Maul had tricked him? What if the warrior had blocked her way, or the boatman had denied her passage, or the guard had closed the gate on her?

He could see the brightness of daylight just ahead of him. If he returned to the overworld now, he would never be able to return. If she wasn’t behind him, he would lose her forever.

He had to know. He could not leave without her.

And so Kanan turned, and was overjoyed to see Hera’s wraith-like spirit only a short distance behind him. But her expression turned to dismay as he looked, and even as he opened his mouth in reassurance, a shadow fell over her.

Maul.

“I warned you not to look,” he spat, face twisted in anger, “and what have you done? Now, you will look no more!”

There was a flash of red, a blinding pain, and Kanan felt himself flung backwards and out of the tunnel. He landed on soft grass and felt the warmth of the sun on his face, though no light came through his eyes. He knew he was back in the mortal realm. He knew he could not return to the Underworld. He knew he had shattered his chance to retrieve Hera.

He cried out in pain and frustration and grief.

But then warm arms gripped him and pulled him into a solid embrace, and a voice spoke in his ear.

“Kanan?”

The most beautiful voice.

“Hera?”

He reached up to where the voice had come from, and his fingers traced an achingly familiar face. Tears tracked down her cheeks, but she was here, with him, alive again.

“Oh, Kanan, your eyes!” she cried. “He has ruined your eyes! How will you see?”

But Kanan smiled.

“I do not need my eyes to see you,” he told her.

And so they returned to their cottage at the edge of the forest, and to their happy life together. Though he was blind, Kanan could still tell his stories, and Hera still loved him deeply. The tale of how Kanan’s love for his wife had driven him to retrieve her from the depths of the Underworld was one he told to many generations of twi’lek in the forest, and it was even more popular than the legends of the Kasminauts.

He was still telling it when, well into old age, he recognised that his time had come. This time, Kanan and Hera travelled together into Death. They greeted the gate guard, the boatman and the warrior like old friends, and hand in hand they stepped into the fields, ready to spend eternity together.

#kanera #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #orpheus #eurydice #orpheus and eurydice #swoonjune2021 #star wars rebels #star wars: rebels #swoon june #pretchwritta #fic

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aliveanddrunkonsunlight · 3 years

Text

quality time

There are so many wonderful fics being posted for @jb-smut-swap!

quality time centers around togetherness; Jaime x Brienne + love languages based off @observedchaos post

For @naomignome

“Perhaps I should go to King’s Landing with you.” He says it so easily, but Brienne’s hands freeze against his laces.

Jaime struggles with some tasks, still, too proud to accept help, except for this one thing he allows her to do. She helps him dress every morning and undress every night, fingers nimbly undoing the laces of his tunic, his breeches.

She raises her gaze to his, taking in a breath. “You do not have to.” The last time they visited the capital was shortly before they sailed to Tarth. The shock in his eyes upon seeing the city in ruins has haunted her since.

As she steps away from him, rounding the bed, he asks. “Are you embarrassed of me?” His question slams into her, like an unexpected attack from behind.

Brienne turns, startled. “No, I thought you…” she lets out a sigh. “I was not sure how easy it was for you to be there.” Jaime holds no love for the Targaryen queen. Brienne is not sure what to make of her still, except she allowed him to live. If she had not done that...

After the war’s end, Jaime was the one who gently suggested he might accompany her to Tarth. She was not certain what the island might look like after being ravaged by pirates and the Golden Company, and part of her was scared to return, to pick up her father’s mantle. Brienne never expected him to stay forever, but she’s happy to provide Jaime a refuge here. Wherever she is, he is always welcome. “You are embarrassed of me,” he states, as if it is fact.

“Jaime.” He’s being petulant. “I am not embarrassed of you.” It would be unusual to have the Evenstar show up to conduct business with the new Regent with a guest in tow, but they are far beyond worrying about society’s gossip.

“Is it because we dishonor the gods?” She almost laughs because neither of them has much use for religion, but he is whispering as if they might hear him. “Because you have taken me into your bed? Perhaps we should marry then.”

It falls out of his mouth so easily, so quietly, as if it is an afterthought. Yet it rattles her as much as a strong hit to the head, the type that leaves her ears ringing. “What did you say?”

His eyes are twin emeralds, dark and dangerous in shadow, but softer and more beautiful in the light. “You heard me, Lady Brienne.”

She never expected romance, but that was hardly--“It was not even a question.” The irritation rising in her chest manifests itself in her shaking hands. They are standing across from each other, the chasm of the bed between them. “If you mean to command me, then I shall take you out into the yard and make you prove your worth.”

He lifts a sole eyebrow at her. “If that is what you wish,” he draws out lazily. “But you already know I am worthy, do you not? You have broken me in, like that pale gray palfrey you ride.”

“Jaime.” This time his name is meant as a warning. He is rarely sharp and bitter like this. Not anymore, not with her. He is hurting, somehow. “I haven’t--you’re not...it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like? You let me into your bed every night, sometimes you even want me in the afternoons. What would you call that?”

She’s never considered it before. Not precisely in the way Jaime is asking her to. It’s always been them. It’s how they are, what they do. Things between them have been this way since before the Battle of the Long Night. Coming together to comfort one another during the very worst of circumstances, but now it has continued for far longer than she dared to imagine it might. “I like having you here, but I never...I expected you to return to the mainland. To rebuild your life somewhere, like all of us have done.” Her words are blunt and unvarnished, like a wooden tourney sword, but they are true. Or at least they were when they boarded a ship together and sailed towards her home. In all these months, they have never spoken about what it means that he is still here.

“I see.” She wishes for a glint in his eye, searches for some small sign of expression, but there is nothing. His gaze falls from hers and for a long moment there is silence between them. Then Jaime moves away from his side of the bed, his feet padding across the marble, stepping slowly towards her. “You never once thought I might want to rebuild my life with someone by my side? The person who fought beside me against the wights, who has seen to it to salvage my honor?”

He is standing in front of her now, so close she can feel the heat from his body, yet she demurs. “I did not do as you say, ser.”

“Brienne.” Now he is the one who sounds frustrated with her.

“Let me finish,” she barrels onwards, a bit unlike her, but she wants him to hear it. “You did that, the honor part, all on your own. You do realize that, don’t you?”

His eyes soften. “And yet you still do not understand why I might want to spend the rest of my life with the person who sees the best in me?” A tentative smile pulls at his face.

No, she does understand that. Jaime sees her for who she is and loves her anyway. She thought he knew she felt the same about him. She loves him for who he is, has for the longest, longest time. “Marry me,” she whispers.

He steps into her, his mouth warm on hers, his arm sliding around her waist. “Do I still need to fight you in the yard?” he murmurs.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“It might be fun.” His face slides into that teasing expression she knows so well.

“It would be,” Brienne agrees, a little breathless.

He reaches up, dragging his thumb ever so gently across the scar on her cheek. “Yes,” he whispers. “That is my answer. Yes.”

She cannot resist teasing him. “To the yard?”

“To marriage, you stubborn woman,” he practically growls in her ear before they tumble down onto the mattress.

When she arrives in King’s Landing a few weeks later, Jaime is by her side, and as they enter the Throne Room, they are announced as Lady Brienne, the Evenstar of Tarth, and her Lord Husband.

Author’s Note: This one was a bit of a cheat, as Jaime was asking about KL in order to spend quality time with her, but we don’t actually see it “on screen” as it were.

#jaime x brienne #fic: quality time #love languages

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p0ck3tp03t · 3 years

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Rampant Thoughts 22.

I believe there is a saying that goes "When it rains it pours" and when this happens to become reality, life no longer feels bearable. The sensation that my entire world is collapsing around me leaves behind the taste of powerlessness, and the salt on the wound is knowing that there is nothing I can do to mitigate, much less halt its progress. Love feels further than ever without much hope for recovery of the moments once had, and the lack of direction for future endeavors guarantees dissatisfaction from both parties regarding my presence.

I really hate myself and what I am, for I am a waste of space and oxygen, a life whose time would be better off given to someone else since I seem to not have the faintest clue what to do with myself and the light of day that I was given. Far too indolent to reach for greatness, much too terrified of life to grasp the idea of risk but paradoxically equipped with a fascinating audacity to aspire towards dreams for which I have no tangible motivation to pursue. A selfish prick with a natural predilection towards hedonistic conduct, I seek nothing unless it contains comfort and an intense lack of the opposite.

To find myself in this position leads me to believe that somewhere along the way I took a very erroneous decision, guided by motives which at the time felt compelling enough to outweigh every other option available. The past is unrecoverable and the future is much too uncertain, having me in the middle, frozen in place by the fear of change, a coward plagued by an insurmountable diffidence that restrains any form of mental fortitude.

Seething with vexation that stems from the discontentment with myself and my actions, I brim with regret, bathing under a cloud tainted with thoughts of inadequacy. A thought in the form of morbid curiosity keeps poking at my brain, persuading me to continue onwards against the wave, a thought which conflicts with an acute urge to abandon the ship and the journey at hand. This will to drop the decaying corpse that contains my life grows heavier with each transgression, corroding the foundation built throughout the years, allowing doubt to filter through, eventually drowning me.

Rationalized negativity smothers all thought process, endlessly recycling imperfections, defects and inadequacies until they devour everything but themselves in the process, the aftermath being a cemetery guarded by my own iteration of the hound of hell. Unskilled at the task given, I cower in a corner, a prisoner of my own mind. With a life against which I struggle to cope, I continue to ponder regrets and doubt, overthinking every action and suffocating myself with each mistake, a cracked reflection that draws blood from anything it touches.

My words are not reasons but excuses, unacceptable statements which need not be mentioned for they present no valuable information and shall be shot on sight. I remain silent as echoes of screams resound inside my head, trying to emerge like a volcano and release the tension that has accrued. Solitude is a curse I would reluctantly embrace if by its hand, peace would be given to those drained by my company.

Ultimately, the only sliver of salvation imaginable is the passing of time as the disasters encircling me begin to numb down and despite nothing having changed towards the better, I feel myself at a level of bearable unrest, beneath an endless rain.

By:PocketPoet

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youralternantpersonality · 3 years

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Welcome My Dear Friend

Warning: N/a

A/n: You know me, I got to write a novel before you can get to the great stuff. I think I keep getting the movie and books mixed up. If I did, sorry. But just enjoy it lol, that's all that matters, right?

Tags: @pillowjj @summeerrr

***

Y/n POV:

I'm walking through the streets of Ontario, Vanity on one side and her "boyfriend" of the month on the other. Ever since the loss of Leo, she's been happily carrying out her dream of living her college experience that she never got to act out. Comes to find out, Leo wasn't her mate; he was her stalker from when they were human. Long story short, they went to college together in the '70s, and he was obsessed with her. One night, lurking outside of her dorm, he was attacked by, you guessed it, a vampire. So, like the trifling ass he was, he attacked her and basically held her hostage all this time. Abusive and manipulative—she wanted a way out. She wasn't expecting wolves to be real, but if she could thank them without getting killed, she would.

Anyway, it has been a little over six months or so since that faithful night in La Push, where I was never seen again. I never got to say goodbye to my family and friends, and when I found out that there was a search for me going on, it was hard to watch. My family and friends posting photos on social media, talking to the police, and holding a conference, all of it broke my heart. We head back to our hotel room thanks to David—wait, was it David? Yeah, I'm going to say David—who graciously paid for two. Unfortunately, no matter how far apart our rooms are, I can still hear them. Fucking vampire hearing. Oh, if you hadn't figured it out, Vanity changed me. I honestly don't really know if I am mad or not. On the one hand, I am pissed; I'd rather be dead than be the walking dead, feeding off people—I prefer the criminals if I'm honest. But I'd rather not have my body lost in a ditch somewhere or parts of it in a shark's mouth.

Regardless, I really want to go back home, but I don't want to leave Vanity. If I had to describe her, I'd say she is like Harley Quinn. Rambunctious, emotional, kind of stupid but smart, party animal, and promiscuous. All of which attracts her victims. Whereas, there's me, the complete opposite of her—I ground her and keep her from being irrational, and she makes sure I "live a little" since I try not to go on a killing spree and I'd prefer to not have my first time with some random guy who I might accidentally kill. Again, I'd prefer to go after the major criminals, male or female, and not the innocent bystanders. I may or may not do active searching in the area for criminal records. I leave the petty crime alone; it's the others with no sense of morality that I play with. A few hours later, Vanity knocks on my door and tells me that we're heading out.

"Where’s David?” I said, swinging my bag over my shoulder and looking around. She gave me a look and rolled her eyes but smiles.

“His name is Kyle. I assume my next victim will be named David?” She looks up at me and smiles. I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. I have this weird ability to know things. I don’t know how I know it, but I just know it, you know? Almost like an enhanced intuition. Not like a psychic, but I just…know what’s next. Harley Quinn Jr. over here is basically a succubus—natural raw talent to draw men in. I mean, yes, vampires can do that naturally, but she could wear a mask, and her voice calls them in.

“I guess we’ll see in the next coming days. Or weeks,” I say, looking ahead leaving the hotel. “So, I can assume that we’re leaving Kyle back at the hotel and heading somewhere? Outside of Canada?”

“Yes, my dear, you are absolutely correct. How about South America? I’ve never been outside of the U.S. That bastard never wanted to. It was ‘unnecessary’ and ‘we have everything we need here,’ pathetic ass.” she says, rolling her eyes at the thought of him. I laugh and change our course location.

“How about Italy instead?” I say, getting a better feeling. She stops and looks at me and smiles.

“Oh! Even better! But we need to be careful.” She said in seriousness.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with Italy?”

“Well, the Volturi is there. Remember how I was telling you about these vampire police/mafia? Well, that’s them. They live in Volterra. I think we can visit, but staying there longer than a week, well really 3 days, may raise a red flag.” Vanity said.

“So, visiting the castle/church is basically out of the question?”

“Yes. They stay there, and the better we lay low, the more fun we can have. Why did you say Italy anyway?” she looked up at me with curiosity. We step up to an ATM machine and take out enough money from Dav-Kyles card and then discard it somewhere where it won’t be found.

“Do we really need to know that answer?” I said, looking at her with a smile. She shakes her head and laughs as we continue onward towards the bus station.

“You need to eat before we stay near anyone.” She tells me. I nod my head and search out for my next meal. I listen to my intuition and walk ahead of us. Weaving around people, turning down different streets until I come upon a high-class looking neighborhood. I calmly walk down the street listening for my next direction.

“Take a left on 5th, then right on the first alleyway. They’ll come,” my inner self said. I follow as instructed and wait. Vanity stopped questioning the things I know and follows along with it. It never led us in a bad situation, and she learned I wouldn’t put us in one. Believe it or not, she’s not evil, misguided maybe, but not bad. Speaking of being evil or not. Here comes our meal.

It was a man, a woman, and a child around six. I looked at Vanity, and she looked back at me. We nodded our heads and waited for the perfect moment. The man, “5’8” dirty blond hair, lanky, with tattoos across his body, was walking in front of the woman and child. The woman—who was “5’3”, long brunette hair with pale skin—was walking together with a little boy with black curly hair, big wide eyes, and dimples. They didn’t see us in the corner of the alley watching them. The man turned around, and before he could do anything, Vanity was behind him. The look on the woman’s face was in a state of shock. Vanity grabbed him by his collar and tossed him near the garbage bin. I looked at the woman, then at the boy, and walked towards her while Vanity was having her meal. I could hear a struggle, and I blocked the little boy's sight.

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” I smiled. We walked back in the direction they came from, finding a frantic mother looking for him. We retrieved the little boy to her and walked back to where her lover (I assume) would be dead at. As we rounded the corner to the alley, I shoved her and made sure she saw my face before I ended her life. Like the life she and her trash partner in crime almost took. Discarding the body and gaining enough fill to complete the bus ride, we head back and proceed to Italy.

~~~

“Remind me to never get on a plane again,” I told Vanity as she skips through the terminal.

“Oh, come on! It wasn’t that bad.” She said sarcastically.

“I’m going to ignore that comment. Now that we’re here, you can lead the way.” She smiles and proceeds to give me the rundown of what we need to do and where we need to go. It didn’t take long to find willing victims to help us. After going to the bathroom to switch out our contacts, we sat at the airport's bar and waited. It wasn’t long afterward that two men walk up to us and proceed to have a conversation.

“My friend and I are stuck here until we can get a hotel room. Somehow, our reservation didn’t go through, and so now we’re stuck. You wouldn’t by happen to know any hotels nearby that aren’t too expensive, would you?” Vanity said, laying it hard on Thing 1 while I played the shy and sad yet worried friend to Thing 2.

“Of course, we do. How about you guys come back to ours, and we can help you get settled in. We’re here on business, and we could use some company while here.” Thing 1 said. We smiled as if we were so grateful and played the willing idiots they thought we were. We left the bar and headed towards their car and to the hotel. We checked in and proceeded to the room. Vanity and I shared a look at one another and smiled. We weren’t going to kill them; we just needed to use them. Then what Vanity does next is entirely up to her. Over the next couple of days, we convinced Thing 1 and Thing 2 to buy us separate rooms but proceeded to see them. It was currently eleven at night, and Vanity and I decided to head towards Volterra. We checked out and went on foot, going unnoticed to others around. Once we hit some wooded areas, we set sail. About an hour later, I was given instructions.

“Turn left, go up a hill, sharp right, then wait.” I do as instructed, and Vanity follows. She asked what I was doing, and I just pointed to my head. After coming to the location, we wait.

“I know there’s a reason, but is there a reason as to why we’re here?” I look at her and shrug my shoulders. Not long afterward, we hear footsteps running towards us.

“Don’t be afraid.” I hear, and Vanity’s face pops in my head. I grab her hand and give her a smile to ease her worry. I let go of her hand as we come upon four figures. Not even 30 seconds later, I hear

“Hot damn.” I look at Vanity and watch her look at the bigger guy of the group. He smiles, and she smiles back at him. I hid my smile behind my hand and try not to laugh out loud. The big boy goes around the blonde little girl in front of him and steps up to her.

“Hello there, I’m Felix. What might your name be mia bella” he says, looking down at her. ‘Ol boy is huge, and I mean Vanity has to lift her head all the way up to look at him. She smiles at him and raises her hand towards him to shake.

“The names Vanity handsome.” She says, giving her signature smile that brings men weak to the knees. They smile at one another, and the little blonde girl announces herself.

“Felix, let's go. Aro will be expecting us.” And they runoff. Felix rolls his eyes and puts out an arm for Vanity to grab and acknowledges me to follow. We make it to the castle, and we are directed to the three kings Vanity has told me about. And dear God, are they some ugly ass people. Aren't Vampires supposed to be pretty?

Long story short, Vanity found her mate and is basically forced to stay here. I, on the other hand, have no need or want to stay here. Aro can read people's minds by touching them (ew) and picking up on my wanting to leave. No amount of coercing will get me to stay. Vanity understood, but I did promise to stay for a while. Just long enough to know that If I leave, I know Vanity would be safe. But by the time I chose to leave, I was instructed not to.

“You’re staying!” she said/asked me, jumping on my couch while Felix stood in the doorway. I smiled and shook my head.

“No, but I will stay for a little while longer,” I said, tapping on my timple. She nodded her head and hugged me. “Plus, I’m still iffy about Felix here. How do I know you won't hurt her?” I said, half-joking half-serious. But with a smile. He smiled back, understanding the underline warning in my tone.

“I promise you, I would kill myself before I hurt a hair on her head.” I nodded my head.

“Remember, I’ll know if something is wrong...” I said, looking at him.

“And that’s why I love you!” Vanity said, hugging my neck. “Did I ever thank you for choosing Italy as our destination?” I laughed and nodded my head.

“Only about a thousand times.” We continued to talk until Demitri came to let us know it was almost mealtime. We left and went to the main room. Felix and Vanity joined them as I spoke to the receptionist. All of a sudden, I notice three people leaving. A human girl and two vampires I recognized from Forks.

“Bella?” they stopped and looked at me. Her eyes widen as she recognized who I was.

“Y/n?! Wha-what, what happened to you?!” before I could respond, Vanity and Felix come back out, hearing the conversation.

“Well, I changed.” I shrug my shoulders. Alice and Edward are just as surprised, and Vanity breaks the awkwardness.

“Hi! I’m Vanity. Who are you guys?” she asked sweetly. I respond to her.

“This is Alice and Edward Cullen, and the human girl is Bella. We all lived in the same area as each other.” She nodded her head. She looked back at me and gave me a sad smile. We realized this is why I didn't leave when I necessarily wanted to.

“Come on. You can tell us everything on the way.” Alice said sweetly. I hugged the shit out of Vanity, and she gave them a warning as I gave Felix earlier. We grabbed some robes and headed back towards Forks. I have a lot of explaining to do.

~~~

Once we landed, I texted Vanity and talked to Alice, Bella, and Edward. I told them I will explain everything when we get to their house. Within an hour of talking to them, I figured Edward and Alice out quickly.

“Be careful of your thoughts and actions...” was the first thought. “He’s a Mindreader” was the second. And “She’s a Psychic” was the third. Edward was slightly standoffish from me knowing, but Alice was ecstatic. It was amusing. She and Vanity would be great friends, trouble makers, but best friends. When we pull up to their house, I notice the rest of the family waiting outside. To say that they were shocked, seeing me is a stretch. The same questions Bella had in Volterra was written on all of their faces. So we proceeded inside to where I explained what happened after my disappearance a few months ago.

“So, I guess I should start from the beginning...” and I proceeded to tell them what happened that night with Vanity, Leo, and the three wolves that came after us. How Vanity decided to throw me into the water and swim off with me. How I basically drowned, and she changed me while underwater. Biting every central artery area and swimming off with me. Now, how did I survive? No idea. It was painful. The transformation and the added pain of not breathing were so frightening that I passed out. We made it to land not too far from the cliff, and she ran towards Canada, unknowing to the wolves. There is where we stayed for the next few months, back and forth from Canada to Alaska and back. I explained what happened and why we were in Italy and how I made a full circle in under a year. Before anyone could ask a question, Edward called out,

“Jakes here.” I looked at him in shock. “You have to hide,” Edward said to me. I looked at him as if he lost his mind.

“What? Why? I won't hurt him. Jakes, my friend.” I said defensively. Believe it or not, I gained significant control over my thirst thanks to my ability. Learning to listen to it helped me better than expected. It took a while to trust it completely, but I’ve learned to do so.

“Y/n. Jake isn't the same Jake as before. He’s...changed.” Bella said. Oh no... the last time I heard that I lost my best friend. I shook my head.

“No...don't say that. Jake wouldn't know as long as I have my contacts in.” Before anyone could say anything, there was Jake, outside looking nothing how the Jake I knew before looked. He was outside asking for Bella to make sure she isn't a “leech.” What the fuck? I went outside to see what the hell was going on, and that’s when Jake saw me. I looked at him and saw why they said he was different. He changed, just like Jared did.

“Y/n! Is that...is that you!?” Jake yelled/whispered, looking at me. I smiled a wave awkwardly.

“Hey, Jake.” He looked in disbelief.

“Hey, Jake? Hey Jake?! You disappear for six months and come back as, as, THIS! And all you can say is HEY!!!” I flinch, taking a step back. “Did that girl do this to you?” I looked at him, confused.

“How did you know about that?” I asked. He shook his head and backed away. A few seconds later, he shifted...into a fucking wolf. Now it clicked together with why Jared went from friendly to hostile. Jake ran off into the woods and howled.

“Jake is going to tell Sam. Prepare to meet up with them,” Edward said. Which Rosalie responded with an eye roll and a sarcastic “Great.” Something tells me that things are about to get real interesting.

Part 1: Hello My Dear Friend

Part 2: Goodbye My Dear Friend

Part 3: Welcome My Dear Friend

Part 4: Why My Dear Friend

Part 5: End My Dear Friend

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larinah · 3 years

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August 20th, 19—. I HAVE HAD what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible. Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft. I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day’s illness. By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and-white work to satisfy my necessary wants. My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil. The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighbourhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came. I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude’s struck four. The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done.

It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat—enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.

There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.

I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.

I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.

From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper-coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.

I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.

It was twenty minutes to seven.

When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription—

CHAS. ATKINSON MONUMENTAL MASON WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone. A sudden impulse made me enter. A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short. It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket. He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different. He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand. I apologised for my intrusion. “Everything is hot and glary outside,” I said. “This seems an oasis in the wilderness.” “I don’t know about the oasis,” he replied, “but it certainly’s hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!” He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down. “That’s a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got hold of,” I said. He shook his head. “In a way it is,” he answered; “the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there’s a big flaw at the back, though I don’t expect you’d ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn’t mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There’s nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone.” “Then what’s it for?” I asked. The man burst out laughing. “You’d hardly believe me if I was to tell you it’s for an exhibition, but it’s the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know.” He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat. I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man. I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception. Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief. “There! what do you think of that?” he said, with an air of evident pride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860 HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY ON AUGUST 20TH, 19— “In the midst of life we are in death.”

FOR SOME TIME I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name. “Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere,” replied Mr. Atkinson. “I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?” “It’s a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine.” He gave a long, low whistle. “And the dates?” “I can only answer for one of them, and that’s correct.” “It’s a rum go!” he said. But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning’s work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn. “And it was only the day before yesterday,” he said, “that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!” Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant. “You probably heard my name,” I said. “And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?” I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right. “Come inside and have some supper,” said Mr. Atkinson. His wife is a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour. I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking. We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. “You must excuse my asking,” I said, “but do you know of anything you’ve done for which you could be put on trial?” He shook his head. “I’m not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that’s all I can think of. And they were small ones, too,” he added as an afterthought. He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. “Twice a day regular in the hot weather,” he said, “and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?” I told him my address. It would take an hour’s quick walk to get back home. “It’s like this,” he said. “We’ll look at the matter straight. If you go back home tonight, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there’s always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders.” He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh. “The best thing we can do,” he continued, “is for you to stay here till twelve o’clock. We’ll go upstairs and smoke; it may be cooler inside.” To my surprise I agreed.

WE ARE SITTING now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oilstone, smoking one of my cigars the while. The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window. The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel. It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour. But the heat is stifling. It is enough to send a man mad.

#william fryer harvey #august heat #august 20 #well i don't know why...it's just that i'm sitting here sweating again in mid august in portland

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