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#well a fragment of that song
scaramanko · 2 years
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I'm sobbing, I want a butch to sit me on their lap and teach me how to play the guitar that's just been sitting in the corner of my room and when I get something right they call me a good girl. That's all I want.
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sleephearts · 5 months
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ciaaaa babie it looks like dey finally released d first fontaine ost ૮꒰ྀི ´∩∩` ꒱ྀིა ! hv u had a listen to it yet ?? i fink m fave tracks are ‘ raven gloss of darkness ‘ ( it sounds so enchanting n’ also a bit haunting . . vry reminiscent of tchaikovsky’z swan lake imo ! ) and also ‘ la cite en la mer ‘ which is one of da prettie ones dat play underwater :3 ♡ ! !
coco...fank u infinitely 4 ur patience ૮₍ ˃̵͈᷄ . ˂̵͈᷅ ₎ა i went thru da whole fontaine ost twice 2day n all of it is SOO pretty!! theres such gud variety too- i hear baroque inspo + then get hit wif sum supa romantic guitar?? ouu 'm gna be listening 2 dis 4 da rest of my week ꒰。 › ·̮ ‹ 。꒱ + i <3 u sm 4 da recs too ..raven gloss of darkness IS v enchanting n reminiscent of swan lake ! i almost cried listening 2 la cite en la mer.. it made me miss smth dat i never rly had ; v ; iunno just a v sticky nostalgic feeling in my chest ou gosh... my personal favs r 'surging reminiscence' n 'all in the golden afternoon' ! i think both play underwater so i definitely hav a preference hehe >:D
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lil-melody-moon · 11 months
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I dreamt about John Bonham today.
I was curious how he played the rhythm on "Kashmir" and somehow I was lucky to meet him after the concert and ask him if he could show me. He was more than happy to do that! He even tried to teach me it, he was a real sweetheart! 💜
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everysongineverykey · 2 years
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fragments is possibly the most emotional ratchet and clank fansong that is also a thinly veiled metaphor for discovering one's gender identity. thank you once again mx pendium
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piplupod · 4 months
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i am quiet i am agreeable i am unerringly polite i am the perfectly obedient child i have no wants or needs or opinions of my own and i am a good little doormat who will not complain
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astral-catastrophe · 1 year
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so anyway, something I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned is the fact that I sometimes experience auditory hallucinations, and both yesterday morning and this morning(was partially asleep, sometime early morning when I definitely should have been sleeping), I experienced the ones that felt like like someone talking in my ear.
yesterday it was mom asking where the face wash was(and I even heard my bedroom door open, but when I checked it was closed lol)?And this morning was a very angry voice telling me to leave or some bs like that.
so yea. Sometimes auditory hallucinations can seem normal and they don’t bother me, but like this morning’s, fucking terrifying.
But whatever, it’s one of the rarer anxiety symptoms I experience akshsjff
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arielluva · 1 year
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me when i make playlists for my ocs: wow these songs are all so good (they’re all my favorite songs i listen to on repeat 5,000 times over) (i put these songs in almost every playlist i make)
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klineinie · 3 months
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𝐣𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐞 (𝐨𝐡, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡)
⤷ jubilee, a celebration of the passage of time ( and how all this, the good and bad, brings luke back to you) / luke castellan x (gn + child of aristaeus) reader
⤷ friends to lovers relationship study, whump moments, first love (twice), luke lives but with amnesia au + all titles referenced from the jubilee album by japanese breakfast
⤷ notes; pheww first fic of 2024 and it's long, the lockwood to pjo pipeline got me bad... please note that while i did read the books (in third grade), i chose to selectively ignore canon and aspects of luke's character, so things might be ooc asf
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♫ — posing for cars (woke from a dream in which you left me)
There are words first— muffled, swimming through his eardrums in the way that conch shells catch a tidal song in the waves, or how the sand grains that pass through the fingertips of children are just ten million quarter-fragments of unrealized history.
It feels like a veil laid over his senses, being submerged in water for too long, the pull of sleep waiting at the abyss between dreams and memory.
A voice says, quiet and dark, the gathering clouds on a horizon, a promise of a storm, “Luke Castellan will carry on a hero, but his crimes must be acknowledged.”
Another, low like the pulling tide, “Indeed. My son was quite adamant about his fate— we gods owe a debt, and I know you well enough to understand that you are eager to settle things quickly, brother.”
A pause in conversation, like a break in script for the characters to ponder. The veil of silence scratches against his damaged ears, crackles in the empty space like collisions between hydrogen atoms at the beginnings of a star’s birth.
“I’ve reached a decision. Luke Castellan, son of Hermes, will have his memories and dreams revoked until this council no longer deems him a threat. It is a far less cruel fate compared to others over the eons.”
Not a single protest, no curves or bumps in an otherwise linear road. Sound lies dead in the still air.
“Very well then,” says the thundercloud voice contentedly, “let him return.”
( He won’t remember much when he wakes up, only the voices and dulling pain and light— pre-dawn rays that play over his lax face, shine through the flesh of his eyelids so that his sight can be granted the small mercy to have something to fade to black from. )
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♫ — paprika (lucidity came slowly)
It’s really like a dream about falling, in a way. The fact, fleeting when he grasps it, tells him that his body is shutting down faster than his mind can keep up with, so it must fire an abrupt signal through his neurons in order to jerk him awake.
Luke Castellan lands, back bouncing upon the springs of a mattress as he’s jerked to consciousness.
Eight billion people on the planet and the first thing etched onto the blank slate of his mind is the rise of your brow and the scent of medicinal honey.
The dawn brings with it rays of light that slip over the curve of your face and refract through your irises golden, Midas-touched.
Eight billion people.
You.
( Seconds can feel like lifetimes. He only needs two to commit all of you to memory, the curve of your nose and the slant of your lips and the shape of your eyes, how the sun tilts shadows and highlights over the geometry of your features. )
“You…” He searches for the words, sifting through the little information left in his mind to try to compare this situation to something similar. He comes back with nothing.
“You’re awake,” you finish for him, and your voice makes his eyes flutter, a viscous substance sinking him deeper into a space removed from lucidity. Your face draws in on itself. “It’s too early, go back to sleep.”
He finds two of your knuckles lightly tapping the space between his eyes before they roll back as he falls once again into the dark abyss of sleep.
-✦✦✦-
“Chiron,” you whisper once Luke’s breaths deepen, gazing into the dawn through a windowpane, fingers sticky with the gold honey you’ve been smearing onto gauze, “what are we going to do with him?”
The centaur only shakes his head mournfully. “Even I myself am not sure. The gods have their own reasons for this.”
“They’re terrible at reasoning, then.”
Chiron’s mouth is a steady gash beneath his beard. “I can’t say that I disagree, child.”
Your hum of acknowledgment is curt, short in the way a dagger’s blade is sharpened and shaped. Chiron’s reflection in the pane nods in a silent goodbye before his shadow fades away to check on the other campers.
The room is silent now, save for the occasional stirring breaths from Luke. He shifts ever-so-slightly, sheets rippling around the familiar curve of his body.
You stop momentarily to gaze at the way his lengthy limbs splay crescent amongst the honey-soaked bandages that grace his skin, knowing that when he wakes again, he won’t find familiar comfort in anything, a discordant note standing out in an otherwise harmonious symphony.
You let him sleep, a stutter in routine wrapped with mercy and forgiveness. Shadows flit past the pane once again, the Apollo cabin by the singsong way they talk amongst each other.
They’re here for the bandages slathered in antibacterial honey, the smell hanging tangy and sharp in the air; a few linger in the doorway to glance at you in pity, Luke in wariness. You expect everyone to know now about what their parents decided to do to him.
Will Solace’s eyes meets yours momentarily, the blue of them shining crystalline in the dawn like the shallows of a sun-soaked beach. They glitter when he blinks, once at Luke, twice at you, thrice in understanding as he offers a small smile of thanks; a wish of good luck is tucked into the secret fold of his lips.
( You’ll probably need it. )
Luke makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat when he wakes. It’s a struggle for him to open his eyes— you know this because you’d administered to him a small amount of honey infused with a sedative when Chiron had first carried his limp and broken body through the door.
“You’re awake,” you repeat, a ghost of words, voice dipping low as to not startle him. Luke slowly claws his way out of the sheets, blinking dazed in the afternoon light. His eyes focus on yours in a haze.
“Who…”
“Am I, who are you, where are you?” you finish for him again, an old habit that never found its way to dying hard. He offers out his arm instinctively, trusting, when yours reaches out to pick at the corner of a peeling bandage.
Your fingertips, deft, are still wet with honey when you peel back the dressing wrapped around his underarm. The dagger wound there is nasty, but the draining ooze and pinkening skin means that it’s healing, and that the ambrosia worked.
“Yea,” he says around a cardboard tongue, reaching stiffly with his free hand to grasp shakily at a cup of water on the nightstand. He swallows it in a single backwards knock of his head and dabs at the corner of his lips with his wrist. “Everything you just said.”
Your mouth turns up, a beckoning lamp to his moth of curiosity. “Your name,” you start, “is Luke Castellan, child of Hermes.”
“Like the herald?”
“You remember your mythology. That’s good, it means you’ll have a better time adjusting.” Luke averts his eyes at the comment, ears shining pink. You continue. “I’m a child of Aristaeus, a minor god— he’s the patron of rustic stuff like beekeeping and home crafts, basically Demeter if she was a male who loved the cottage life.”
He snorts, childish, and it feels like you’re twelve all over again, rolling in the fields, mouths smeared pink with juice and strawberry seeds embedded in your tongues. The taste of your first summer with Luke still lingers unsoured at the back of your mouth.
“So,” he says while you pull off his old wound wrappings, “let me get this straight. You and I—” he gestures with a finger “—are like demigods or something, as in Perseus and Heracles?”
You nod. “Except Perseus and Heracles are—”
“Zeus’ kids, and we have different parents, yea.”
“I expected you to be calm, but not this calm.”
Luke’s face blooms into a tight grin, cracked and curled with a wilt at the edges, and it’s noticeable, the way his eye twitches. “I’m processing. Sorry, it’s just going so fast and I don’t know what to ask first, I…”
He sighs, frustration bleeding into his voice.
“‘How do I start’, you mean?”
Luke hums, a little sound that vibrates through the air, hangs like the first notes to a hymn. “Did we…know each other?”
“Everyone here knew you.”
“That’s not what I’m asking,” and then again, “did we know each other?”
You turn to the window, silent, mind lingering on that grove a little ways from the strawberry fields, where the persimmons hang ripe during cold season and little camellias unfurl, an assurance of the coming spring.
“Yea,” you breath, a little puff of air that fogs the glass pane, like mist settling superimposed over the meadow outside, “you could say it like that.”
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♫ — tactics (memories of peaches, the sun on my neck)
You’d just turned fourteen when you first set eyes on him, all downy black waves of hair and dirt-smeared cheeks. He’s holding back tears, a glittering film of saline that obscures the deep brown of his irises; a little girl is tucked shivering into his side, wise eyes peering through dark curls— she can’t be more than six or seven. One of the newer satyrs, Grover, stands behind them, head tilted downward in shame.
Luke Castellan, Hermes, and Annabeth Chase, Athena, their names escape his mouth trembling like broken-winged birds trying and failing to flutter off south in the winter, but Thalia, she—
( There’s a new tree on the hill, looming tall amidst the gathering clouds that promise rain. Power radiates from it in waves, blanketing the camp in a humidity reminiscent of late Long Island summers. Ah, how uninspired of Olympus’ king. )
You follow in the wake of Chiron’s tail as he escorts them to the Big House infirmary, giving time to the Hermes and Athena cabins to prepare. Some of the Apollo kids are there already, restocking supplies; one with flaxen hair hands off two orange shirts and leather strings to the newcomers, and another with honeyed eyes dabs alcohol-drenched cotton over their lacerations.
“Do you want tea?” you ask when the old centaur’s tail flicks against your back, a signal to break the web of silence. “I have, uh…well, I only have chamomile right now.”
Annabeth nods quickly, lips pressed together as a chill passes through the infirmary window. Luke gives you a sidelong glance, wary. The curtains ripple in the night air, allowing the moon to lay soft on the curves of Luke’s face.
It gives him a somber look with the way the cold light paints his burnished edges, like clothes hung too long on a line, colors bleached away by the sun.
“What about you?” you ask, a murmur carried slow in the eddies of air left by the medics’ departing wake. “Honey, sugar, milk?”
“Whatever you want,” he responds curtly, mouth set in a line as hard as marble, bearing resemblance to the statues carved stoic in museums.
You huff lightly, already retreating to the kitchen. “Alright.”
Chiron clears his throat, steps forward and leans down kindly to meet Luke’s gaze halfway. They talk in quiet tones, secrets sewn into a memory only they will know.
Annabeth shuffles close behind you— she’s taller than you had been at seven, the top of her head just inches from your shoulder.
“Luke likes sweet things,” she admits, arms crossed in a loose defense, guarded when she glances at the dark windows. “I saw him eat three chocolate bars in a row before.”
“Really?” you laugh, soft in the way snow falls on Half-Blood Hill in the winter. “I never would’ve guessed.” She nods, lets down her arms. You step aside, making room for her to watch the kettle come to a boil, fascinated with how the dried leaves unfurl under the pouring braid of water. “First time having tea?”
“I had coffee before, it wasn’t that good,” she says. “Can I try it plain first, then add things until I like it?”
“Sure,” it’s a quickfire response. You’ve never met another kid so engaged in the art of tea making, whether they were acting or not. It’s a nice change of pace. “I think Chiron’ll live if we have a little sugar. Careful, don’t burn your tongue.”
Annabeth blows gingerly at the amber liquid, smiling at how the steam parts to make way for her slipstream breaths. She takes a small lap and you laugh at the face she makes.
“Wanna try some honey I made?”
She nods, eager to experiment. You grab a spoon, dipping it into the jar Chiron keeps at the counter, a gift from you to celebrate your claiming. Annabeth’s eyes glitter when the taste diffuses across her mouth.
“Hypothesis,” she offers, a true gem of intelligence, “I’ll like tea with honey only.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I think milk tastes gross, ‘specially whole milk. Chamomile is meant to be calming, so sugar would probably do the opposite.”
You grin, brows raised, when she hops to the cutlery drawer, pulling out a clean utensil to scoop more honey into her drink. She uses the spoon she’d already licked to stir, taking sips between additions to get a hang of the flavor.
Four spoons later, Annabeth nods in satisfaction. She studies the detailing on the utensil's handle, memorizing each cut in the silverware, curls bobbing along to each tilt of her head. “I’m remembering which spoon I used so I can get the same combination next time,” she says when you glance at her curiously.
“I’m happy you like it.”
She peers at you again, dark eyes flashing with a flame you’d find in someone older than their years. “I like you and your tea and your honey. You’re nice, a lot nicer than other older kids. Just like Luke.”
You smile at the compliment, warmth blooming in your chest, seeping past that ribbed cage of bone and spreading to the tips of your fingers. “Thanks.”
“We just met, but I think we’ll be really close, like siblings.”
Straight to a point, six steps ahead; that’s what you glean from Annabeth Chase. You can tell she’ll fit right in with the other Athena campers, maybe even make it to counselor; you know that the day she surpasses you is inevitable.
“I’d love that.”
-✦✦✦-
Luke can hear everything. It’s a thing he’s trained himself to do, a hunter’s skill honed, practiced, and perfected. Chiron only speaks a few words to him, condolences and basic camp rules. Says that his half-siblings will always be there for him, extend a guiding hand when the tunnel loses light.
( He doesn’t believe the centaur. )
He slides out from the doorway he’s been lurking behind, the shadows clinging to his shoulders, leaving their little imaginary claws in the fabric of his camp shirt.
Luke takes in the sight of Annabeth’s little form swathed in orange, perched on a chair with the toes of her shoes dangling a breadth above the floor. She’s sleeping, cheek pressed against the oaken table surface, cornerfolds of her lips sticky with content by the way they curl upwards.
The chamomile and honey combination must have done wonders for the demigod child. He’s glad, a joy that unfurls like tea leaves in his chest, that she’ll be able to sleep full nights at camp.
“Your tea’s starting to chill.”
Luke meets your gaze, irises overlaid with the warm tone of the ceiling lights, the dual beads wrapped around the leather of your necklace glimmering and gold-spun; Midas-touched in the way the sun shines through the veins of dappled leaves.
He threads his hand under the mug’s handle, cradling the warm glass in his cold palm. The tea is amber, the color of dried ichor, spilt godsblood, hazy with the addition of honey and sugar.
“Thanks,” he says, staring at how the liquid eddies with every tilt of his hand. “Chamomile, right?”
You nod, a light hum escaping the column of your throat as you slide into the seat beside Annabeth. You join her in resting your head against the table, watching her at peace, wood lacquer gleaming under your skin in a haze.
“It’s good for sleep. The Demeter kids let me pick some from their gardens,” you say, an offer for him to walk right into your life. “And I made the honey myself.”
“Who’s your parent?” he asks, curiosity an overwhelming tide that flows over him.
“A minor god,” you share, words pungent at the seams, a bite of rind. “Aristaeus. He does beekeeping and handy stuff— Chiron says that it’s close to something called smallholding.”
“You don’t have a cabin, then.” Your expression blooms into a bitter one; Luke didn’t mean for it to come out almost cruel. “Sorry,” he apologizes, stitching a tear before it gets too big.
“It’s okay, I’m used to it. I don’t really wish I had one to be honest, because I’d be alone in there. At least in the Hermes cabin, it’s warm at night ‘cause of everyone’s body heat. You’re a Hermes kid, aren’t you?”
“Yea.” The silence is a break in script so that Luke can finish his cold tea. The glass makes no sound when it’s placed back onto the table, beads of amber liquid distorted at the bottom. “It’s good. Sweet.”
“Annabeth told me that you had a sweet tooth,” you admit, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. His eyes are brown, the shade of toiled, nutrient-rich earth— the kind of soil that’d give year-round growth without tiring.
Luke chuckles under his breath, looking at the aforementioned girl with a swirl of fondness in his irises. “Snitch.”
-✦✦✦-
Two summers pass in a blur. You and Luke are sixteen, Annabeth, nine. She grows in height and prowess, climbing the ranks of the Athena cabin. You hear that they’re planning an election for the next counselor as the current one prepares to leave the nest for college.
“Don’t tell me you grew another two inches overnight,” Luke grumbles when Annabeth bounds up to the two of you. She’s fitted in a bronze chest-plate, blue paint smeared over it, and she grins when the boy tugs at the leather straps. “Wow, I wish I had this for the last game.”
Chiron strolls by, pats Annabeth warmly on the shoulder. “This is a good piece of armor. I can see it serving you well.”
When the centaur is far enough, Luke leans in between you and Annabeth, hand shielding his mouth. “I heard Clarisse’s new spear is electric. Travis got too close last Friday, said it hurt like a—” he looks past your shoulder to make sure Chiron is out of earshot; by the face he makes, wide-eyed and meek, he’s been caught “—ahem, he was out for the rest of the game.”
Annabeth makes a face. “I thought Hermes was Team Red last time. We beat and picked you for the next game, remember?”
“Yea, you did.” You cringe at the reminder, the unhealed bruise on your lower back throbbing purple and dark, a sore reminder of being pushed to the ground by a Dionysus kid. Luke thumbs his brow, the beginnings of a faint white scar carving its way into his skin. He says that he tripped over and cut himself on a prank wire that Travis and his newly-arrived brother had set up, in the middle of friendly territory.
The younger girl says, brows furrowing and lip curled in bewilderment, “Did Clarisse at least get punished? It’s against the rules to attack an ally.”
Luke scoffs lightheartedly, rubbing slim fingers over his knuckles. They’re bruised from hand-to-hand practice, little blushing peaks of tendon and bone. “Travis was just making a big deal out of it, you know how he is.”
You hum a note of agreement. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knocked himself out on purpose every time Hermes had to play with Ares.”
“I think he’s been out— or at least let himself get captured— three of the last five times we’ve played Red.”
“No way. He should’ve been on dishwashing duty instead of me! I say ‘fuck’ once and I’m arms deep in lava, he cheats out of Flag and gets pampered in the infirmary?”
“That’s because Chiron caught you saying it in front of a six-year-old,” Luke laughs, jostling your shoulder with his, warmth pressing into your side. His lips are peeled all the way back in a grin, eyes crescent slivers of joy and lashes brushing soft against his sun-drunk freckles. Like shimmering crow’s feathers.
You manage to wrap an arm loosely around his neck, holding him in a headlock that you know he can easily worm his way out of, knuckles finding home against his scalp. Annabeth looks towards the sky in exasperation, rolling her leather cord in her fingers, the two beads clacking against her father’s ring. “And who was it that swept my feet out, huh?”
“Oh please, you knew you were going to lose, champ.”
“‘Champ’ this, ‘champ’ that— just wait ‘til my bees get their stingers in you, Castellan, just you wait.”
-✦✦✦-
“Did you…” Luke trails off, like the wispy end of twine after being pulled too tight, stretched too wide. A clear snap in the middle, two limp pieces of string; one for before the war, one for the aftermath.
He shifts a little in the bed, sheets crinkling paper-like, wound dressing gone save for the little sticky spots of honey and medical-grade adhesive. His mouth clicks damp when he opens it again. “Was I loved?”
“Very.”
-✦✦✦-
A quarter-mile off from the Big House is the Big Shed (real funny name, hilarious, in fact), smack-dab in the middle of the verdant strawberry fields. The wood panels are painted robin’s egg, the same shade as the house, blue in the way the sky passes over camp during high noon.
It’s spacious, interior lacquered dark, cobwebs in the corners gleaming like star-spun gold when you creak the door open on a midwinter dawn. Luke yawns from behind you.
“Don't know why it’s called the ‘Big Shed’ when it’s more like a ‘Mid-Sized Cottage,’” he says, voice already creaking at the edges with puberty. He’s already gained a few inches too. “If you packed them like sardines, you could fit all the unclaimed and minor gods’ kids in here.”
“You mention this to anyone and I’ll be the one attacking allies next flag day. Chiron’s letting me use the shed for beekeeping and stuff, I don’t need a would-be Ares wrecking it up.”
“You have an unusual animosity towards the Ares cabin,” Luke tells you, swaying around in the wide space.
The dust suspended in the air shines white, luminated by the sunlight streaming in through the two windows built into the shed-slash-cottage; it coats him in a sharp and angelic glow, like exposure and brightness turned too high on a developing photo.
“Annabeth taught you that word, didn’t she?” you sigh, flipping an old lance in the corner, using the butt-end of it to take down the spun-gold webs. “I only dislike Ares’ kids because they go for your ankles with the blade’s flat side. Makes them bruise, and then you can’t run very fast the next game.”
“Aw, poor you. Need me to kiss it better, champ?” he says with sarcasm dripping off the honeycomb of his voice, holding the sheathed end of his sword to bat at the ceiling corners.
“If you’re fine with licking the blood-n-sweat-soaked heel of my sock, then feel free to go wild, Castellan.”
It’s easy to be with Luke; oftentimes, you find that your breaths fall into perfect step with his. Even if one or the other of you goes a little faster, your beats still match, syncopation; a musician could keep a time signature or compose a romantic waltz to it, whichever of the two.
Luke breaks the silence first, cracks it in the middle like spiderwebbed ice under the quicksilver blades of a skater. “I’m…going on a quest. I’ll be gone by the time spring ends and come back in the summer.”
“Oh.” You wish you could say more, but suddenly you’ve become Sisyphus, punished by the divine with the boulder lodged in your throat that is too heavy to push through. All you can manage without the weight crashing down is a stupid, “You’re leaving?”
“Only for a couple months. I thought against it at first, but my dad offered me the quest and I couldn’t refuse,” he shares, sheepishly palming the back of his neck. “I can take care of myself, you know. You don’t need to worry.”
Now that you’re looking at him, somber in the pale morning rays, you can see every second of the sixteen years and ten months eroded onto his face. He looks older than he should be, burdened with the stress of being a demigod.
The light shifts over his features as the sun reaches greater heights, bruised shadows spilling out from the sharp angles that all of Hermes’ children have.
“No,” you stammer, “no, why would I be worried? I know you’re good, better than me, even.”
“Don’t say that. You’re amazing too.” Luke gazes up through his fan of crow’s feather lashes. You don’t miss the way they shine dimly, wet with unshed tears. He laughs through it, blinking quickly as to not let the saline film burst. “You’ll make sure no one steals my bunk though, right? And you’ll burn offerings in my place?”
“Yea,” you breathe, the word condensed into a puff of icy air. It billows white, clouds your vision momentarily in a blizzard-like haze. When you come back from it, Luke is still there in front of you, eyes red, Adam’s apple bobbing in a muddle of emotion. “Course I will. You’d do the same.”
“Thanks,” he whispers. A spot of water falls at his feet, washing away a small dot of the dust that coats the floor. “I’ll bring enough drachmas so that I can Iris Message you whenever I’m safe.”
“You better. When you’re back, we can hang out in here. I’ll have a proper beehive outside by then, and I’ll borrow a loom and a spinner from the Athena cabin so I can teach you how to make yarn. We can weave a blanket together for Annabeth in time for fall,” you muse, to which Luke smiles at the thought, soft like the snow that blankets Thalia’s evergreen needles.
“Threatening me with a good time, champ? I might just want to come back in one piece.”
You breeze past the joke, taking a gliding step towards him, closing the gap, bridging the abyss. You both crumple to the floor entangled in each other’s arms, your head pressed underneath the jut of his chin.
The three painted beads of his necklace tickle your lashes. From here, with your forehead against the column of his neck, you can feel how his jugular pulses faster with the pump of blood that keeps him alive. The wandering point of your nose, a compass, finds its true north in the hollow between his collarbones; Luke curls closer, words unspoken, the tracing shapes of his fingers against your back a promise in a language only the two of you understand.
-✦✦✦-
“I have this feeling,” he confesses suddenly, years into the future, soil-rich irises soaked in hope. “That we’re like opposite poles of the same magnet. Like I’ve seen you in a dream that I can’t really remember or you’re a face that I’ll always look for in a crowd. You know what I mean?”
-✦✦✦-
Silence in a hazy dawn, lit by the midwinter sun, dust angels dancing around your melded frames on the floor. Then—
“I’ll wait for you.”
It’s all he needs to cup your face, place his lips on your temple. Luke lets himself be selfish just this once, the bitterness in his chest simmering down as if you’re the dying flame controlling its boil. You leave a kiss on the corner of his jaw, just underneath the thin lobe of his ear where the sun shines through it and paints his neck a blushing red.
( To Luke, it’s a blessing from you, worth far more than his father’s. )
He doesn’t need to say I love you, nor do you. You both know it already, like a forgotten dream resurfacing at the right time, déjà rêvé.
-✦✦✦-
“Yea,” you breathe, the words diffusing through the still air of the Mid-Sized Cottage. The beehive outside buzzes excitedly, a light breeze from an open window twanging at the wool fibers hung taunt on the spinning wheel, brushing over the empty loom, its return to the Athena cabin long overdue. “I know the feeling.”
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♫ — kokomo (though it may not last, just know that i’ll be here longing)
Luke keeps his promise, comes back the next summer now seventeen years old with a dragon’s claw in his fist. A scar runs from his eye like a tear track, splits his cheek, a single bolt of lightning.
He wades through the whispers and rumors, swims through the crowd in a straight shot to the cabin so that he can flop onto the bunk you saved for him and drift off in a dream about weaving looms and wool blankets.
You jump up when the entire cabin cheers as he walks through the doors, silhouetted by the midsummer rays. Luke sees that you’ve changed too, a little wiser, spine a bit longer, eyebags deeper and new scars littering your fingers like a healing constellation.
Later you open your palm, a bead resting in the bed of your flesh like a pearl in an oyster— he pulls you close by the waist into a corner and kisses you in earnest thanks, for getting an extra bead for him and for saving his bunk, the offerings, the messages, your love.
“I took in a new hive,” you whisper to him that night, cradled under the feather-soft down of his duvet. His knuckles brush over your scars, like five little Halfblood Hills blushed pink with dusk scraping at a star-freckled sky. “They make a habit of stinging. And then it gets itchy after.”
( You’d told him sheepishly during an Iris Message that you’d given up your own bunk to a little kid no older than four; he had just smiled sweetly, knowing you could never resist a child’s puppy eyes.
You can sleep in my bunk, Luke had told you, shimmering crystalline in the rainbow’s refraction, prismatic. It’s one way to make sure no one steals it. And when I get back, it won’t be so cold at night.
Didn’t realize you were such a flirt, Castellan.
You remember that he had winked, cheeky, like he was the male lead of some Hallmark romcom. It’s the natural Hermes charm, champ. )
-✦✦✦-
You’re tracing the soft pink outline of his scar when it hits you like a freight train. You realize then that he’s changed, gone through some kind of metamorphosis during his quest; it had been so subtle and overarching that it’d completely washed over you for a good couple of weeks; the occurrences had become so common, unremarkable and predictable like a flock of geese flying south for the winter that you hadn’t thought anything of it.
It’s not like you don’t understand that people change as time ticks on.
You know that your skin has started to prickle with cactus needles as your abilities grew with the increase in risk; Annabeth’s behavior is trending on the moody side with every new camper, waiting still for the day she can prove herself— she likes coffee now too; hell, even Clarisse calms down, temper dimming down to a low, simmering boil.
And Luke…. Call it intuition, hypothesis, whatever— you only know, a fact engraved so deep in your dermis that it punctures muscle and scrapes bone, that something’s wrong. But you trust, still, that you both will hang on, hold fast, brave the storm like all the heroes that came before you.
But the thing is, heroes don’t live happy. Perseus will turn himself to stone with the very weapon that bestowed upon him glory; Heracles will die deceived, betrayed by the unwitting hand of his lover; Achilles will perish in a ruined city, the indestructible man shattered by something so little and insignificant as a spear-pointed arrowhead.
Heroes don’t live happy, but Luke isn’t a hero.
You know this, a memory from the night he came back, woven in the dark warmness of the Hermes cabin, a tapestry of sleep-mussed mumbles.
You remember how he woke with a bare, rattling gasp, the raw and sandpaper-dry tremble of it reminding you of the sound that people make when they’re close to death.
“I failed,” he whispers into your skin when the rush of it ebbs, a sanctuary of truth. Luke swallows gasps between his words. “I wasn’t ready, wasn’t strong enough. He sent me to Hesperides, y’know? Told me about the apples, said that if I could get one for him, he’d share it with me.”
You hum in sympathy— a comforting hymn, balm against a bruise, kissing it better— thread your fingers through his hair and watch how the moonlight shines on the black strands. White and black, a sneer of ink on parchment by a careless hand.
“You wanted immortality from it?”
“No,” he says, quieter, a little wet sound wrenching from his throat, and you know, in a reminiscent daze, that this’ll be the last you see of him like this, vulnerable. “I just wanted to see if he’d still be proud of me.”
Luke isn’t a hero, and the whole of camp knows this, locks it away in their Pandora’s box of open secrets. But Luke isn’t happy either, so the habit you’ve grown of burning extra offerings never dies.
You think of it as a cumulative toast, of sorts, to the gods that never cared, hopes mixed into the divine ash like poison in wine.
-✦✦✦-
Luke disappears midway through the field trip to Olympus. Your fingertips are left cold in your coat pockets despite the crackling energy generated by Zeus’ domain, and it’s not until later in the elevator ride down do they warm up again.
He slips through the gaps to fill the one beside you, slides his hand into your pocket and twines your fingers together; you don’t miss how his sword-calloused palm pops with static at the contact with your skin. You ignore it and try not to flinch at the quick, needle-like pierce of pain.
“Sorry, I had to use the bathroom. Ate something bad at breakfast,” he murmurs, leaning into your side to kiss your cheek, curls brushing against your temple. Luke rests an arm along the horizon of your shoulders, slim fingers toying with your leather cord, watching how the seven beads— two more than his own— slide back and forth on the string.
“Do they even have toilets up there?” you whisper, amusement bleeding into the corners of your voice. “Ambrosia and nectar don’t really get digested normally, so I just assumed that gods never really needed to poop unless they did it on purpose.”
“You’re right,” he says between breathy laughs, wispy with the winded heaves of his chest, “Zeus probably wouldn’t look so high and mighty if everyone saw him hunched over in the middle of a shit. And to answer your question, the seats are solid gold.”
“Absolute insanity.”
-✦✦✦-
Percy Jackson is a sprightly boy of twelve, everything about him cool-toned in the way the sun shines and refracts under the sea’s waves. When Grover stumbles into camp dragging the demigod by the armpits, shouting of Minotaur horns and flipped cars and moms dissolving into clouds of ichor-hued dust, people obviously take interest. Especially Annabeth. And on a sourer note, Clarisse too.
Even Luke, who’d been in a deeply sullen mood, had turned his face up to the angle where the light played over his eyes just right, irises shining a liquid gold, amber and gilded, Midas-touched with something you’d only learned to identify as a revelation.
What kind, you weren’t sure, but it stung as badly as taking in a new hive, to know that your efforts to cheer him up were undermined by something as commonplace as a new arrival.
Though, you swear to yourself then that you don’t hate Percy for that. You get where he’s coming from, the sinking feeling of neglection because he’s unclaimed, the anger that comes with it; you know, too well, how it feels to think you’re unwanted. You’ve been in his shoes for your first year and a half at camp.
But then he gets claimed by Poseidon, and that summer, Luke leaves for good. It’s a flash of events, like a too-fast slideshow that you can’t take notes on or a seconds-long flipbook that took months to complete; you recognize the familiarity of an out-of-body experience when reminiscing about a memory you can’t really remember, the alien tang of it bitter on your tongue.
They talk of his betrayal for months, about how he had tried to kill Percy and his siding with the Titans; the gathering clouds draw close to Thalia’s tree, a promise of a storm and the coming war, a warning to the lightning thief.
You’ve accepted, another fact carved deep enough to shatter bone, pierce your heart, that Luke made a choice, the wrong one; you convince yourself that you made the right one by not blaming Percy for the stares and the whispers, the shoulder-checking and glares that scream about your suspiciousness.
Still, you keep his bed in Cabin 11, burn extra offerings in his place, check the Big House’s fountain for missed Iris Messages. Hope is a bitter thing, like poison in wine. You had swallowed it down anyways.
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♫ — be sweet (make it up to me and know it’s better)
“Where do you go at night?” Luke asks, swathed in his red knit sweater. The weather’s gotten colder still, a far cry from the humidity that had rolled a suffocating blanket over Manhattan on the eighteenth of August— the day he came back to you. His fingers tap a song on the glass in his hands.
“What d’you mean by that?” you deflect, spine shaped gentle in a curve as you sit at the spinning wheel, wool slipstreaming between your deft fingers.
The device makes a soft sound, a shh shh that comes with each press of your foot on the pedal, like a mother hushing a child to sleep. It’s a calming song that he’s used to hearing in the in-betweens of the cottage.
( He doesn’t dream, hasn’t been able to since he woke up that day, but sometimes he thinks he can hear it in his sleep, the hush of wool, like the blades of a rippling meadow rubbing together under a blanket of sun or the friction of a cricket song in the quiet summer.
He thinks that once, you told him that you’d teach him how to spin and use a loom, that you’d weave a blanket together for someone special; as far as he knows, it’s only a figment of his imagination used to fill the blank spaces. )
His thumb strokes the glass arch of his mug’s handle, amber liquid trembling with every movement. “You come at sunrise to take care of your bees or spin yarn and tell me stories, bring me meals and sometimes Chiron comes, and then you leave. If this is meant to be your space, then where do you sleep when I use the bed? Are you being forced to sacrifice your time, caring for me?”
“No one’s forcing me to do anything,” you say quickly with no room for insinuation. Luke realizes the absence of the wheel’s shush, you having stopped to fully lend him attention. You sigh, and it’s heavy, a weight that pulls your chest downward with the exhale; he’s reminded of rain catching leaves and how they sink with each drop. “I sleep in Cabin Eleven. There’s someone I’m waiting on to return, and I’m saving a bunk for him.”
“Who?” he gathers the courage to ask. His chest pangs— is this how monsters feel when their physical essence is ripped apart by Celestial Bronze?
You smile, set down the unspun rove of wool, soft like the waking of dawn, bitter grief sewn into the gentle curl of your lip.
“You. I’m waiting for you, and I always have been.” And the pain ebbs away, assuaging the muscle in his ribbed cage of bone.
“You know,” he starts, staring down into the eddy of tea, swirling with sugar and the honey he had helped you make. The words waterfall from his lips, spilling, escaping like fluttering doves, and you listen patiently— that’s what he loves most about you, among other things. “That on the day I went with you to the cabins, I wandered off while you talked to the Apollo kids. There was this girl, tall with curly hair— she pushed me. And then a guy, he had blue eyes and four beads, helped me up.
“He told me that he forgave me, even though I made the wrong choice. He was with another girl, she had black and blonde braids, one was white— she said that I was a good brother, and to stay out of the inner camp until they get everything sorted out.”
“Clarisse, Percy, Annabeth,” you name them in an exhale, pulling your stool over. He thinks, briefly, of cradling you on the floor in the haze of a midwinter dawn. A dance of dust angels to a silent, harmonizing symphony. “That tracks.”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he mumbles, bringing the mug close to his eyeline. Stares from the glass lip into his warbled reflection, studies the scar he can’t remember getting, watches it twist with each watery ripple. Monstrous. “I can’t remember things for a reason— the gods took that away. I angered them, killed people or something, and they let me live at a cost.”
Your chin dips down in something he can only identify as a mix of shame, reluctance, and grief.
“You can’t dream because it’s how—” and then you fade for a moment like a rove spun so thin that the fibers starts to separate “—you were exploited for vulnerabilities. Your memories, the dreams, they’ve been sealed until Olympus stops seeing you as a threat.”
And then Luke looks down at himself; the pills of wool on his red sweater, how the knit cuffs of his sleeves peel away from each other; the thinned knees of his jeans, washed white with use; the striped socks that clad his feet and the scuffed, extremely creased house-shoes he’s shoved them in.
“I don’t see how I’m a threat.”
It makes you laugh in a huff. He nurses the mug, laps at the last residuals as you continue, maintaining sidelong eye contact.
“To start, Kronos visited your dreams and manipulated you into starting the Second Titan War.”
( You don’t even blink twice when Luke sputters into the glass. )
It’s not even the worst of it, because then you tell him, “You were also blackmailed into taking a bath in the River Styx, then you got possessed, almost revived the Titan King, and at the very end you stabbed yourself in the armpit and exorcised him and somehow, you didn’t die instantly so—” you pause to take a deep breath, winded “—they chose to save you and here we are.”
“You’re lying. There’s no way they’d lift a finger to help the same guy who tried to overthrow them.”
“I didn’t believe it either, but Percy was being serious. He vouched for you.”
“No way.”
You clamp your jaw, seal your mouth and give him a pointed look. It’s all raised brows and pursed lips, bunched shoulders and splayed, shrugging hands. And though he’s dyslexic, he can still read body language to know that your expression is telling him, it is what it is.
Luke makes a face regardless, cards a hand through his black hair, fingers catching on the singular white curl he has, like a smear of correction fluid. “Come on, champ, you really believe that the Olympians would bow down to some demigod?”
“I mean,” you manage, and there’s a faraway haze clouding your irises, reminiscent, scar freckled palms scraping his when you pull the empty mug away, “they did to Percy.”
You trace the lip of the glass absently as Luke folds his hands together, twines his fingers so that the pinkened Halfblood Hills of his knuckles form a pale little valley.
“Okay, okay. Say he did,” he sighs, cupping his face in his palms, the pads of his fingers pressing white into his eyes in the way he always does when he has headaches. “But if the ‘me’ before Kronos saw how much better camp is doing, I’d be less inclined to revenge.”
And then the beats click together, syncopation.
“You think, Castellan?”
“I don’t think, champ, I know.”
You smile, genuine this time, and he takes a moment to engrain that into his mind too, the way your mouth curls upward like the peel of an orange, how your eyes crinkle half-mast into little crescent moons, the lines that are drawn onto your face.
He thinks, that in a past life, you must’ve been a mortal that gods and poets and rulers fell for. His Penelope, Hyacinthus, Psyche, Adonis; your Odysseus, Apollo, Eros, lover.
And Luke says, a whisper that fills the space, gold seeping into the cracked clay of your soul, ichor from the veins of a sun, healing in a spiderweb of scars— kintsugi, “I think I loved you in a life before this.”
You hum, the note of it hanging in the air like a maestro’s hand before a symphony. The small faucet in the Mid-Sized Cottage rushes with life when you turn it on, spilling water into the empty glass, a riptide of bubbles like seafoam. You come back, flicking droplets from your hands, and he swears that he sees you reach into your pocket for something.
“You did— but Luke, you aren’t the same without your memories,” you tell him, voice low, and it feels like dying. “You might have loved me then, but do you now?”
He sinks into a moment of the in-betweens, thinks about honey and ichor-hued tea, the cottage, the loom and spinning wheel, how the hush of it quells the ugliness that rears its head on the bad days.
Remembers how his first seconds felt like eternities, how he’s already spent a lifetime and a half with you; he likes it, and the scar on his face burns with secret greed and shame for wanting.
It all echoes around him, some jubilee of the things he knows, remembers, daydreams about. The half-moon crinkle of your eyes, the strawberry fields at dawn, the cricket song on that late summer night when you stayed in the cottage for once, the silence of your foot lifting off the pedal to listen, and how he wishes to pour all this and more into a flask, get drunk on it every night and feel the high of your kisses.
You extend your hand to him, scars and old sting-marks freckling your skin like a constellation, an untold story that he wants to dive into and never leave.
Cradled in the bed of your palm are two leather cords. One with five beads, the paint flecking off at the edges, and the other blank like a piece of notebook paper ready to be scribbled on, a tale waiting to be written.
Luke folds the first around his wrist and loops the second over his head. He gets the feeling that he’s been here before.
“May I?” You nod and he reaches the pads of his fingers hesitantly to graze the cord that’s wrapped around the column of your neck, studies how the autumn rays overlay the eight beads warm and gilded. “I’m sorry for making you wait three years.”
“That’s alright, I’ve forgiven you already.”
He hates himself for the way your voice cracks easily, hooks the red sleeve of his sweater over his thumb to dab at the tears that gather in your eyes, pale flesh peeking through the soft wool stitches.
Luke promises to himself that though the action is just a smear of antibacterial honey on a gaping dagger-wound, he’ll spend his days patching it up if it meant your happiness.
His hands splays out, the fit of his rough palm against the side of your face like laser-cut puzzle pieces that compliment each other perfectly; he pulls you in gently, the guiding rope to a docking boat swathed in river mist, and presses a soft kiss to your temple.
Luke’s lips part, tongue clicking damp when he whispers into the sanctuary of truth that is your skin, “I think I’ll love you in this life too.”
“Yea,” you say, little more than a murmur carried slow in the eddy of air that surrounds the two of you, and you tuck yourself under the jut of his chin, letting the wandering point of your nose find true north again in the hollow of his collarbone. “I know the feeling.”
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⤷ post-script; 8.5k words holy… i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!! if i do write more luke, i'm considering a collection (not series) that just focuses on these two and the in-betweens/before and afters, drawing inspo from jubilee ofc.... as always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated, i give you permission to respectfully scream at me :)
⤷ editor's note | 2/25/24; i ended up changing the ages of luke and jubi due to a misinformation issue regarding luke's show canon age that was incorrectly inputted in the official wikifandom way back in december, so now he's actually 19 as of tlt instead of the previous 16 yrs--and yes, i did read the books but i wanted jubilee's premise to be show-based bc of charlie bushnell. i made a little post abt it (warning; i swore a lot)
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alastors-antlers · 2 months
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a brief take on the whole "Alastor's smile is permanent" discussion
hello all!
I've seen a lot of people theorizing lately that Alastor actually smiles all the time because his smile is magically, physically fixed onto his face. All of this seems to come from the fact that he's practically grimacing rather than smiling during the scene where he breaks down in ep8:
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As well as this frame of his deal with Charlie: (lower res sorry)
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I will say, I do like some of the implications of this theory. The sheer spite of his creditor forcing him to smile as an addition to their deal, almost like a sort of forced silence, is a neat concept. It's fun and dramatic. Plus, of all things, of course Alastor would claim the "smile at all times" policy and make it his own to pretend that it was his decision all along lol.
To be fair, though, I don't think we even need any magical compulsion to explain why he's smiling while he's having a mental breakdown. Actually, if we assume magical compulsion, I think we lose a bit of dimension from Alastor's character. (No judgement to anyone's take though, of course -- I just think this works in the direction of his established characterization, but obviously all personal takes <3)
Hear me out:
Alastor's persona is not just for others to see.
"A smile is a valuable tool, my dear. It inspires your friends; keeps your enemies guessing; and ensures that whatever comes your way, you're the one in control."
That makes sense given what we know about him. If he's always smiling, he seems like he has it together. You can't read him very well, especially not when he's actively trying to keep up appearances.
Now consider that when you think about ep8's fight with Heaven, we see that he's already been through so much in this one day.
He fights an army of angels, presumably not even at his own whim (if we go by his blurb about freedom in the Finale song); he loses to Adam, who he considers sloppy and mediocre; his staff, which we can assume holds some part of his power, is snapped; he comes close to being Angelic-power-killed; and to top it all off, he knows that others watched him get injured and then apparently die or flee, all of which would ruin the public image that he's trying to maintain. It wouldn't even be unreasonable for us to assume that he knows Vox was watching, given that Vox kind of has eyes everywhere.
In a moment like this, in the finale, you could say that Alastor has lost (at least on some level) everything that we know matters to him. He doesn't have access to all of his magic, and it's limiting him. He's reminded that he doesn't have freedom or control over his own destiny. He certainly has taken massive hits to his powerful, composed persona. But he's desperate, and furious, and terrified, and clinging on.
That's why he's smiling.
It's not that he can't stop because he physically can't. It's that he can't stop because to him, the smile is the last thing that is still within his power. When there are so many moving parts that he can't predict what happens to him next, he can control how he responds to it. In these last fragments of autonomy, there is solace.
He needs to keep telling himself that he has it together and that he'll eventually scheme his way free, that there's a solution, that he won't be in chains forever; because letting his pretense slip would be admitting that it's all starting to actually get to him. That maybe this time, he doesn't have an escape plan.
In addition, if you read his interactions throughout the series, we also see something else: Alastor's reputation is of paramount importance to him. At multiple points throughout the series, when others disrespect him by discounting his power or presence, he gets visibly annoyed. And in the battle, we see a glimpse of the part of his personality he seems to be trying to leave behind - a normal Alastor, who's just some guy from Louisiana. No transatlantic accent; no unflappable malice; no sharp wit waiting at the ready. Maybe even unremarkable.
Dropping his smile - arguably the most prominent part of his brand - would be admitting that in reality, he's not the Radio Demon of legend that he aspires to project. And if he doesn't have that... where would he be?
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cheriecelestial · 18 days
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Angel Pt.1
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pairing*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ Red Hood!Jason Todd X fem!reader
disclaimer*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ fluff. slight suggestive content (?). swearing. canon typical violence. kinda long. not proofread !
a/n*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ based on that one prompt “Wow ! You’ve grown so much since I last babysat you” “I want to rail you so bad”. Reader is like 26 and Jason is 19-20. Set in the WFA verse + joyfire are a team. Kinda non canon complacent. Smut in part II
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Under the nocturnal skyline of Gotham perched on a towering building was the vigilante anti- hero Red Hood watching, observing the city like a hunter stalking its next prey. His jacket whipped against the wind of the boisterous and animated city. He closed his eyes and listened to song of wailing sirens and the distant cries of people, ready to respond to the city's calls for help.
Gotham was a city that, much like its vigilantes, thrived in the night. The city was hued in the rapturous and vivacious of the nightlife. Neon signs flickered casting flashes of colours across the pavements of the night clubs. People scattered across the pavements like ants, some making their way home from a tiring day of work, others more aimless and leisure - their destinations less defined and indulgent. He pulled out his grapple hook gun and shot to a building a few blocks away from where his bike was parked.
In the shadowed alleyways, Red Hood felt a sinister presence stir. He kept walking without letting them know that he noticed their presence. By the footsteps, he could tell six no.. seven. Four of medium build and three a bit more burly. Judging by their lack of ability to mask their footsteps, he could guess they're amateurs. Well in all honesty, almost everyone was an amateur compared to him. Slowing his pace, Red Hood's hands instinctively moved to his holster, anticipating a potential confrontation. Nothing beat the thrill of beating up bad guys. However, amid the approaching group, he discerned another set of footsteps — urgent, lighter, tinged with fear, and most importantly heading directly toward him.
He felt someone clutch the lapel of his jacket desperately. "You're a vigilante, aren't you ? Please help me sir. I think there are bad people following me." Red Hood looked to his side and saw a woman much shorter than him and shaking like a leaf in wind. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her. It had been almost a decade since he had gazed into those warm large eyes—a fragment of his childhood that he had long relegated to oblivion. Jason Todd had what most would call a troubled childhood. Abandoned by his birth mother and the only other one he had dead from drug abuse and an even worse father who died the hands of Two Face. Tossed through the foster system, he eventually found himself on the unforgiving streets of Gotham. Amid the darkest moments of his youth, one saving grace remained —his angel,Y/N L/N. One he completely forgot about when he assumed the mantle of Robin.
"Help me please." She implored, her voice trembling and on the verge of breaking - the same one who would calm his raging storm on bad nights and tell him that he was going to be okay, and in the moment he swore he was. Her gaze shifted between the men and the vigilante, moving closer to him without realizing to shield herself from the villains in the shadows. Almost as if in a trance, he raised his gloved hand to caress her cheek as if to check if she was real or not. "Just follow my lead." He spoke in a low tone and the woman nodded frantically. His hand encircled her wrist and he started running, dragging her behind him the second he heard the thugs charge. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't think twice before starting a fight and having it his way. But he couldn't bear endangering her in the slightest so getting her to safety was the only viable option.
Her breath came in rapid gasps, and beads of sweat glistened on side of her forehead as they navigated the maze of alleyways in their path. The flickering glow of distant streetlights created fleeting glimpses of their pursuers. Her heart pounded in her chest like the strumming of a frantic drum as adrenaline pumped poisoned her veins. Jason noticed that she couldn't run fast enough to outrun the thugs with her stamina. "Sorry about what I'm about to do”,he warned in a hushed whisper and without hesitation, he lifted her over his shoulder and began running. Y/N gasped, clutching onto the vigilante for dear life. Wind ruffled her hair as she watched the vigilante leave behind their pursuers effortlessly. "You know if this vigilante thing doesn't work out you could try out for the Olympics." She muttered not realizing she said it out loud. Red Hood let out a gruff laugh, "I could but I like beating up bad guys and saving people such as yourself just a tad bit more angel." Y/N blushed at the nickname but waved it off as commonplace banter.
He set her down next to his bike. And took off his chocolate coloured jacket and draped it around her shoulders. "How could I ever thank you?" The h/c haired woman smiled at him with a smile so infectious that the corners of Jason's lips curled up without his realising under his mask. "Don't thank me just yet princess. They aren't near done." Y/N blinked in confusion and followed Red Hood's line of sight where she saw three black cars racing towards them. Her features morphed from relief to horror and alarm in the blink of an eye.The vigilante revved his bike and looked at her,"What are you waiting for?" The woman looks at the approaching cars and back at the vigilante, contemplating her options and got on the back of his bike. His hand envelops her and plants it onto his waist as if silently asking her to hold onto him. Y/N flinches at the contact as it she touched something really hot and retracted her hand.
The masked vigilante plucks a helmet out of the saddlebag and strapped it on her head."You might want to hold on angel." Y/N hums in acknowledgment and holds the grab handle behind the seat. Jason rolled his eyes at her refusal to hold onto him and revves the engine making her lurch forward and crash into his back. Realising that doing this any other way apart from his was futile, Y/N timidly encircled her arms around his waist.
The vibrations of the engine shook her whole being as he raced down the streets. The streets, trees, people blurred in her peripheral vision and she started feeling light-headed. Gathering all the morsels of courage she could find, she looked behind her to see the thugs chasing them. They hadn't lost the three cars and things just got worse when she saw a man peek his head out of the window with a fun in his hand. I'm so dying today. She clasped her hands tighter around him and pressed her face against his rigid muscular back in fear.
Sensing her unease, he looped his arm around her waist and pulled her infront of him. Y/N let out a yelp from the suddenness of the contact.
"What are you -"
"You don’t want your back facing them when they start shooting soon." Y/N looked over his shoulder to the thugs and then sunk back into and then sank back against his chest.
"You know if it makes you feel better just know this is an average Tuesday for me." Y/N blinked at him incredulously and in a small voice muttered,"It's Thursday today." A nonchalant shrug was all the answer he decided to give her. How the hell does he manage to remain calm through it? I'm on the verge of a panic attack and he's swerving as if this is a joyride in his kingdom. And in that moment if someone said that he was the king of Gotham, Y/N would find it hard to refute it.
The bike picked up speed causing the h/c haired woman to crash against his chest harshly. It was as if the pressure of the wind glued her against him. To calm herself, she decided to try concentrating elsewhere. Absentmindedly trailing the ridges of his armour and the red bat symbol on his chest. She heard whispers and rumours about Red Hood, the prince of crime, the scourge of the underworld—an outlaw employing more lethal methods against crime than Batman. Despite initial conflicts with Batman, he was acknowledged as a Bat vigilante some time ago. This man was dangerous and unpredictable then why did he feel so familiar to her ?
“I know I have god-tier pectoral muscles but I’d appreciate if you stopped distracting me like that.” Red Hood quipped, sounding almost smug at her fascination. Heat rushed into her cheeks and she quickly withdrew her hand, realising how inappropriate that must’ve felt and hastily clarified,“ I’m so sorry, I’m not a pervert I swear.” Y/N felt his chest rumble with a chuckle.
“Hold on.” Red Hood skidded the bike across the road with a loud screech, making Y/N wince at the sound of the metal scratching against the gravel. He loaded his gun with one hand still wrapped around Y/N protectively and aimed at the tires of the approaching car. “I’d suggest for you to not look at it.”Y/N averted her gaze and moments later, she heard a series of crashes and explosions.
“Jesus Christ I thought I was going to die !” She exhaled in relief. Red Hood turned his face towards her slowly and looked at her as if deadpanning through the mask,“ I’m here you know. What makes you think I’d let you die ?” He retorted taking full offence of her words. “I- I didn’t mean it like that -” she stammered, partly scared to offend the vigilante.
"Whatever I'll drop you off." Jason rolled his eyes and patted the seat behind him. Y/N hesitated, remembering her mother's warning about getting on bikes with strange men, but given her current situation, she realized it was too late to dwell on that now. With no one pursuing them, the ride felt much more pleasant. The speed and the wind against her hair seemed to turn her blood to gasoline as the air dissipated from her lungs. Adrenaline fueled activities weren't for her, at least that's what her sense of self preservation told her. Y/ N pressed her cheek against Red Hood's back. Vigilantes had a symbiotic relationship with the city and as was a common saying in Gotham "The less bats you run into the happier your life is." She knew that this encounter might be a fleeting one, so she decided to relish the moment for now.
Feelings and thoughts were long forgotten, where everything faded into the background and only her physical self exists and the dancing lights at the hazy edges of her vision offered an intoxicating taste of freedom that was indescribable — stripped of obligations, responsibilities and consequences.
Y/N almost doesn’t notice when he stopped the bike. “Do you plan on holding onto me for long ? Not that I mind but we’re here.” Red Hood hopped off the bike and Y/N took off her helmet and hung it onto the handlebar. She scanned her surroundings, they were in front of a five star hotel with sports cars parked on either side of of the road. “Why are we here ?” The woman asked following behind the masked vigilante. “Well for one I don’t know your address so I can’t drop you home and second it’s too late so you should stay the night at a hotel and go home in the morning. It’s safer that way.” Y/N stared at him in disbelief,“ But I don’t have the kind of money to rent a room in a place like this.” Red Hood retrieved a key card from his pocket and placed it on her palm,“Who said anything about paying ?” The h/c haired took it reluctantly and slowly walked to the entrance of the hotel, looking back at him again and again. It wasn’t until she was inside the hotel that she saw him drive off. Y/N walked to the concierge desk and showed her the card. The receptionist eyed her with suspicion considering how she looked so out of place compared to her opulent setting. “Please fill this form. It’s for security purposes.”
The form asked things like her address and her phone number. As reluctant as she was, the receptionist looked like she wasn’t letting her through unless she filled it. Wary of the dangers of misuse of information, Y/N tried to keep her responses as brief as possible. Paranoia was the best friend of a Gothamite considering everything that went down in this hellhole. It was good to always assume the worse and subsequently prepare for it.
The receptionist offered her a tight smile and walked her to the suite. Calling it a suite was an understatement since it was the penthouse on top of the hotel. Just how rich is this guy ? Y/N assumed that the house was a property he didn’t live in because the place lacked personal touch. Either that or he was a real minimalist which was unlikely considering bat vigilantes’ love for theatrics. Y/N wondered if all the bat vigilantes were like a huge family with Batman as papa bat. Where would Red Hood fall in the hierarchy ? If she were to guess, she’d say he was probably the black sheep of the family. Y/N looked around the house, it was one straight out of architectural digests with its high ceilings and cool grey and white interior. She looked at the time and decided it was best if she hit the shower and go to bed and finally put an end to this crazy day.
Jason Todd checked into the hotel the next morning and was greeted by the overly friendly receptionist, personally he didn’t mind fangirls but anyone with even half a braincell knew the risks of being a vigilante groupie. She passed him the form that Y/N filled. He couldn’t help but smile at the form. Filling her work address and a phone number both which were most likely false give the conspicuous number of 7’s in the number ? She’s smarter than most civilians, he’d give her that. The penthouse looked almost unhampered with. His jacket was neatly folded on the dining table with a note reading “Thank you so much for saving me. Regards.” The tone of the note was clear ‘I appreciate you saving me but I hope we never meet again.’ Jason pocketed the note and left the penthouse. Fates had been kind enough to reunite him with his angel and he’d be damned if he let her get away .
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“Yoohoo Y/N to earth. Anybody home ?”Y/N’s coworker snapped her fingers in front her face, snapping her out of her reverie. “Sorry about that Steph.” Y/N apologised with an awkward laugh. Stephanie Brown, albeit several years younger, was one of Y/N’s closest friends. She was a bubbly and cheerful soul anyone could tell that by the first impression she projected.
Since the night almost a week ago with the mysterious vigilante, Y/N often found her thoughts plagued by him. Curiosity of where he would be or what he would be doing right now. Her eyes often looked for any news of him while watching the news. I really have to stop thinking about him, even though they lived in the same city, the odds of them running into each other were minute.
The door opened and the bell on top of it clanged, announcing the arrival of a customer. “Mornin’ ladies.” The customer greeted. Y/N turned her attention at the newcomer at the counter. “Good morning detective !” she greeted the customer with a bright smile.
Dick Grayson served as a police officer under the GCPD and was one of the cafe’s frequents. From experiences of her own childhood, Y/N consider the police nothing but corrupt individuals on payroll of powerful people who bullied those weaker than them. But detective Grayson was one of the good and honest ones. He played a massive role in restoring Y/N’s faith that there were those in the police force who could be relied upon and ones that fought for a better Gotham.
"I'll go with the..." he glanced at the menu, a ritual he often performed. "the regular?" Y/N finished his sentence. He responded with a smile, revealing his dimples. "I never understand why you bother with the menu when you always order the same thing," she remarked. He shrugged nonchalantly, as if saying 'who knows.' A smile crept onto her face as she made his order.
“So how’s everything with the family ?” Y/N asked, making small talk. Beyond his consistent ordering and punctual 9:00 AM café visits, he frequently shared his sibling issues. "Oh, where do I begin? My brother is acting up, yet again. He pulled some crap about a week ago. He broke one of Dad’s rules, even though he said he did it to help someone but Dad was just not having it."
“ Which one ? The cool rebellious one or the little gremlin one ?” Y/N laughed sympathetically. She didn’t feel the need to probe and ask much but she always lent an ear to a friend so naturally she knew them by characteristics and not by name. From what she knew, Dick Grayson had three younger brothers - the broody rebellious one, the caffein addict smartass and the 4 foot gremlin edgelord from hell.
“The rebellious one.” he sighed wearily. Y/N placed his order on the counter, including a small pack of cookies. “On the house. You could use some sugar anyway. They’re free testers before we put them on the menu.” Dick accepted the coffee and cookie packet, flashing a bright smile. “Thank you so much. You’re an angel.” An odd feeling resonated within her when Dick called her that. That’s what Red Hood called her. Somehow the way the word rolled off his tongue seemed so different compared to when anyone else said it.
“Hey Dick do you mind if I ask you something ?” Dick nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “What do you know about the Red Hood ?”
Dick choked on his drink and burst into a fit of coughs. It took him a while to compose himself. “He’s alright. I mean he does help the GCPD I guess but he’s too unpredictable and we don’t exactly approve of his methods. He doesn’t hurt innocents but he’s bad news. Why do you ask ?”
“No reason.”Y/N brushed off the inquiry, and although Dick seemed skeptical, he left after leaving a tip. There. Is your curiosity satiated ? Even Dick said he’s bad news now can we stop thinking about him ? Her inner conscience reprimanded her.
Y/N's weary steps echoed in the quiet street as she walked home from work at night. The flickering light from the street lights streetlights casted long almost sentient looking shadows. Her thoughts — a mix of the day's challenges, the longing for the comfort of home blurred into oblivion when a strange chill crept up her spine with a sense of foreboding. Cautious of her surroundings, Y/N constantly kept watch around herself. Just a few yards before her apartment building, she heard their neighbourhood strays agitatedly hiss to something near the dumpster. Not wanting to get involved in whatever trouble Gotham had brought to her feet, she fastened her pace. Suddenly, a flash of vibrant red —the same shade she had been secretly craving to see in the past week, caught her eye.
“Red Hood ?” Y/N stepped into the shadows cautiously as if ready to flee at the first signs of trouble.
“Angel ?” He asked gruffly. Y/N walked closer and found him against the wall, clutching his side. His wound wasn’t a death sentence but needed to be tended to quickly. Her eyes widened in horror when she noticed the crimson coating his fingers,“You’re hurt !”
“ ‘Tis but a scratch m’lady.” He let out a pained laugh seeming to ease her nerves. “We need to get that treated.” Y/N urged. She knew that vigilantes couldn’t just walked into hospitals to get patched up because of the whole secret identity thing. And she also knew that taking it upon herself to treat him would go against every plan of self preservation she had. But she owed him his life. I’ll pay off my debt and we’ll never meet again. Y/N mentally decided and looked at him with newfound determination in her eyes. “My apartment is just upstairs. I have a first aid kit. Come with me.”
Red Hood gazed at her, momentarily lost in thought, then lifted his other hand to gently stroke her cheek. Y/N flinched at his touch, making him withdraw his hand. “Sorry I thought I was hallucinating you because from the blood loss. ” He admitted meekly. Y/N sighed and placed his hand over her shoulder. “Can you stand?” The masked vigilante nodded, rising slowly with a grunt.
Swallowing her rising concern, she brought him to her house and beckoned him towards her couch. Red Hood’s every step betrayed a hint of discomfort, his grimace almost visible even behind that signature mask. The second he dropped on her couch, she disappeared. He caught flashes of her running around the house like a busy bee at work. In seconds, she produced a first-aid kit and knelt next to him. “Lift your shirt.” She maintained her clinical tone, but the concern was evident with her eyes trained on the wound.
“Angel you know if you wanted to –” Jason started with a cheeky tone but was cut off by a stern glare, “Ahem yes ma’am”
Y/N breath hitched every so slightly when she saw the injury. It didn’t look like a bullet wound, the malformed spindle shape resembled a stab wound. “I’m sorry I don’t have any anaesthetic.” She didn’t look up from the wound as her cotton swab glided over the grevions injury. Shifting her elbow to his other hand on his thigh, Red Hood tilted his head seemingly questioning her,“ You can hold my arm and squeeze it if it hurts. I’ve heard that helps.”
“Appreciate the gesture angel but I’m pretty sure I’d snap your arm in half if I did.” His tone was both dismissive and endearing. Y/N didn’t insist, given his strength what he said was probably true. Vigilantes were exceptionally trained, surpassing conventional human limits. Unlike the caped metahuman from Metropolis, the bat vigilantes were more cryptid in nature. None would be where they came from and where they went. Invulnerable and insurmountable. Despite him being in a position that would render others vulnerable, he appeared unfazed, akin to a wounded yet formidable beast. There was a natural aura of dominance and power about him. They don’t call him the Prince of Gotham for no reason that’s for sure.
“You’re good at this. Like one of the best I’ve seen.” He spoke up, seemingly trying to come off as capable of being civil. “Well three years of med school. Some stitching is the least I can do.” She explained. Red Hood visible froze for a good second and inquired,“ You’re a doctor ?”
Y/N scoffed,“ Look around. Do I look like one ?” Red Hood looked around her apartment. Although well maintained, an ode to her efforts, the apartment was old and almost pitiful . Most of the furniture looked second hand and cheap. The curtain rods were rusted and the paint was peeling off from the walls with damp spots on the ceilings.
“You dropped out ?” He guessed. “Yeah. Couldn’t afford it.” She chuckled bitterly.
“Didn’t they offer scholarships or something ?” Jason was aware of Wayne Enterprises’ scholarship programs for talented students. When Bruce took him in, he assured Jason that if Y/N met the criteria, she would be enrolled in the program. Y/N’s intellect had always impressed Jason since childhood, he remembered that she would often sneak into libraries and memorise books worth of stories to recite them to Jason to help him sleep. There was just no way she wouldn’t be accepted into the program.
“They did but that didn’t pay bills. I needed to find a job to pay for my mom’s hospital bills.” She kept her response short, clearly not wanting to delve deep into the topic. “Work for me.” The statement was like a whiplash for Y/N. Work for him ? There weren’t many things Y/N had to take a double take for but this proposition was entirely unexpected. It caught her off guard, she stared at him incredulously with widened eyes. Red Hood was know for operating in the gray areas between legality and criminality and wasn’t exactly your quintessential example of a righteous lawful hero.
“Not in the way you’re imagining.” He hooked his free hand under her chin, gently closing her agape mouth. His tone was soft and reassuring,“ I’ve been meaning to find a backstreet surgeon to stitch me up. Comes in handy for a guy like me. I’m sure you understand angel.”
“B-but why me ?”Y/N stuttered, avoiding eye contact as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel a chill of nervousness and panic creep up her spine. What if he got angry if she refused ? Jason noticed the change in the air around her and the stiffening of her muscles in panic that she was clearly trying to hide from him.
“Because you’re convenient. Your place is easy to get in and out of undetected, you’re talented and most of all —“ He gently lifted her chin to meet his gaze. Y/N let out a shuddered breath as Red Hood stroked her cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “— you fear me enough to not go around squeaking to the wrong people about me. No ?” Jason couldn’t help but relish in the reaction he elicited to the feeling of the leather gliding against her cheek in a silken featherlight touch. How adorable.
Y/N swallowed nervously before nodding slowly. A beat of silence passed and she let out a small sigh, recollecting herself and weighing her options. “How much are we talking ?” She asked him in a low voice. Jason could hardly contain his excitement, grinning wildly under his mask. A sense of pride washed over him as her first question after his offer focused on the financial aspect.
“Let’s see how about 2 grand a month ? Too less ? 3 grand ? 3.5 ? That enough ?”he suggested eagerly. Y/N’s eyes widened in disbelief, almost bulging from their sockets. Without waiting for her response, he added, “Plus, there’ll be extra incentives when I’m feeling generous.”
“All that for some stitching ? There has to be a catch.” She reasoned. It seemed implausible that he would offer such a substantial sum for such a minor task. Jason chuckled," You’re smart. I like that in a woman. And to answer your question, it’s not just stitching. It’s about your discretion and loyalty. It’s a complete package. Plus that sort of money is pretty much pocket change to me.”
“And if I were to betray your trust ?” Y/N asked in a hypothetical sense, of course she had more sense than to betray someone of his stature and power. “Do you really want me to answer that ?” He countered sounding equal parts smug and menacing. Y/N shook her head in negation and continued stitching his wound. The process of stitching became a meditative rhythm - the needle piercing the skin, the pull of the thread, the knotting, and the slight twitch of Red Hood’s muscles with each stitch.
“I’ll take it.” She muttered. Jason was grateful for his mask and injury otherwise, he might have been unable to hide his urge to jump up and punch air in celebration. Agreeing to his proposition marked just the beginning of his grand plan for making Y/N his and for now, everything unfolded according to his wishes and he couldn’t be happier.
Y/N wrapped gauze around the wound and secured it with a metal clip. “Normally I’d suggest a few days’ rest but I have a feeling there’s no point in saying.” Red Hood commented with a shrug as he inspected the injury. Y/N rose and fetched him a glass of water from the kitchen, setting it on the table. “If you’re trying to get me to remove my helmet, it won’t work.” he remarked. As much as his distrust stung, Y/N rationalised that it was typical for someone like him.
She retrieved a scarf from the coat rack, folded it and tied it around her eyes before taking a seat on the edge of the couch, keeping a respectable distance from the masked vigilante. "What's with the blindfold angel ?" Red Hood asked, his tone tinged with amusement.
"Isn't trust earned through actions?" she responded. Y/N heard the thud of his helmet being placed on the table. Jason seemed genuinely impressed by her gesture. His gaze lingered on her figure as she remained motionless, noting how much she had changed since his childhood memory. Yet her kindness to those in need while still keeping herself guarded from those who would abuse it still remained unchanged. Jason’s hand twitched with the impulse to touch her. To hold her. He wondered how her face would look in his palms with her bare body melded against his own.
“ ‘Suppose it is.” Jason chuckled as he downed the glass of water and put his helmet back on. “I’m finished. You can remove that blindfold now, although it does look adorable on you.” He noticed her chest rise with a sudden hitch, and her cheeks flush red. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed, knowing the other implications blindfolds carried. As she removed the scarf and looked around, Red Hood had vanished without a trace. Her window was open and it was as if disappeared into the wind just as he came. She got why the bat vigilantes were often likened to cryptid beings and phantoms. Y/N was left to ponder over the events that had unfolded. Under the glass of water she offered him three hundred dollar bills were tucked. “I suppose I’m now working for the Prince of Gotham now.” Y/N mused to herself, realizing her attempt to avoid getting involved had failed miserably.
Jason's parents engaged in another round of screaming matches, this time he decided he’d had enough and thought of running away. Despite previous fleeting thoughts of escape, each time night fell — he faced the harsh reality of lacking sustenance and shelter. Convinced that the streets offered a marginally preferable refuge to the shithole he was force to call home, he wandered aimlessly till he found himself at the dumpster of a bakery. He knew shops like those threw away left overs even though they could’ve given them out — Jason saw it as a glaring manifestation of selfishness of adults.
He hid behind the dumpster and waited for someone to come and throw away the leftovers. After waiting for almost half an hour, the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Glancing cautiously from his hiding spot, Jason spotted a young waitress walking out. She was likely just a few years older than himself, a middle school or a high school student maybe, he thought to himself. As she approached to dispose of the food, she paused midway. No way did she see him ? Jason shrank back against a cardboard box, hoping she wouldn’t notice him.
“Hey kid you can come out. I already saw you.” the waitress said softly. Jason slowly crawled out and approached her. He eyed the tray of leftovers in her hand, wondering if he could snatch them and escape quickly enough ? The waitress seemed to notice this and raised the tray above his reach. “Against bakery policies kid. Where are your parents ?” She asked. Of course she wouldn't be generous enough to offer him any. In his mind, all adults were rotten to the core and selfish —why would she be any different ?
Jason scoffed,“ Does it matter ?” His statement was met with a sigh from the waitress, her expression conveying annoyance, a scene all too familiar to him. Bracing himself he said,“ Just do it already. I’ve had it from guys thrice your size.” Jason was well acquainted with the drill with diner employees — catch a few shoves and slaps, pretend to go away and wait for them to leave and then come back pick up the food.
He shut his eyes and waited for her to slap and swear at him to drive him away like everyone else. Yet moments passed but the expected blow never came. Instead, Jason felt a gentle pat on his head and looked up to see her smiling empathetically, though her eyes betrayed a hint of sadness. Wondering why she seemed so melancholic, he accepted the loaf of bread she offered and wolfed it down. “Won’t you get in trouble for this ?” He asked. With a forced laugh she admitted,“ I probably will but I can’t let a kid hungry now can I ?”
“I won’t tell anyone.” The young boy promised earnestly and she returned his smile. His gaze fell upon her nametag—Y/N L/N. Maybe not all adults are bad.
It had been barely four days since she last saw him that she heard from him again. In the dead of night, her doorbell rang. She approached the door cautiously and grabbed a baseball bat from the umbrella rack as a just in case. She didn’t hear any movement on the other side of the door so she cautiously opened the door, peering out. To her surprise, she found only a small, shoddily wrapped parcel resting on the floor with her name written in red.
There was no one except a small poorly wrapped parcel on floor with her name on it. Retrieving it, she carried it inside. Within the parcel lay a modest yet exquisite golden necklace accompanied by a handwritten instruction manual. Observing it she realised it was one of those necklaces that acted as an SOS signal. The parcel also contained a big folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she discovered a map of Gotham City with specific locations ominously marked in red and the stark warning “DO NOT GO” emblazoned in bold letters. Y/N couldn’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, maybe this is not all that bad.
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Over the following days, Red Hood would appear unannounced giving Y/N enough jumpscares for lifetime, when she would walk into her living room and find him bleeding out on her couch. He wasn’t much of a talker which wasn’t a surprise.
His injuries presented a variety of shapes and sizes each time he visited, but recently, his injuries bore uncanny resemblance the markings of knife wounds. Some were superficial, while others cut deeper. However, considering the depth, placement, and angles, Y/N questioned whether they were the result of his typical fights. "Are you testing my loyalty? Seeing if I'll betray you?" Y/N clenched her teeth with silvers of anger and frustration glinting in her eyes. Red Hood appeared slightly taken aback but remained silent in response to her outburst. "Do you really think I wouldn't notice ? Either that certain type of knife has become Gotham’s thugs number one choice or you're doing this to yourself. Why ?" She pressed further.
“ I knew I shouldn’t have made it so obvious.”Jason wasn’t accustomed to others fussing over his safety. Typically he received, at most a pat on the back from those who worked alongside him, knowing he had endured much worse and could handle it. Her anger and frustration hinted at concern, echoing the tone when he would go and pick fights with boys twice his size.
“What’s that supposed to mean ?”
Red Hood let out a sigh and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Listen, I enjoy spending time with you and I wouldn’t bother coming unless I needed medical attention. So you know —"
“— So you cut yourself ? To hang out with me ? What’s wrong with you ? What if you actually got into a fight with those injuries ? What if you got hurt for real ? You could really get hurt. How could you do that to yourself ? ”
Jason lowered his head in remorse, realizing he hadn't fully considered his actions. Despite understanding her perspective and acknowledging the wrong in purposefully hurting himself for her attention, he couldn't deny a secret sense of satisfaction. "I’m so sorry," he muttered his apology, genuinely meaning every word. Y/N released an exasperated sigh and took a moment to compose herself before speaking again. "Next time, just ask. It's not that complicated."
Jason's head lifted with hopeful curiosity, resembling a puppy eager for a treat. " I can do that ?" he asked tentatively, unsure if her words were genuine. Jason blinks, and then smiles. Her words cause something to stir within him, a sensation of warmth and affection he hasn't felt in a while. Y/N nodded and got up to dispose of the bloody cotton swabs in the kitchen. Jason’s eyes followed her eyes, watching closely and to see if she was still mad at him. Y/N was a pretty forgiving person but in all honesty, he did mess up pretty bad. She returned and settled back down with a sigh, causing a slight nervous flutter in Jason. “So what do vigilantes when they’re not fighting bad guys ?” Y/N initiated as an icebreaker, much to Jason’s relief. It’s not like he could say ‘hey I’m in love with you please hang out with me with marriage in mind’. Wait marriage ? Where did that come from ? Images of Y/N in a white gown walking down an isle flashed through his mind. Y/N Todd. That had a nice ring to it, Jason mused silently. He had heard that Bali was a popular honeymoon destination but Y/N once told him that she always wanted to see the stargazing so the Atacama desert isn’t a bad destination either.
“Um earth to Red. You still here ?” Y/N waved her hand in front of Jason who seemed to have spaced out.
“Red ?”Jason asked sounding positively amused by the unexpected nickname. She shrugged and replied,“ Calling you Red Hood seemed too long, so Red it is. Not very creative, I know.”
Jason chuckled,“ I’ll allow it. And to answer your question, vigilantes don't have much time for leisure. When we're not fighting, we’re either training or passed the fuck out from exhaustion.” Y/N felt tired just hearing that, understanding the reasoning behind it, but the question remained: he wasn’t wasting time by being here, was he ?
“Seems like there’s no room for hobbies?” Y/N quipped, eliciting another soft laugh from Jason as he visibly relaxed. "I suppose so but pros can squeeze in time for special things here and there." he replied, his voice still quiet but now tinged with a smile. His body language seemed brighter and happier, and for the first time since she saw him actually looking relaxed.
Y/N reached for the TV remote, flipping through channels before tossing it onto his lap and standing up. “I’m going to fix myself something. Do you want anything?” she asked politely. Jason shook his head, declining, “I’m good.” Y/N walked to the kitchen and started making herself popcorn. What sort of movies and tv shows would vigilantes enjoy ? She guessed they might lean towards crime-related or action-packed content, but then remembered her friends’ complaints about the inaccuracy of such portrayals.
“Seriously Janet ?! There’s no way you’re picking that dress. Just cuz it would look good on Jessica doesn’t mean it would suit you ! I can hear the wails of the colour theory all the way from here.” Jason shook his head, sounding genuinely disappointed. He probably didn’t even notice Y/N shuffling closer to the television, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. So I guess that answers my question.
“That’s an interesting choice.”
Jason rolled his eyes and diverted his attention back to the television again. “What ? Can’t a man enjoy some good entertainment ?” He retorted. Y/N laughed lightly dismissing his remark,” No no it’s not that. Personally I’m more of a k-drama and anime girlie but I hold nothing against reality tv.” He nodded in acknowledgment of her preferences and resumed watching. Sitting beside him, Y/N observed as he commented on almost everything the people on TV said, finding herself amused by how much more entertaining his live commentary was compared to the actual show.
Minutes rolled by and after almost a couple hours, Y/N got up to go use the washroom and when she returned he had vanished once again, as was his habit. A small note lay where he had sat on her couch earlier. She picked it up and read, “Had a great time. Thanks for today - R” Y/N chuckled and shook her head, Damn these bats and their theatrics.
Jason would show up every three four days, most of the time unharmed thankfully. The two would do a variety of things like watching movies and tv shows together, playing board games and video games and just talking in general. At first it was just discussing their common interests but eventually he would sporadically divulged minor, unimportant details about himself. Some things she was able to piece together were that one, the bat vigilantes was a dysfunctional family with Batman as their patriarch. Second, the Red Hood worked alongside Starfire and Arsenal as his teammates. And third, that he had to be the biggest classic literature nerd she had come across.
“What do you mean your best friend tried to set you on fire while you were taking a shower ?! Didn’t you like lock the door or something ?”
“Locked doors don’t really do much to people like us angel.”
“So who’s your favourite bat sibling ?” Jason fell silent at her question, contemplating the answer. “Well that’s a tough question. I have my set of challenges and grudges with all of them. We’ve tried to kill each other atleast once. More so with my brothers than the girls. I’d say I get along pretty well with spoiler and batgirl. And if you ask about my brothers, I’d say Nightwing. He’s the funny nice one, Red Robin’s the smart, loyal one and Robin is the little obnoxious one.”
Y/N chuckled,“ Guess the article checks out.”
“What article ?” Jason asked curiously. Most of his intel came from law enforcement agencies databases, informants, surveillance technology, his fellow vigilantes and his own investigative work so he didn’t really feel the need to keep up with the cheesy articles in Gazette.
“The cinnamon roll tier list !” Y/N’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
“The what now ?”
“So there’s this popular meme going online,”she started to explain,“ so there are four categories - first, looks like a cinnamon roll, is a cinnamon roll. In that category are the signal, the spoiler and nightwing. Second, looks like a cinnamon roll, could kill you. That one is for Red Robin and the Robin. Third, looks like could kill you but is a cinnamon roll, that one is for Batgirl and the last is -” she paused because she knew the next tier on the list might potentially sting him.
“Looks like could kill you and would kill you ? Let me guess that’s one for me ?” Jason chuckled humorlessly, fully aware of the kind of reputation that preceded him. He wondered if she held the same perception of him. Y/N remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his statement.
"You know, you don't need to constantly worry about offending me. Believe me, I've heard far worse than anything your pretty mouth could say to me." Y/N couldn't help but feel upset, while his words were true, there was more to it than that. She wanted to express that she wasn't entirely afraid of him, but that wasn't entirely true either.
“Anyways – ”She interjected, clapping her hands once to shift the flow of the conversation,“ I got a new video game from a friend. Let me go get it. DO NOT DISAPPEAR. I’m serious it’s creepy.” Jason responded with her a cheeky salute,“ Yes ma’am.” Y/N disappeared into the bedroom briefly and returned with the DVD. When she came back she noticed Jason had reclined on the couch, appearing to have dozed off.
“Red ?” she asked softly, approaching him. She tried to get his attention again, but he remained unresponsive. He must’ve fallen asleep, she figured remembering what he said about his schedule. Retrieving a blanket from the side of the couch, she gently covered him. She sat there for a while, observing him as he slept. Watching him like this felt natural and familiar. Leaning back on the couch herself, she tried to unwind in the peaceful silence. Y/N couldn't help but admire him and all that he had achieved. Finding a friend in such an extraordinary circumstance was something she had never anticipated.
After a while, a somewhat wicked notion crept into her mind. She tried to shush the voice. Hanging out with Stephanie was sure working its magic, she thought to herself. It was a harmless little prank really, surely he wouldn’t mind. Against all logic and rationale, she decided entertained the idea. Tiptoeing to her closet, she retrieved the item from her closet and cautiously returned, double-checking if he was asleep. Here goes nothing.
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shoddynomenclature · 3 months
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Companions Find Tav Wounded
Thank you to everyone who suggested a prompt! #3 (Tav is kidnapped) was definitely the top suggestion, and I will probably do that one eventually, but I’ve already seen it done a couple of times. So I decided to do this one instead. Mostly y’all just like when I torture poor Tav and it gets real angsty in here. I hope this fills all your angst needs.
I kinda rushed Lae’zel and Jaheira’s bits, so that’s why they’re so much shorter.
Anyway, Tav goes out to the forest to gather some supplies and is unexpectedly attacked. The companions find them beaten close to camp.
Shadowheart
You hear her calling your name into the surrounding forest. You try to scream, but nothing but a quiet groan leaves your lips.
The next moments are hazy and fragmented, like small shards of glass glued together to make a fuller picture.
Shadowheart is kneeling over you, whispering a prayer that seals your veins closed and makes your skin feel cool. It is not enough. She screams desperately for help.
When none comes, you feel her arms under yours, dragging you across a clearing till you are resting slumped against a tree. You hear her speaking to you but the words do not register.
You try to fight the darkness that seeks to overtake your vision, but it is no use. You lose consciousness.
When you wake up, you are back at camp, laid carefully across a bedroll. Your entire body screams with pain as a wet cloth gently cleans your wounds.
You squirm, instinctively trying to move away from the stinging cloth.
A gentle hand strokes your head. “You’re doing great, love. Just try to stay as still as you can.” She continues to pet your hair softly as she works.
Her hands glow blue as she runs them over your hemorrhaged skin. You feel lightheaded and the darkness creeps into your sight again. Your eyes flutter.
“Just a little longer, love,” she coos. “Just stay with me a little longer. You’re doing so well.”
Your entire body radiates with pain, but you focus your energy on staying awake. Your vision blurs and you grind your teeth together. “Can you… talk to me while you heal me?” You ask. “Keep me distracted.”
Shadowheart looks at you sheepishly. She’s not sure how to fill the silence on her own, but she wants to help. She does the only things she knows to do, and begins to sing a hymn.
You grip the bedroll, attempting to steady yourself. Her song makes your muscles relax and the healing begins to hurt less and less.
“Okay, love, it’s over. You did wonderfully,” she kisses your forehead and positions your head into her lap. She gently starts to untangle your blood crusted hair. “Rest now.”
You smile. Your body is still excruciatingly sore, but you nuzzle her thigh and kiss it gently before lulling off to sleep.
Lae’zel
You’re already unconscious when Lae’zel finds you beaten and broken in the forest clearing. You’re jolted awake by the pain that comes from your broken bones being slung over her shoulder.
You groan pitifully. She ignores you, running back to camp with the agility of a cat. It’s almost impossibly quick for someone who is carrying a whole person.
Despite her seemingly careless demeanor, she is incredibly gentle when she lays you down at camp. She gathers every person in camp to help you.
Despite her training being based heavily in self-reliance, Lae’zel was also taught to work well with a team. She knows her strengths and she knows how to delegate her weakness.
Healing is not her strong suit. So she leaves that to the professionals and instead turns to what she is good at: hunting.
She gathers Karlach, Minsc, and Scratch and they set out into the forest. Scratch and Boo were pretty quick to catch a trail.
Lae’zel charged ahead of the others. As soon as the perpetrators were visible, she rushed in, sword slashing so fast they were dead before they hit the ground.
“… wow” Minsc says as he approaches the scene. All three culprits were on the ground faster than he could even run after Lae’zel.
Lae’zel severed one of their heads and threw it into her pack. It would be drop at your feet when she got back. You would be alive and well when she got back. She repeated the words to herself all the way back to camp.
Karlach
“Hey bub! It’s dinner time!” She shouted into the forest, playfully tramping through leaves. “Where did you go?” She asks surprised not to find you in the clearing you usually went to to gather ingredients.
It wasn’t until she heard a groan and the rustle of leaves that she turned to find you, broken and bleeding on the ground.
“No! Nononono!” She stammered, running over and kneeling on the ground beside you. It couldn’t be you. This must be a nightmare. A trick of the imagination.
She wiped your hair from your blood crusted face. “Soldier? Darling? Wake up, come on wake up, please,” she pleaded, tears stinging her eyes.
“…Karlach?” You mumbled weakly. You tried to reach your hand out to her but found yourself unable to move. Your legs were wrapped in something resembling barbed wire.
“Yes! Yes it’s me baby,” she says, so relieved that you’re alive. “We’re gonna get you outta here okay? Um…” her hands work cautiously at the wire around your legs. When you yelped at the pain she realized she had no clue what she was doing.
“Okay. I’m gonna pick you up and we’ll get you back to camp, okay?” She gingerly took you into her arms, carefully not to jostle your legs too much. She didn’t even flinch as the barbs tore into her own arm.
As she approached camp, she shouted for Halsin and Shadowheart. They came running, meeting the two of you at the edge of camp.
“I-I don’t know what happened I just found them like this,” Karlach says, tears starting to fall down her cheeks.
“It’s okay. They’ll be okay just lay them right here,” Halsin soothed, leading you both to a bedroll. They started with a couple of healing spells, leaving you feeling rejuvenated enough to speak and move your upper body. Your bound legs are a different matter though.
Shadowheart went in with a knife, slicing through the wire with some effort. You screamed and thrashed in pain as the barbs tore further through your skin.
“Do you think you could keep them still?” Shadowheart asked Karlach. Karlach wrapped her arms around you from behind, pinning your arms against your chest.
She kissed your temple and whispered into your ear. “You’re gonna be okay, alright? I’ve got you.”
Both Shadowheart and Halsin started to wrestle the wire from your legs, leaving you wailing in agony and thrashing against Karlach’s strong embrace. Your cries shattered her heart. She felt like she was torturing you herself.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she muttered over and over again, nuzzling her teary face into the back of your shoulder.
When it was finally over, you relaxed and slumped against Karlach. She cradled you, rocking you back and forth in her arms. Your legs were shredded, but you would be okay. You weren’t going to leave her.
Minthara
Minthara steps gingerly through the clearing in the forest. Her footsteps are hardly audible as she walks through the brush. It isn’t until she sees you slumped against a tree with an arrow through your chest that she breaks out in a sprint.
She is by your side in seconds weapons drawn and scouting for the hidden enemy that shot you. She takes a good look around, but it only takes a moment for her to realize the enemies fled. She’ll take care of them later, but you needed healing.
She sheathed her weapon and got down on a knee next to you, whispering a prayer of healing that brought you back to consciousness.
Your breathing was erratic and labored. She needed to take you back. Now.
Typically, she’s the type that would throw you over her shoulder, but the arrow in your chest meant she’d have to go for a gentler princess carry.
When she has you back at camp you are approached Shadowheart, who was quickly tailed by Lae’zel.
“This arrow has to come out,” Shadowheart observed. “It’s pressing against their lung. Be gentle and don’t try to pull it out with the head still attached.” She jogs off to her tent for supplies.
Minthara straddled your legs, motioning for Lae’zel to brace you sitting up. She took your chin in her hand. “Listen to me,” she commands. “I’m going to make this as quick as I can, but don’t pass out on me.”
You nod weakly, head filled with only her words and confusion. “I mean it,” she repeats. “You cannot die. Understand?” You nod again.
With one swift movement, she shoves the arrow out your back. You shriek and your vision spots with white dots. You’re sure that hurt more than being pierced by the actual arrow. But you stay awake.
She gently carves off the arrowhead and lets it fall to the ground. Then, she pulls the rod of wood out of your chest. Your head spins, and you vomit onto the ground next to you. But you stay awake.
Shadowheart returns with cool water and a rag, which Minthara uses to wipe your face and head. “You did very well.” She states plainly, allowing Shadowheart to cast a spell to heal the wound.
Minthara does not allow you to be out in the middle of camp with the others for much longer. She picks you up again and brings you to her tent.
She spends the rest of the evening lecturing you about your foolishness. What were you thinking going out alone? She wouldn’t let it happen again. You’ll be at her side until you can prove you’re able to keep yourself safe.
Meanwhile she’s also tending to your every need, making sure you’re comfortable and you have blankets to keep you warm and you have a little pillow to prop up on. She even makes sure you have the stuffed animal you keep hidden away from the companions in embarrassment.
Jaheira
You remember the clearing, and the attack, and the silence that followed. You remember Jaheira standing over you, telling you were okay and you needed to stay alive.
You don’t remember how you ended up in her tent, though. Regardless now you are here and she’s pressing some bottle to your lips. “Drink.”
She forces your lower jaw open with one hand and pours the liquid downward your throat with the other. The mixture is chunky and disgusting, but you have no choice but to swallow every drop.
The effect it has on your body is immediate. The pain fades and a numbness spreads throughout your limbs. Your head is foggy and you feel like the room is spinning.
You attempt to sit up on the table Jaheira seems to have you on, but you end up almost falling off of it. She steadies you with a hand. “Still yourself. Lay down.”
You lay back down and allow her to work her magic. Your wounds are packed with a combination of magic, herbs, and bandages. Watching her dress your wounds, you are grateful for the liquid she gave you to start. This probably would’ve hurt otherwise.
“Rest now, cub. You must regain your strength.” She says, kissing you on the forehead and gently laying a blanket down over top of you.
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kasagia · 10 months
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My love will never die
Pairing: Aleksander Morozova/General Kirigan/The Darkling x moon summoner! reader Summary: You knew Aleksander before he was a Black Heretic, a foldmaker. You married him and promised to be by his side through thick and thin. And you never, ever regretted your choice. However, one day, your paths parted in an unfortunate way, and you both believed that the love of your lives was gone forever. After many centuries, you meet again with a man very similar to your Aleksander. And you start to wonder... maybe your love never die after all? Warning(s): ANGST, de@th mention, the reader yearns for Aleksander, and Aleksander yearns for the reader :c I USED FRAGMENT OF THE SONG "Jeg Saler Min Ganger" FROM THE SERIES "LOKI" Nonsense from me: So this is request from @morrigan-crowmwell Thank you so much, I was super excited to write this! I hope this is more or less what you asked for and that you like it.♡♡ I'm sorry it took me soooo long! ♡♡ Word count: 13k
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"Aleksander Morozova! You'll be late to meet your mother!" you squealed as he stole another long kiss from you. "We don't have time for this, Sasha." you moaned, when he moved his lips to your sensitive neck.
"Nonsense… I always have time to properly say goodbye to my wife before I leave." he murmured against your skin, sucking on your weak spot behind your ear. He smiled slyly, hearing the sweet moan coming from your red lips, swollen from kissing.
Saints, he could stay in your arms for the rest of eternity.
"As much as your wife loves your goodbyes, she'd rather her mother-in-law didn't wander in the middle of one, looking for her spoiled son."
"This is how you say goodbye to your husband, lapushka? Calling him spoiled and hurting his feelings?" he asked indignantly, hovering over his beautiful wife and looking at her intently. He wanted to burn the view below him into his mind until he was back in her arms again.
"I have been "goodbye-ing" you for three hours, Aleksander. Don't you think that's enough for a 4 day trip?"
"I need at least one more hour to enjoy you." he murmured, placing more kisses on your already-marked neck.
"If Baghra finds us…" you moaned as he bit your neck gently, effectively silencing you, and got out of your head all the reasons why he should go now.
"It would be helpful if you would stop thinking about my mother while I try to kiss every inch of your gorgeous skin. Besides, don't worry about her. She likes you—sometimes even more than her own son, I have to admit. If anything, she'll blame me."
"Don't worry, sobachka (puppy), you'll always be my favourite." you smirked, flipping him onto the mattress of your bed and straddling him, marking his skin with your lips, making sure you'd give him back the same favour.
"I thought we didn't have time for this?" he purred meanly, pleased with your attention.
"Shut up and kiss me, Sasha." you demanded with an equally malicious gleam in your eyes, knowing full well how this would end. Bagra was right. You had him wrapped around your little finger. Which was good considering how many female Grishas wanted to catch his eye.
"As you wish, milaya." without a second's hesitation, he grabbed your cheek and pulled you into a kiss, pinning you back under him on the mattress.
Disappointment, as usual, overtook you after waking up from this beautiful dream. During those few centuries, flashbacks about HIM only became more frequent. Someone should hang that fool who said time heals all wounds. In your case, it only made it worse.
You'd give anything to go back a few hundred years and not let him go alone with his mother on this trip. You didn't even remember why they went to Aleksander's sister.
You had a vague memory of that day, only remembering the morning with your husband and the fragments of the Fjerdans' attack on your village.
But the moment you found out you were a moon summoner will forever be etched deep in your memories.
You helped your best friend's family and herself escape when the men attacked you. You defended yourself using all the tricks and attacks Alexander had taught you, but it wasn't enough against a band of trained soldiers.
Just as he was about to slash his sword at you, you felt heat radiating deep from your chest. You screamed, falling to your knees as light began to emit from you, blinding some soldiers and killing those close to you. The first time you've used the cut and your power.
You escaped with your friend and her brother - the last survivors, and hid in the city, pretending to be siblings who managed to survive the great fire caused by Grisha.
It was hard to pretend to hate your own people and even harder to hide your new powers. But the hardest thing was going through all this without Aleksander by your side.
You tried to contact him, search in every possible way. But the world was different back then. Your attempts in advance were doomed to failure. And you knew it. But your stupid heart made you search for your husband until the end.
And you did. Until the news of the Black Heretic, the shadow summoner, who died while creating the fold, spread across the world.
You mourned Aleksander for a long time. Your life went on, but the wound of losing your husband never healed. And you knew it wouldn't. He was your great, true love. Your end game. It was impossible to let him go, to make place in your heart for someone new.
Time passed, and everything around you slowly changed. Except you. Your friends got old, grey, and wrinkled. And you remained the same as those decades ago. Then you discovered your second curse. You were immortal.
You and Aleksander could have lived together forever if not for Shu Han's and Fjerda's people.
It was the time when you vowed to finish Aleksander's work at any cost. His sacrifice will not be in vain. You were supposed to build a Ravka safe for the Grishas. All you needed was a sun and shadow summoner.
So you waited. At any sign of the sun summoner's presence. You knew Aleksander's lineage was fine. People often spoke of the descendants of the Black Heretic. You've never come close to them. You didn't want to relive the pain that would be associated with being with a member of his family. Aleksander had no children, but his sister probably did; maybe even Baghra found someone - you weren't sure about the old woman's fate.
The past centuries have not been kind to you. But this month was fruitful in terms of good news. The sun summoner has been found, the king of Ravka was ill, and your men were on the trail of Morozova's deer.
And that's how you were on your way to meet Alina Starkov and the descendant of the Morozovas, General Kirigan.
You were supposed to change the world together - in memory of your Aleksander.
~•♤♤♤•~
Aleksander had never been in such a hurry to get home before.
He was so desperate to have you in his arms again that he even ignored all of his mother's taunts, remarks, and other snide comments. All that mattered to him now was coming home to you.
That's why he bravely endured his mother's teasing remarks as they rode horseback towards your cottage.
He was excited, only moments away from returning to the love of his life.
He missed you more than he dared admit to anyone. And he was a little ashamed of how an ordinary woman without Grisha's powers, like you, could have such power over him.
NO. You were not ordinary. You were his wife, friend, lover, support, rock, asylum, home. The only one to whom he entrusted his heart and soul voluntarily and without the slightest hesitation.
And with this gift his sister gave him, Aleksander will make sure you stay with him forever. That you'll live as long as he does. Neither of them, nor he, Baghra, nor his sister knew if this "gift" would work.
But Aleksander would be damned if he didn't try to keep you in his arms forever.
It didn't matter how many times he failed, trying to make you his equal, trying to turn you into a Grisha with similar powers to his. He was ready to do everything for you.
Aleksander sped up seeing your house. In his haste, he didn't even notice that he had lost his mother and that the scenery around him seemed to be getting darker and more frightening.
He practically leapt off his horse and raced to the door, opening it and rushing inside as fast as he could.
"Y/N?! Sweetheart, I'm home!" he shouted, expecting that as soon as you heard his voice, you would come running, throwing yourself into his arms.
But he was greeted by nothing but a terrible, deadly silence.
The scattered things in the corridor made him slightly anxious, but he dismissed his dark thoughts by saying that you were a little mess. However, after he still didn't hear any response from you, he started to worry.
He entered the living room only to find shattered furniture, an overturned bookshelf, and a broken window.
He panicked. He went mad with fear, screaming your name and running around the house like crazy, looking for you or any clues to where you might have run away.
His heart stopped when he found your battered body under an overturned wardrobe.
In the blink of an eye, he got you out from under the furniture and took you in his arms, trying to bring you back to consciousness.
"Y/N, please, Y/N, open your eyes! You can't leave me, not like that! Y/N! My sweet wife, my heart, please open your eyes!" he was shaking you in panic, begging all the saints to prove his dark suppositions wrong.
"Aleksander?" your quiet, tearful whisper both relieved him and broke his heart.
You lived. He hasn't lost you yet.
NO.
He couldn't lose you. He has to take you to the healer.
"Yes, love, it's me. Everything is fine now. I got you. Just stay with me until I get a help."
"You promised to protect me... why didn't you protect me, Aleksander? Have you stopped loving me?" your desperate whimper tore his soul in half. He began to shake all over, despising the feeling of helplessness and distress that had completely taken over him.
"What? No, I'll always love only you..." he felt your body suddenly go limp in his arms. He gripped your shoulders even tighter, shaking you in his panic attack. "Y/N? Y/N?! Y/N open your eyes! Y/N no! Don't leave me! Darling, no!" he screamed desperately in pain, burying his head in your hair and crying as he knelt on the floor and rocked with your cold body in his arms.
~•♤♤♤•~
Aleksander sprang from his bed.
The general was breathing fast, trying to calm himself after another nightmare involving you.
His beautiful wife. His epic love.
For hundreds of years, the day he lost the only love of his life played out in his nightmares in different ways. This time, his subconscious was kind enough to let him talk to you for a while. Usually, he finds your body either impaled or dismembered. He never managed to save you. With none of those dreams.
His dreams might have macabred the events of that day, but he had never, in all those hundreds of years of his life, forgotten what really happened. He has not forgotten the grief, anger, sadness, and despair that overcame him when he and Baghra found their village burned to the ground without any trace of you.
Despite his search, he still didn't know what really happened to you, and he doubted he'd ever find out the truth. If all this had happened a few years later, if he hadn't been a boy just discovering the true power growing within him then, but the man he is now, you'd never despair like that. You'd never leave him to mourn over the future you two could have if only he was more powerful.
He was trying to fool himself. Telling himself that if you survived, you would have lived a much better life than you'd lived with him by your side. What could he have given you, then? An uncertain future, living in hiding, being hunted by the king's men? You were worth much more. You were worth all the jewels and treasures of this land, safety, peace, family, and happiness. Aleksander couldn't give you that. Not then.
He couldn't remember how many sleepless nights he'd spent wishing he could meet you now, to have you by his side, when he was this powerful man who could look after you properly, who would throw the world at your feet or burn it to the ground, depending on your humour.
But every time the sun came up and he had to continue playing his new role, the bitter reality made him realise that he would never have you again. He will never feel your soft skin under his fingers again, never lose himself in those beautiful, mesmerising irises, never run his hand through your hair, never take in your wonderful, intoxicating scent, and never taste your alluring, feisty lips again.
He was alone. And he will be until the end.
Until he widens the fold and makes sure no more Grisha dies at the hands of common otkazat'sya. That none of his people will repeat your fate.
He was supposed to change the world - in memory of his Y/N.
And then, maybe fate will be kind enough to reunite him with his beloved wife on the other side.
~•♤♤♤•~
Alina Starkov was a pain in the ass.
It took the girl only 15 minutes to run away from Kirigan's Grishas and get herself into trouble. She has damn luck that you decided to follow her and rescue her sunny ass.
You disappeared as soon as you made eye contact with her after you burned the Fjerdans with your pale, white light.
You wandered through the forest, cursing under your breath at the carelessness of both sun and shadow summoners. You didn't know which was worse, the impetuous girl or the thoughtless general who just let her get away.
With helpers like that, you'll have to work twice as hard to make the fold bigger. Fate really had no mercy on you.
You stood by the river, sighing in relief as you washed the blood from your face with cold water.
Your moment of peace didn't last long, however. You sensed an additional presence—someone creeping towards you. You took out one of your daggers and braced yourself for an attack.
But the moment you turned to face your opponent, you froze.
Aleksander...
He was standing in front of you. In a black kefta, a man so like your husband that just looking at him hurts you more than any blade could. This gaze, this face, were hunting you each night, every time you closed your eyes. And now he was standing right before you.
And the worst of it all was that it wasn't your Aleksander.
Only his descendant looking just like him. A shell that resembles the only man you've ever loved.
In your rage, you attacked him first, taking out your anger on him for the saints for continuing to play you mercilessly by putting your husband's doppelgänger in your way.
But Kirigan did not give up so easily. As soon as you moved towards him, he too snapped out of his strange daze and drew his dagger as well. The clang of metal echoed across the clearing as you both tried to find the other's weak spot. Oddly enough, you both did it at the same time.
"Put that down and I'll consider whether or not to spare your life." he growled, holding your arm in a tight grip as he felt your nails digging through the skin on his hand.
"Femoral artery. You'll bleed out faster than me." you replied with a malicious smirk, ignoring his threats.
"Who are you?"
"My mother taught me better than to make friends with the stranger freak in the forest, sir. Especially when they have a dagger dangerously close to my back." you kicked him, pushing him away from you, and attacked again. The clanking of steel against each other echoed across the clearing as your daggers met halfway. You growled in frustration, pushing him away.
"Your mother should teach you not to attack everyone you meet. You may encounter someone much stronger than you." Kirigan recovered faster this time, storming at you.
You ended up in a rather uncomfortable position as you held the steel against his heart and he wrapped his arm halfway around you, pulling you close. You didn't know if you were more dissatisfied with the metal digging into your chest or with his hands on you.
"And yours that you shouldn't raise a hand against a woman. I guess they both failed."
Did you both just say the exact same thing when you first met your husband? Yes.
Will he get lenient treatment from you just because he looks like your Aleksander? Absolutely fucking no.
Taking advantage of his moment of inattention as he stared at you distractedly, you pulled out the second hidden dagger and placed it against his neck. You tried to push his hand away from you, but the man, feeling the extra-cold blade against his skin, woke up from his trance and grabbed your left hand aggressively.
He moved your blade away from his neck and pinned you to the tree, slamming your left hand hard against the trunk, making the weapon fly out of your hand and bury itself in the ground near his foot.
Kirigan pressed his dagger to your side, leaning closer to you. He stared intently into your eyes, and for a brief moment you saw longing flicker in his dark eyes, which then gave way to rage and frustration, equal to the one that exploded inside you the moment you saw him. The moment you noticed that saints still played cruel with you by creating someone so damn similar to your husband.
He has no right to have the same face and eyes as your lost love.
"What. Are. You?" he asked, pausing on each word to intimidate you and bring his face closer to yours. But you didn't care much. You have hundreds of years; nothing, especially the doppelgänger of the man you love, could scare you.
You stared at each other with hostile eyes, and for some reason (other than your dagger at his thigh), he had some sort of hatred for you as well. So much so that he didn't notice how your powers reached for each other where your skin touched.
Strangely, it felt familiar to you. HE felt familiar.
You stared into each other's eyes as you unknowingly leaned in closer. You were about to try to break free from his grip when a sudden snap of branches caught your attention.
"That's you! She saved me from the Frejdans, sir." Alina's voice pulled him out of this strange moment between you two.
You wanted to find a sun summoner. You spent several hundred years on this, but the girl had hellishly bad timing.
Kirigan moved away from you, but you both continued to aim your daggers at each other, not trusting each other for a moment. Even though Alina just admitted that you saved her life.
"Why did you do that?"
"Someone so powerful like you should recognise when they stand before their equal, general Kirigan." you sneered, glancing for a moment at the woman standing next to both of you. Fortunately, nothing happened to her. She had a few scratches, but nothing that even the most ordinary medic couldn't heal.
"And how exactly are we equal?"
You smirked mischievously as you slipped the dagger into your sheath.
You linked your hands, focusing on the warm feeling of your light coursing through your veins, and without taking your eyes off the general's, you pulled them apart, revealing a thread of white light. You spread your arms wider, causing the rays to illuminate the clearing around you.
They both stared at you in amazement as your light turned into stars, which then arranged themselves into constellations. Figures of saints ran around you until you flicked your wrist to make them disappear.
"Melinoe Petrova. Moon Summoner. I think the three of us are going to change the world together."
You watched the speechless Alina with satisfaction, but your smile faded as you shifted your gaze to Kirigan. You had some difficulty reading him, but even more so understanding the longing in his eyes.
It seems your problems with a shadowman have only just begun…
~•♤♤♤•~
Kirigan didn't trust you.
You weren't surprised by it, but you hoped it would be easier for you to manipulate him. Apparently, the descendant of Aleksander inherited family cunning and distrust.
It's been a month since your little encounter (and fight) in the woods. In the meantime, you've been living in the Little Palace with the other Grishas; you met the king and got your own fancy kefta.
Black kefta. With moons, stars, and so on.
You wouldn't care about the colour of the fabric if it didn't turn out that only Kirigan wore one. Bloody Alina was the first to find Genya and get herself a blue one. So you stayed in your black kefta, pretending the general wasn't trying to mark you as his property.
But the son of a bitch liked your look in his colours too much for you to accept it.
It didn't help that he was too much like your Aleksander, either. Many times you've held back from taunting, making snide comments, or yelling at him just because those fucking dark eyes looked at you, taking you back hundreds of years to the time when HE was by your side and looked at you like that.
The similarity between them was not only in appearance. They had a lot in common when it came to character traits. Stubborn, mischievous, prescient, well-read... sometimes, when you spent too much time in his war room, you found yourself thinking of him as your Aleksander.
So slowly, despite all your self-loathing, you fell in love with the general.
That's why you were hiding from him in the library, hoping Alina, Zoya, or anyone else would keep him busy tonight enough to forget that you were supposed to meet him after dinner.
You had to suppress that stupid feeling. He was not Aleksander. He was just your husband's doppelgänger. Just a shell of your lover.
"Mel? Are you okey?" Alina's soft, concerned whisper snapped you out of your thoughts.
"I'm fine. Another nightmare?" you asked, patting the space next to you and opening the edge of the blanket for the girl to sit with you.
Your beginnings with Alina were not colourful; the sunny girl irritated you and could easily throw you off balance. But as time passed, you became friends to the point where you comforted her after her nightmares about the fold and the deaths of her loved ones. Sometimes you would read her old Ravkan fairy tales or sneak into the kitchen for hidden sweets. In more critical situations, you would drag her outside to the gardens, where you would sit on the pier by the lake, watching it gleam in the moonlight.
In a way, you too found solace in comforting the girl. It was nice to have company after being alone for so long. Fighting your past, which was showing up in your dreams, was easier with a ray of sunshine by your side.
"No. This time I can't sleep."
"Are you bothered by overly comfortable pillows, or maybe our princess felt a pea under the mattress?" Alina snorted, shaking her head. It took her some time to realise that your sarcastic remarks were not intended to offend her but merely to make her laugh.
"I'm thinking about Mal."
"Oh yeah… your boyfriend and childhood friend, what's up with him?" you asked, slamming the book shut to turn all your attention to the black-haired girl.
"He's not my boyfriend. We are only friends." she murmured, blushing, obviously awkward at your apt comment.
"Sunshine, I can recognise the face and eyes of a woman in love. You can't hide your feelings from me."
"Well, you're not the only one with this gift. Kirigan also gives you an infatuated man's look. Don't deny it! Even Ivan can see it. I think that already half of the second army knows about their general's fondness for the moon summoner." she teased you with a cocky smirk on her face. You rolled your eyes, returning your attention to your book.
"Please, half of the Grishas look at me like that."
You knew what Alina meant. Kirigan looked to you as the solution to his fold problems - as did the other Grishas. Little did they know that instead of being their saviour, you gonna be their worst nightmare... a White Heretic.
"No, not in that way. They look at you, at us, as saints, as saviours who can destroy the fold. He admires you, not your power. And judging by the fact that you're still wearing a black kefta, he's not indifferent to you either."
You inadvertently snuggled deeper into the black material. Alina was partly right; maybe you didn't want to get involved in any romance, but it would definitely be easier to manipulate the general who is infatuated with you. You could have taken advantage of the fact that seeing you in his colours put him in a strangely pleasant mood. You've used your black clothes more than once as a weapon in your negotiations with the dark general.
"I have a black kefta because some irritatingly fast sun summoner found Genya first and got herself a dark blue one. You didn't leave me much choice, Alina."
"How sorry I am for that. By the way, Kirigan asked about you. He waits in his chambers, longing to finally see you after you've been ruthlessly ignoring him all day."
"I'm not done with you, Starkov!" you shouted after her, but the girl was already at the door, sticking her tongue out at you.
"See you in the morning, Petrova! You will tell me about your meeting with the General." she said as she walked away, slamming the library door.
"That little bitch." you muttered under your breath, wondering if you should go. You could have lied to him and said that you didn't meet Alina and forgot about your meeting. You only doubted the sun summoner's loyalty to you...
However, you started gathering your things, knowing full well that you would have to leave the library anyway.
You frowned as you heard soft footsteps behind you that probably no normal human would have heard… at least not one who hadn't lived at least a hundred years of hiding and running.
"Ivan." you greeted him without turning to face him. The man stopped, obviously surprised that you sensed his presence. However, he quickly returned to his unemotional mode.
"Miss Petrova. The General requests your presence in the war room."
"I was on my way." you replied, knowing full well that the man knew the truth. More than once, he chased you around the Little Palace at the general's behest. Fortunately, he had enough sense in his head not to make Kirigan aware that your memory was reliable and you didn't meet him only out of your own reluctance (actually, a huge desire to see him). "Alina just told me he wants to see me."
Ivan nodded and waited for you to escort you to the war room.
~•♤♤♤•~
Considering the fact that you were a regular visitor to Kirigan's war room, you should know the way to his chambers. But each time, you seemed to take a completely different route than the last time.
Ivan had to repay your elusiveness by making the longest trips to the general's room.
But this time, heartrender quickly dropped you off at his general's door and, wishing you good night, disappeared into one of the corridors.
You sighed, not wanting to face your growing infatuation and subsequent attempts to manipulate the general into carrying out your plans today.
You opened the door, entering the "vestibule". You pricked up your ears as you heard Kirigan talking to someone very familiar. Zoya.
"You used to call on me. On times like this. Your table wasn't messy, and in bed, it was me instead of these books. I can help you make it all right. Just let yourself relax." without knowing why, you wanted to go in there and interrupt whatever plan she had to seduce him. And not because you felt jealousy eating you up inside. You were supposed to be the one to lead him by the nose to do whatever you wanted. Not that windy bitch who was ruining your plan.
"I shall relax when my moon summoner comes here to help me with this. With her by my side, you don't need to worry about me anymore. I'm with the perfect helper." you chuckled internally, wanting so much to see the look on her face after he had rejected her. You figured this would be the perfect time to step in.
"Am I disturbing?" you asked as you walked inside.
If Zoya was an inferni, the general's room would probably go up in flames at the sight of you. Kirigan, on the other hand, seemed very pleased to see you. His eyes were focused only on you. And your black nightgown, over which you threw on (also the black) kefta he ordered.
"Not at all. Zoya was about to leave a few minutes ago."
"General." he said. Kirigan did not even glare at her as she bowed to him. She walked past you, giving you a hostile look, which you only smirked at.
"Didn't you forget something?" Kirigan's sharp question broke the silence between the three of you. Zoya stood immobile, as if engraved. She stared at the general for a moment, then clenched her hands into fists and bowed to you.
"Miss Petrova." she growled, then stormed out of the war room, slamming the door.
"It wasn't necessary. You'll only infuriate her more by forcing her to show me respect." you said, turning to face the general, who was suddenly right behind you. He was the only one who could sneak up on you. A skill he used extensively.
"You're the moon summoner… you'll get all the respect you deserve. I'll make sure about it." he murmured, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear.
"You can't make people do it. Respect is something that has to be earned, something that has no meaning if it is given involuntarily." his silence surprised you. He usually answered your words with 10 of his. But now he was staring at you silently, which didn't help your already fast-beating heart. "So what do we have on the agenda today, general? Arguments about whether we really need First Army soldiers or you don't know where Loavana is."
"I know where Loavana is. I was tired then, and besides, you were the one who turned the map and misled me."
"Of course, general." you snorted, smiling teasingly. You moved to the other side of the table, tactically increasing the distance between you. "So, did you summon me for any reason other than staring at my natural glow? Because honestly, I'm getting a little bored." you said as you sat down on the table and casually reached for one of the orders he had written.
"Always impatient." he muttered, suddenly appearing in front of you and gently taking the paper from your hand.
"Always too mysterious."
"This may surprise you, but I have other things on my mind than your natural glow, little moon."
"What a shame." you murmured, placing your hand over your heart in a hurt gesture. But you became serious when you saw him staring dully at the map. "What's bothering you?"
"The Fjerdans have moved closer to our border."
"How many?" you asked, jumping off the table and turning your full attention to the distressed general.
"Several branches. Enough to get our attention and attack one of our regiments." he replied, pouring himself a glass of liquor and handing you your own.
"We need to speed up Alina's training. Before all hell breaks loose and our great king orders our troops to be divided to fight the Fjerdans. The fold case must be finally closed. Before we go to another war. For now, we have to send some of our healers and additional troops there. If there are more of Grishas there, no Fjerdan will dare attack them. They will shift their attention to the soldiers of the first army, and this will no longer be a direct problem for us." you turned to him, confused by his silence. Kirigan stared at you with a gentle, tender smile on his face and a longing, dreamy look. The silence between the two of you and the gaze he was giving you embarrassed you. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something wrong?"
"No." he grunted, shaking his head as he blushed slightly when you caught him staring. "I just... I was fighting this war alone for so long."
This was the moment. You had to cast your net over him, surround him at his most vulnerable, and make him fall for you.
But you forgot to guard your own heart in the process...
You grabbed his hand. Your powers combined as usual when your skin touched, causing you to be enveloped in the utter darkness of his shadows, with only the white light emanating from your joined hands illuminating your faces.
"You're not alone." you whispered, afraid to break the spell between you. Afraid that the moment your voice reaches him, those damn hypnotic eyes will tear away from yours. Afraid your mind is about to scold the stupid heart that beat for the man before you. A man who, for the sake of your sanity, was too much like the husband you loved.
"I've been waiting a long time for you." he replied just as quietly, afraid to break the sanctity of the moment. Afraid it was another of his cruel dreams where he would have your dead body in his arms again. But the reality was even more brutal for him. Because the woman who stood before him, the woman who looked exactly like his wife, wasn't her at all. And that didn't stop his cold, centuries-old heart from beating for her.
"Believe me, not as long as me." you whispered. Tears began to gather in his eyes, threatening to spill out as he raised his other trembling hand and cupped your cheek. The feel of his cold hand on your face made you realise what you were doing. He was not Aleksander. He wasn't yours. And you will never be his. "I think I should go." you grunted, stepping away from him.
His shadows returned to him, as did your light. Everything has returned to normal. Except for the frantic beating of the hearts of the two of you.
"Don't forget about tomorrow's ball. We're supposed to put on a little show for the king and his nobility."
"How could I forget that we're supposed to be circus monkeys tomorrow?" you asked with a pugnacious smirk, to which he just shook his head in amusement.
"Don't let anyone else hear it. I don't want to visit you in a dungeon… however tempting you look in chains." his bold suggestion shocked you, but you decided to play on without giving him a chance to have the last word. You walked over to him and, ignoring his intense gaze, whispered in his ear with your lips brushing his earlobe.
"I'm not that easy to put in chains, general." you brushed his cheek with yours and disappeared from the war room at the speed of light.
It was something you could do. Game, flirt, chase, challenge—all kept away from any emotion other than lust. It was a game. Manipulation game. And you were going to win it. For your Aleksander and other Grishas.
~•♤♤♤•~
Your dress was so beautiful and wonderful. You admire Genya's skills, but what she did for you this time was indescribable.
With trembling hands, you smoothed the fabric of the dress around your waist, admiring the intricate embroidery of the constellations. The white and silver threads shone in the candlelight like real stars on your dark blue dress.
You didn't like getting dressed up, getting your hair up in a fancy hairstyle, or wearing those uncomfortable ball gowns. In fact, you've only worn formal clothes a few times in your life. But only twice did you feel like a true goddess, a queen. Today and on your wedding day.
"Who put that veil on you?" Baghra's grumpy tone snapped you out of your thoughts as you looked at yourself in the mirror. You had a lovely dress, even considering that neither you nor Aleksander and his mother had as much money compared to other families. But it didn't matter. Not for you. The most important was Alexander and you. And not the judgmental looks of other people. It was your day and no one could ruin it for you.
"Myself. Something's wrong?"
The woman sighed as she walked over to you and unfastened it with unusual delicacy for her, mumbling something about your blindness as she adjusted your crooked veil.
"Now. You look almost properly. You're missing one thing."
"Which is?"
She reached into the pouch strapped to her side and pulled out something shiny. She gestured for you to turn towards the mirror. You did it while watching a woman put the most beautiful necklace you've ever seen around your neck.
"Bagra is… it's wonderful. I can't…"
"Yes, you can. And you will be. I won't let that old hag gossip about my daughter looking like a poor peasant on her wedding day."
"Thank you." you whispered in a shaky voice, more concerned that the woman called you her daughter than the ridiculously expensive and beautiful necklace.
"Come on. Don't cry, or you'll turn red and scare everyone, including my son. You'd better hurry up. The boy is about to have a heart attack if you're another minute late. If it wasn't for Ulla, he would have run here 10 minutes ago."
"Did she manage to come?" you asked as she took your arm with the obvious intention of walking you down the aisle.
"Of course. That's my daughter. She wouldn't waste the opportunity to tease her crazy-in-love brother." you giggled, not missing her little smile. The woman stopped right in front of the exit door, giving you a serious look. "Y/N, are you absolutely sure you want this? You know our true origins, my boy's character, and all the dark things our family has been through. Are you absolutely sure you want to join this mess? 'Cause once we walk through that door, there's no turning back."
"I think we both know the answer to that question, Baghra."
"No. I need to hear it. Do you truly want this?"
"I dream of nothing more than marrying Aleksander, and spending my whole life with him, no matter how long or short it may be."
The woman nodded silently and opened the door.
A wide smile appeared on your face as soon as your gaze met the clearly nervous Aleksander. He calmed down the moment he saw you, an equally goofy, in-love smirk playing on his lips. And when he finally had you at arm's length, he didn't hesitate to grab your hands in his firm grip, never taking his eyes off yours for a moment.
It was just you and him. Lost in your love.
And so began your little eternity together... shorter than either of you would have liked.
You'll always remember that day, even if it was associated with bittersweet memories of your all-too-short marriage. A single tear fell from your eye. You wiped it with the sleeve of your dress.
Your hand automatically wandered under your dress, absently stroking the Baghra's necklace to which you had attached your wedding ring. The only memento of your past.
In another life, you and Aleksander could have had it all.
"Little moon? Are you ready?" Kirigan entered your room." We're going... soon." you could see in the mirror how he froze as his eyes met your reflection in the silver mirror.
You turned to him, making a sweeping movement with your skirt. You wouldn't waste your chance to be a diva. However, you yourself soon succumbed to a similar blackout as his as soon as you assumed the general's appearance.
The saints really liked to torment you.
There was no other explanation for why the man in front of you looked almost exactly like your husband on your wedding day.
Aleksander couldn't take his eyes off her. She was perfect. Ethereal, otherworldly, and breathtaking. His Y/N... No. She wasn't her. No one could be her, not even a woman with her face. Which didn't stop him from giving himself to this dream that it was his wife standing in front of him. He spent hundreds of years in suffering; maybe this one night he can afford to live in his most beautiful dreams, where SHE would still be with him.
He cleared his throat, snapping you both out of the strange, nostalgic atmosphere.
"You look amazing." you blushed as you turned back to the mirror, pretending to consider the truth of his compliment.
"Thank you. Genya makes wonderful dresses." you reached for the kefta thrown over the armchair, but the man beat you to it.
"Please, allow me." you nodded to him. You turned your back to him, waiting for him to put the kefta on your shoulders.
He smoothed it out, letting his hand brush the fabric of your bare collarbones for a moment too long. You shivered as you felt the tiny touch of his fingertips on your bare skin. Good thing the kefta covered most of your bare arms. You didn't want to give him satisfaction for how he was affecting you.
But judging by his dilated pupils, you weren't the only one who felt the attraction between the two of you.
However, you will definitely not be the one to give in to such trivial desires. He was not Aleksander. Nobody could.
"Thank you again." you murmured as you pulled away from him, smiling. You preferred to act oblivious to his advances rather than risk giving in to the lust that was evident between the two of you. Although you knew there would come a point in your little game where you'd have to seduce him a bit to lull his guard down. And you feared that moment more than entering the fold.
"Anytime, love. Shall we?" he asked, offering you his arm. "I hope you spare me at least one dance." he murmured, smiling at you with that flirty twinkle in his eyes as he kissed your hand.
Wonderfully. Now he was supposed to be your personal bodyguard for all night.
You sighed, grabbing his arm. Kirigan pulled you closer as he escorted you through the maze of corridors.
It was going to be a really tough day. - you thought, allowing yourself to steal a glance at the general who was already watching you. - Especially with those eyes so focused on me.
~•♤♤♤•~
The Kirigan left you alone for a moment just before entering the ballroom. You were to wait for him and Alina, and then the three of you were to give little shows of darkness and light.
So you waited patiently until someone bumped into you, knocking you to the floor.
"Watch where you walk!" you growled, dusting yourself off as you got up off the floor. The hooded figure stopped and turned to you. You both froze when you saw your faces.
"Y/N?" Baghra asked in disbelief. "It is impossible." she whispered, coming closer to you and catching your hand in a strong, bruising grip, only to grab your necklace later, which had slipped out from under your dress after you fell. She looked at him tenderly, shifting her gaze to you.
"Hello mom." you whispered uncertainly, fearing your mother-in-law's reaction. She liked you, it's true, but in the meantime, you managed to disappear without a trace for hundreds of years. You didn't know what your relationship was like now. But rather, neither of you could be hostile to the other.
"It's really you… But how? I… we thought you were dead, child. Where have you been all this time?"
"A little here, a little there. Forgive me for not writing or coming. I think you understand perfectly well why I didn't."
"Not even a bit, actually." she replied, confused. You frowned. You've never seen Baghra confused. It was a strange sight, to say the least, and definitely worth remembering.
"You know how dear he was... Aleksander is to me. After his death..."
"Death?" she asked. You didn't know if you misheard or if the surprise in her voice was genuine. She rather knew about his death, didn't she?
"Yes. While creating a fold." you explained, looking at her intently. But Baghra's face never betrayed anything. Not any single emotion. She tucked the necklace under your dress and grabbed your shoulders.
"Oh, my dear child. For all this time..."
"Baghra!" Kirigan's scream echoed through the empty corridor. The woman stepped back from you like she was burned, watching the general with contempt as he approached the two of you. "What are you talking about with my moon summoner? I hope she didn't bother you too much, Miss Petrova."
"Not at all. Actually…"
"I was just leaving, moi soverenyi." the woman interrupted you, giving you an enigmatic look, before she turned her back to you two. "Enjoy yourself, Miss Petrova." she threw over her shoulder as she walked away.
"Crazy woman. But he teaches the young Grisha well. What did she want from you?"
"Nothing special. She asked where I was from and what I was doing here. I don't think she's heard of the new moon summoner yet."
"Probably you are right. Let's go. We've got a show to play."
He took your hand gently and led you to the centre of the room, where Alina was already waiting for you.
You had a simple task. Kirigan summons shadows. Alina, on the other side of the room, her golden rays, and you, the white moonlight that was supposed to connect with her powers, then break up into several constellations.
A child's trick and spectacle for the common folk who treated you like toys all rolled into one.
Everything was going smoothly. Suddenly, the room was completely dark. You waited patiently for Alina's light to appear on the other side of the room. When suddenly someone approached you from behind.
"It's okay, it's me. It's just me, you're safe."
"What are you doing?" you asked as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, taking both of your hands in his.
"Don't you think this is the best place to watch the whole show?" his question confused you. You turned in his arms, miraculously seeing those bloody, dark eyes in the darkness. The mischievous sparks both made your chest feel warm and terrified. The bastard was up to something.
"I doubt it; with my light, you'll barely see Alina's trick."
"Works perfectly for me, my little moon." he whispered against your ear. You tensed as you felt his soft lips on your earlobe.
Suddenly he leaned in, the tip of his nose tracing a path from your ear down your skin, sending shivers down your spine as he inhaled your perfume and those damn distracting lips slid from your ear to your neck.
He started placing small, wet kisses there. Your brain has melted. It stopped working while the general was kissing every sensitive spot on your neck. He read your body so damn well that if it weren't for his quick reflexes and his hand over your mouth, your loud, obscene groan would have echoed in the darkness of the ballroom.
You felt the light involuntarily escape from you and thanked all the saints that you lost control just as Alina finished her part.
You tried to push the shadow summoner away from you, but your attempts were so futile (and reluctant) that you quickly gave up, focusing on doing your job with his intoxicating mouth and roaming hands on you.
The son of a bitch was lucky to stay in the shadows, unseen by anyone but you.
You internally cursed yourself for how much easier it was to do the whole trick with him around.
To your great disappointment, he moved away from you just before the grand finale. You were panting, trying to calm your wildly beating heart, and breathing as the light began to take over the ballroom.
And those fucking dark eyes and smug smirk were the first damn thing you saw when you and Alina lit up the room.
People started applauding. Kirigan came up to you and grabbed your hand, and after Alina joined you, you bowed to everyone, gathering an ovation. You glanced briefly at Kirigan, who was staring at your neck. You just hoped he didn't leave a hickey in plain sight. But judging by the way his smirk widened and the way he ran away from you as soon as you were surrounded by a crowd of people, you assumed you had a new, not-so-visible yet bruise on your skin.
You'll kill him as soon as you get your hands on him.
~•♤♤♤•~
You stand in the darkness of his war room, waiting for him to finally appear. You played with the dagger in your hands, contemplating meeting Baghra. You felt something was wrong, something was missing. The woman's behaviour both helped you and, after the general's arrival, gave you a lot to think about. She was hiding something. But what?
you sighed. If only Aleksander was here. It would save you a lot of trouble. Among other things, intimidating his doppelgänger, who started to stick to you too much - much to your tacit approval.
But you were aware that this attraction was only due to his resemblance to your Aleksander. In a few decades, Kirigan will die too. And you will be completely alone again.
The sound of his boots hitting the floor snapped you out of your thoughts. You braced yourself for an attack and jumped on him just as he flanked the door and stepped inside. You pinned him against the wall with a dagger to his neck as he gave you a surprised, amused look.
"Hello, moonlight. Do you like the ball?"
"What the hell was that?!" you growled, pressing the blade against his skin as you made a small, harmless cut.
"You put a dagger to my neck far too often, darling." he noted, frowning as droplets of blood decorated the silver metal.
"Don't change the fucking subject! You have no damn right to act like this. Lay your hand on me like that again, and I'll make sure you don't have anything to summon your shadows with, general."
"So my lips on your incredibly alluring soft skin were no problem for you, my sweet moon?" he asked maliciously, raising an eyebrow. You growled, irritated by his arrogance. You guessed you preferred it when he responded to your attack with his own dagger.
"Do that again, and you won't live to see another moment to find out."
"You forget..." he mumbled, suddenly grabbing your hand holding the blade and wrapping his other around your neck. He pinned you against the wall, making sure there was no space between you two. "That you're not the only one with power here."
"You'd better let me go, little shadow, before you unleash hell you can't stop." you growled, summoning your light, which immediately met his shadows. You fought, jostling with your powers and staring hard into each other's eyes. You weren't going to lose this fight.
"You underestimate me, darling. I'm more than able to face any of your hell."
You didn't know why, but that sentence, the confidence in his eyes, the arrogance in his voice, and the same immense need that was hiding under both yours and his mask of restraint changed something between you two.
His already dark eyes were practically taken over by black pupils that stared at you lustfully. The intoxicating smell of his perfume, the warmth of his body, and those damn big, cool hands on your hot skin only made you accept your spur-of-the-moment decision.
With his hand still tightly wrapped around your neck, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.
You both groaned in unison. Your only consolation in this situation was that before your hands hooked on his strong arms, holding on tightly for fear your legs would give out, you could hear his dagger first drop to the marble floor, seconds before your blade.
You only broke apart for a moment before quickly removing the other's kefta and catching the other's lips again. You fought for control, biting into the other's lip every now and then, which only met with more resistance and the will to fight. Neither you nor he were made to lose.
At one point, he grabbed you by the waist, wrapping your legs around him as he carried you to the nearest flat surface—the war table. With one flick of his hand, he swept all the maps, papers, and other stuff off him onto the floor and practically threw you onto a wooden table.
You gasped in shock as your body suddenly hit the wood, which Kirigan quickly took advantage of. He dug into your mouth, his tongue grazing yours as he tried to dominate you once again.
You growled, grabbing the back of his black shirt and tearing the fabric to get to his skin, where you didn't hesitate to leave blood crescents in the shape of your fingernails.
He hissed away from your kiss-swollen lips and bit into the same damn spot on your neck where he had dared leave a hickey before.
Aleksander...
You froze. It wasn't Aleksander. It will never be your Aleksander again. No matter how damn similar they were.
Kirigan continued to kiss your neck when you finally decided, with a heavy heart, to push him away with a gentle kick.
You both stared at each other, gasping for breath. Kirigan took a hesitant step towards you and raised his hand to gently stroke your cheek. But you jumped off the war table before his skin could touch yours and start your kissing session all over again.
You had to escape from there. As soon as possible.
"I... I should go." you mumbled, shoving past him to pick up the kefta that had been thrown on the floor by him.
"Wait a second..." he followed you but stopped the moment his eyes met yours again. You both wanted each other. You were both held back by the very same thing that attracted you in the first place.
"We have a hard day tomorrow. Make sure Ivan wakes up Alina; she's not such an early riser after all." you mumbled in panic, backing towards the door.
"Melinoe." he tried to stop you, but your hand on the doorknob was faster. You opened the door, and without looking back, you threw over your shoulder:
"Good night, general."
You ran to your room, and before anyone could stop you, you shut the door. Tears began to flow freely from your eyes as you slid to the floor.
For a moment, a fleeting little moment, you were Y/N again. You were that 20-year-old girl kissing her husband again. But Kirigan could never be Aleksander. And even if you gave him your heart, he would shatter it to pieces over time when he, like other descendants of your Aleksander, reached old age. You were doomed to be lonely. But the fact that a person with eyes, a face, and a mind so like your husband was at your fingertips wasn't helpful to your already broken soul at all.
You just wanted to have your husband in your arms again. Was it so much for the saints to accomplish? You sobbed piteously until you fell asleep on the floor from exhaustion.
Little did you know that a few floors above you, someone was also mourning their dead significant other. And he also cursed fate for putting in his path a woman so similar to the one for whom he would give everything he held dear.
One thing was certain. The longer you stayed in the presence of the other, the more you lost your mind. But neither of you was ready to deprive yourself of the toxic pleasure of seeing the living face of your beloved, lost spouse.
~•♤♤♤•~
As planned, the next day you headed towards the border with Fjerdans. Neither you nor the general spoke to you most of the way, which Alina and Baghra noticed. Yes. Baghra went with you. The general was just as shocked as you, but surprisingly, he didn't argue with the woman about her unannounced presence.
The only thing you were afraid of during this trip was crossing the land where your village used to be. Aleksander's house and yours. It also didn't help that you were supposed to be there on the exact anniversary of his death - the creation of the fold.
You thought it would be easier for you to ride a horse through the only place where you were happy, but the wave of memories flooding you did not allow you to pass by indifferently.
"You'll never catch me!" you run away from him, laughing.
"If I catch you, the game will be over. But since you're insulting my capabilities…" you yelled as you ran away when Aleksander rushed to you.
You ran along the river, looking over your shoulder every now and then to make sure your boyfriend wasn't right behind you.
Suddenly, a cloud of shadows appeared in front of you, from which your Sasha came out and grabbed you by the waist. You thrashed in his embrace, causing you both to fall to the ground, laughing.
"Aleksander! You shouldn't use it in public!" you scolded him, punching him lightly in the chest.
"We are in the middle of the forest. There are only us and some animals."
"Still it is risky for you. Don't make me tell your mother about this."
"Could you please stop threatening me with my own mother?" he groaned, throwing you off him, to which you squealed indignantly. You stared with your daggers at the man lying before you with a mischievous smirk and an amused twinkle in his eyes.
"Since I found out she likes me and trusts me more than you? No, it's too funny, my grumpy shadow-man." you laughed. You rolled your eyes as you watched his expression growl. You climbed on top of him and kissed the crease that had formed between his eyebrows from your comment. "I'm soooo sorry, Sasha. You know how much I love you, right? You're the most important person in my life, Aleksander Morozova."
"And you in mine, Y/N Y/L/N." he murmured, grabbing your cheek and pulling you into a sweet, slow kiss. You purred, enjoying the feel of his lips on yours - something you'll never get tired of. He pulled away from you far too quickly. He licked his lips, looking at you nervously. You raised an eyebrow, questioningly. "Y/N... can I ask you a question?"
"Right now? I thought you gonna kiss me a little longer, but if it's so important." he chuckled, shaking his head, as he leaned down to catch your lips in a kiss again.
"Happy, lapushka?"
"Not really, but I'll try to survive a few minutes without your lips on mine." he chuckled, but you knew from the features of his face and the gentle clasping of his shoulders that something was bothering him. You just hoped he wouldn't have to leave with his mother again... "What did you want to ask me?" Aleksander cleared his throat, taking your hands in his trembling.
"You know that I love you. I can't imagine how my life would have turned out if you hadn't put that dagger to my throat five years ago right here."
"I knew I recognized this place from somewhere." you cut him off, looking around the clearing. Aleksander laughed, catching your attention again as you blushed at how stupidly you interrupted him. But it seemed to help him relax, judging by the way his hand confidently reached out to cup your cheek.
"You make me laugh. Even on the darkest, worst of days. Just one look at those wonderfully beautiful eyes is enough to completely change my mood. One word from you and all my plans and beliefs fall into oblivion. You are the light in my darkness. The only good thing that happened to me. The only person who isn't afraid of what I can do. The only person who looks at me with such adoration despite my shadows."
"You know I love them. I love all of you, Sasha. Nothing will change that." you replied with tears in your eyes, suspecting what his confession would lead to.
"I know I have nothing worth you and that the life I can offer you is nothing compared to what you deserve, but you know me better than I know myself... I would go crazy if I wasn't the only man who has the privilege of seeing your face first thing every morning and falling asleep in the presence of your beauty. I'd go crazy if someone else could be called yours..." Aleksander took a simple gold ring with a small black gem from his pocket.
You gasped, knowing full well how much money he must have spent on even such a simple engagement ring. Baghra was supposed to skin your fiancé when she figured out what he wasted their money on.
"Sasha..." you whispered, crying, moving your gaze towards him.
"Y/N, kei onolich yash (will you marry me)? Will you be my wife?" too moved to answer him, you pulled him into a kiss. You both smiled like idiots. "I'm guessing it's yes then, but I'd rather hear it from you before I tell everyone else."
"Yes. Yes, I will marry you, you idiot. You didn't have to buy me a ring, Sasha. I would say yes without it."
"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't reject me." he replied with a mischievous smirk, putting it on your finger. You huffed and punched him lightly on the shoulder. The ring sparkled in the moonlight. Your face hurts from smiling. "I promise you, Y/N one day I'll give you the prettiest, flashiest ring in all of Ravka."
"And I will still prefer the one you gave me today." you replied without a second of hesitation, pulling your fiancé into another kiss.
The Kirgian ordered a stop, which everyone accepted with gratitude. And when others Grishas dispersed to their tasks, you decided to go to the place where your house and Aleksander's once stood.
Since you were already a stupid girl, as Baghra so nicely called you, this little trip shouldn't hurt you. You'd rather be stupid and crazy—completely mad from love—than ever forget about Aleksander and move on.
And that's how you got here. By the river, close to the place where you used to be the happiest in the world, and now you were shedding a sea of tears over the life you lost.
"I will build you a palace."
"What?" you asked, giggling as you looked away from the stars to your husband lying next to you on the grass.
Sensing the movement of your head, he turned around to look at you closely. You both loved nights like these. Your hands intertwined as you both lay on the ground looking at the stars and talking about your day, your plans, and your dreams. It was a sacred ritual between the two of you that you performed at least once a week.
"A palace. For you and our future children. A safe place where we can live with our little family."
"Sasha... I don't need a palace to feel safe with you. You are my shelter. My protector. What we have now is more than enough."
"That little hut where we barely fit in with our stuff, even though we don't have much anyway? NO. You deserve all the treasures of this world, Y/N" he murmured, stroking your cheek tenderly.
You sighed, pressing your cheek against his hand, enjoying every ounce of his attention. It's been getting more and more dangerous around here lately. You seldom had time to spend together; you were too busy with the Grisha needing your help. But you didn't mind. As long as Aleksander's eyes gave you that loving, adoring look at least once a day, you were ready to face anything to get back into his waiting arms.
"I already have one." he raised an eyebrow questioningly, looking at you in surprise. You just smiled, pulling him to you by the chin and connecting your lips in a kiss. Aleksander rolled over and hovered over you, not breaking your tender kiss. You placed your hands on his cheeks and gently pulled him away, looking into his eyes. No stars in the sky could match the brilliance of his dark irises. "You are my treasure. With you by my side I want nothing more. You're all I need to be happy, Sasha." you mumbled, stroking his cheeks with your thumbs. Aleksander buried his face in your hands, closing his eyes for a moment and surrendering to this tender gesture.
"You deserve much more, milaya. And I promise, by all the saints and stars in the sky, I'll give you the world."
"Everything in time, Aleksander. Now, kiss your wife and show her how much you love her." you giggled as his long hair tickled your cheeks as he dutifully caught your lips in another sweet kiss.
"Was he really worth it?" Baghra's question cut through your sobs. You wiped your tears, not wanting to cry in front of her, and turned to face her. "Wouldn't you rather curse him for creating a fold and for leaving you than mourn the bastard that was my son? Y/N, child, you have eternity ahead of you. An eternity where you can be happy. Is Aleksander worth wasting it?" you laughed bitterly, knowing the answer to her question all too well. Nothing has changed over the centuries. And you knew nothing would change your feelings.
"You know very well that I will never know happiness again. Not without him. I've never done that in all these years."
"There had to be a moment. Even the smallest." she tried desperately to convince you. You dropped your head, remembering those few moments between you and Kirigan in Little Palace.
"There was. Next to a man who looked like him. But after a while, it dawned on me that he would never be Aleksander. Call me and think about me however you want. Pathetic child, crazy woman… But the truth is, I loved your son, Baghra, and I will always love only him. Our hearts were created by the saints as one and divided in two, placing one in Aleksander and the other in me. There is no one in the world I could love like him, with whom I could be truly happy. This type of love never dies, Baghra. Even separated by a grave."
"What if you got him back? If he was with you, but he wasn't the same man you remember?"
"It wouldn't matter. We are all changing. I know I would love him as much as I did then."
"I just hope you know what you want, child. And that maybe he'll go back to who he used to be because of you." she sighed, leaving you alone with your grief. You frowned, analysing her vague words.
It wasn't until it started to get dark that you got up from your knees and brushed the dirt off your clothes. You were about to leave when the crunch of branches caught your attention. A foolish hope rose in you and you lifted your head, only to meet your eyes with the Kirgian.
"General. I was just returning to camp." he nodded his head without a word.
Taking that as your cue to leave, you turned to take one last look at what used to be your home. You sighed tremblingly as a lone tear rolled down your cheek.
And you whistled.
It was a fragment of an old Ravkan song about lovers returning home after a long journey to throw themselves into each other's arms, longing for separation. You and Aleksander adored it. And you decided that every time one of you left home, you would whistle that particular verse that stuck in your mind.
In storm-black mountains, I wander alone
Over the glacier I make my way
A cool breeze caressed your hot (from crying) skin. But the goosebumps that formed on your arms weren't from the cold at all.
"In the apple orchard stands the maiden fair and sings, When will you come home?"
You froze. Incapable of anything but breathing. You misheard. It's just one of your stupid fantasies, your mind playing tricks on you, or another cruel dream about how you got back the man you loved. It couldn't be true. It couldn't be real.
But the man holding your arm in a tight grip and turning you around to face him felt very real. AND ALIVE.
"Sasha?" you whispered tearfully, shaking all over, and if it wasn't for his strong grip on both of your arms, you probably would have fallen to your knees in front of him long ago, unable to do anything other than stare hopefully at the man in front of you.
Aleksander's heart shuddered and threatened to burst as the pet name, unused for hundreds of years, reached his ears. In an instant, you were on his chest as he hugged you with all his might. With your ear to his heart, you listened to his beating, and for the first time in hundreds of years, you cried WITH HAPPY.
"It's me, milaya. My sweet Y/N, my moon, my heart, my wife. It's me."
You heard him through a haze, too intent on his eyes to understand anything more from his speech. It was him. Your Aleksander. All this time. He was saying something to you, but you completely ignored him as something gold around his neck shimmered in the moonlight. You pulled the chain from under his jacket, sighing as you saw his wedding ring hanging securely on his necklace. A sob of disbelief escaped you. It was really him.
His hand cupping your cheek caused your watery gaze to shift back to those dark, beloved eyes.
"No more tears, milaya. You do not have to worry. From now on, I will never leave your side again. Not for a single bloody second."
And that was enough for you.
Grabbing his hair, you pulled him closer to you to feel his lips on yours as soon as possible. It wasn't one of those soft, gentle, unhurried kisses that lovers share after they meet after some separation.
It was intense, desperate, and needy, expressing your deadly longing for each other's lips through those painful years without each other. You didn't have the strength to hold back, to pretend you didn't miss that exact feeling all those lonely nights.
It didn't matter that your tears mixed and you could taste their salty taste on each other's lips. It didn't matter that your lungs were burning for air. It didn't matter that you had already fallen to your knees, too shaken by the feeling of the other's lips, but both of you longed too much for this closeness between you to deprive yourself of the warmth of the other's body even for a millisecond. It didn't matter if your lips were too swollen to decently go back to camp and pretend nothing had happened between you two.
You sincerely doubted that you would be able to take even a step towards the camp. Not after you trembled in Aleksander's lap as his hands caressed every inch of your skin.
But the moment came when you had to pull away from each other, cursing the need for air. You rested your forehead against his, inhaling his scent and clinging to his kefta to be as close to him as possible.
You both knew that there was no way you were going to be an arm's length away from each other. And you were seriously considering sticking with him permanently. His dark cloak looked big enough for you to hide under it too.
You couldn't believe your luck. He was here. With you. You had his arms around you again as you both clung desperately to each other.
Your Aleksander. Your husband. Your loved one. Your heart.
He had you again. His wife. His soulmate. His sanity. His equal. HIS EVERYTHING.
You wanted to pull away for a moment to look at his face again, but something tugged at your neck, bringing your head to Aleksander's shoulder. You looked down. Your necklaces are tangled.
"Seriously? It couldn't have happened a month ago?" you groaned as you tried to untangle your chains. You smiled, hearing how your husband laughed carelessly for the first time in centuries, since the day he lost you. "We'll never hear the end of it from Baghra, you know about it Sasha?" you asked, resting your forehead against his as you gave up on releasing the two of you. It didn't matter that everything was against you again. At least now you finally have Aleksander with you. YOUR real Aleksander.
"She had already called me a blind fool before she made me come here. I think we'll hear a lot from her about our stupidity." he murmured. You shivered as you felt his fingertips on your neck as he untied your intertwined necklaces effortlessly. He unclasped yours and, with great delicacy, placed the ring on your finger.
"Remind me to thank your mother for making you come here later." you replied, making sure his wedding ring was on his finger as well. Maybe you won't scare all the bitches away from him, but at least you'll make it clear that he belongs only to you. After hundreds of years without him, you have the right to be territorial.
"Later?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You don't think I'm going anywhere other than your tent and your bed right now, do you?"
"Our bed." he murmured before grabbing you in bridal style and heading for your tent. "By the way, I must commend you for how bravely you resisted the charms of someone who wasn't me. I barely managed to kiss you properly before you pushed me away."
"I don't know what I should do to you. Slap you for groping someone who had my face, or kiss you for only being attracted to my beauty."
"You have to admit, you didn't resist me much back then, my little saint." he murmured, kissing you again. He ran his hand through your hair, pulling you all the way onto him so he could feel your weight on him. You were with him. Body and soul. And it wasn't a dream. "Let's go to that tent before I have my way with you here and now." he muttered, getting up.
"Wait." you grabbed his hand. He turned to you, giving you a questioning look as he found you still kneeling on the grass. "Before we do anything. We both agree that we are not going to destroy the fold, right?"
Aleksander held his breath. He forgot how damn perfect you were. How you fit in and understood him in every way. And only the slight ounce of control he had left was keeping him from lunging at you right now as you kneeled in front of him with those beautiful, mesmerising eyes staring at him.
But after all, Aleksander was only human. A man whose cruel fate separated him from his beloved wife for many centuries…
He pulled you close to him in one swift motion. You crashed into his chest, completely unprepared for the sudden movement, but his intoxicating lips on yours compensated for your shock.
You moaned into his mouth as he pulled away from you so as not to lose his control completely.
"Saints, you have no idea how much I've missed you, my little moon."
"I'll take it as a yes." you replied, giggling as he put his arm around you. As you'd guessed, you fit perfectly with him under his cloak. You sighed, intoxicated by his scent.
"You know so well that I'll do anything for you. The fact that our plans coincide only proves that we belong to each other. And only to each other."
"Always, Sasha. I'm yours for eternity." you replied, smiling slightly as you turned to steal a glance at him.
"And I'm yours for the rest of our lives and beyond." he murmured, kissing your forehead.
You practically ran through the camp, ignoring Baghra's knowing, malicious look and the shocked expressions of Alina, Zoya, and Ivan (at which you giggled, causing Aleksander a small, tender smile) and Fedyor's smirk. You entered his tent, laughing as you started kissing while taking off each other's clothes.
"I hope you realize we don't leave this tent for at least a week?" he asked as he laid you down on the bed. However, the bastard didn't wait for your response, stealing a kiss from you.
"They'll be looking for you, Sasha." you mumbled between your kisses and grabbed his cheeks to make him focus on something other than your lips.
"What a pity I'll be too busy with my wife to notice anyone else but her." he lowered his head to your neck, making your hands tangle in his hair. You sighed, feeling his tongue on your skin just before he gently bit you.
"I thought we had a battle to win." he suddenly stopped all his movements. He intertwined your ringed hands and cupped your cheek with the other, forcing you to look into his eyes.
"My little moon, I'll postpone any goddamn war for you. There is nothing in this world more important to me than you and never will be." he promised, pressing his lips to yours.
You moaned, enjoying the long-forgotten feeling of his skin against yours as well as knowing that your love would never die.
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imagineityourself · 4 months
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So, as you may already know, Russian Supreme court has banned 'international LGBT movement' as an 'extremist organisation'. I rarely post something, but let me share some news and tell you how the situation feels to me, a bisexual 22yo living in Russia.
Now, according to law, you will face up to 12 years of imprisonment if you somehow show that you're gay or support gay rights - even if you're wearing a 6-colour rainbow pin on your T-shirt. Even if you're holding hands.
Yesterday a TV channel in Saint's Petersburg was fined for showing a music video for a song by Sergey Lazarev (you may remember him as a Eurovision participant in 2016 and 2019) where two girls are showing affection. In the official statement, the vid was described as containing 'fragments showing interacting hands (caressing each other) belonging to two different people of the same sex, i.e. potentially perceived as a tactile, sensual interaction of individuals broadcasting their homosexual preferences'.
Here's the link to what is considered containing extremism in Russia btw.
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I have a girlfriend, we've been together for 2 years now. We used to hold hands when outside sometimes - not in super public places, but you know, quiet spots in a park where you are unlikely to meet anyone. Physical touch is one of my main love languages, and having my gf touch my shoulder to reassure me or take my hand to show affection means so much to me. My heart actually skips a beat when she does that.
Yesterday, we were taking a stroll in a park. She took my hand, and after a few seconds with a corner of my eye I noticed a man passing by watching us with a weird look. And my heart skipped a beat for another reason.
'He's gonna report to the police!!!' - it screamed. 'We're fucked!!!' - it screamed even louder. I let go my girlfriend's hand. We looked at each other, having the same thought.
It was scary.
We decided never to hold hands when outside again.
We are planning to move in this January. And it is so scary that people might notice. That there might be a neighbour that would rat you out. That you might forget changing pronouns from 'her' to 'he' while mentioning your partner - and spend years in jail.
Yesterday, there were raids of special police units on LGBTQ+ night clubs (that are not saying openly what they actually are ofc) under the pretense of 'illegal drug sale'. People were not let out without taking a photo of their passports.
Two of my queer friends were supposed to go there and ended up not going only because one of them didn't feel well. He was so lucky not to feel well.
Some might say that we should know better than to hold hands in parks and go to undercover gay clubs knowing we're living in Russia - that we could live without this provocation. That is not entirely false.
But the thing is, even two years ago, when I started dating my girlfriend and before the war in Ukraine, no one seemed to really care. I can't speak for the entire LGBTQ+ community, but I'd say if we were living quietly our undercover gay life, we were more ignored than actually oppressed. Even when the 'LGBT propaganda law' was passed, at least you could get away with a fine for showing a rainbow. Now you don't. We won't hold hands or go to gay parties, you win.
And that's scary.
I would love to know how to fight, but I'm just so tired.
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prince-kallisto · 3 months
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Crowley’s Realm Dominance & Mirror Dimensions: “A Piece of My World”
I’ve had this theory in my sleeves for a while now, but an impromptu collab with @moonlightequin1 on Twitter truly opened my third eye!
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It started out with Ray saying what if “Piece of my World,” aka TWSTs theme song, is the name of someone’s Unique Magic? It certainly does have a ring of a Unique Magic title haha. It sounded like a bit of a joke at first, but then our discussion suddenly became serious. Because what if it was the Signature Spell/Unique Magic for Crowley?
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In Book 7, when STYX is learning about Malleus’ Overblot, STYX drops a huge lore drop about the dream barrier being Malleus’ “Realm Dominance,” an ancient and rare class type of Fae magic. A type of magic that can change the world into the visions of the caster. Malleus puts everyone to sleep and trapped in thorns because it’s the world he wants- where his loved ones can’t die nor leave. We don’t know the extent of Crowley’s magic yet, but we do know he’s a long-lived Fae who speaks of Imagination being the key to a mages magic. In Book 7, Silver also begins to speak of this world of imagination created by memories (side note, the ghost camera pictures full name in JP is “Memories: Fragments of Remembrance”) before getting cut off.
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But what does this have to do with Crowley? After all, not even regular Fae has this sort of Realm Dominance magic- it needs extreme power and imagination for it come true. And it’s only possible on a world scale because Malleus is one of top 5 mages, despite not even being a matured Dragon Fae. But the thing is, this has EVERYTHING to do with Crowley. In fact, Ray and I are convinced that Crowley has already shown the “Pieces of his world” ever since the very beginning of the game.
Staring right in front of us is the mirror dimensions for each dorm. Outside of NRC, there has been NO CASE of a mirror having another stable realm inside. None whatsoever! The Lost in the Book with Stitch event does have the mirror on a storybook, but everyone loses their memories at the end. It’s clearly not a stable mirror realm. Side note, I will be talking about how sus that book is in a future post, Ray and I also had a lengthy discussion on that one haha.
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I don’t believe that this is normal magic. Sure, mirrors are commonly used for teleportation in TWST, but an entire POCKET DIMENSION? We know for a fact that it is a pocket dimension because in Book 4, there is a limit to the dorm worlds inside the mirror. The dimension gets colder and darker the farther you try to travel, which we received proof on in Book 4 during Jamil’s Overblot. Jamil threw us to a cold, dark and grey area of the dorm, aka the literal boundaries to the dimension that can take hours if not days to trek through by foot.
And isn’t it interesting that each of these mirrors has a world individually crafted in the image of the Great Seven? An entire WORLD where students can live in and use magic in, while taking up no space in the real world of Twisted Wonderland. So Ray and I are thinking that this is one of Crowley’s display of “Realm Dominance,” that these mirror dimensions are his creations. Crowley even wears mirrors (5 in total) all over his body, perhaps as a hint to this
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So if Crowley’s Unique Magic is “Piece of My World,” the dorm mirrors are quite literally, a piece of Crowley’s world that he has created! The opening animation even starts out with Crowley being surrounded by mirrors with the names of each dorm inside them, in flame. So in the terms of this theory, if Crowley’s Unique Magic is related to Realm Dominance itself, it’s likely how he can craft completely individual and stable dimensions within objects like mirrors that are his own pocket dimensions. And if he’s capable of that, it could be possible at a world scale.
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Twisted Wonderland is, well, twisted. A world where the villains won or at least are viewed favorably…a world where these Overblots at NRC are suspected to be caused by someone on purpose. And from what we now know from Book 7, it is possible for Realm Dominance to take over the ENTIRE WORLD. In Malleus’ case, it’s because his magic supply could literally never run out because some Fae can absorb magic power from nature itself. And this, Malleus renews his magic and slowly expands his sleeping realm.
Edit: @camrastuff sent me a wonderful ask bringing this up! On the front of his body, Crowley having seven keys: three on his hat, and four at his belt with the mirrors. Perhaps these keys work similarly to Azul’s contracts, and are something that keeps the separate dimensions in check? Or if they are a necessary thing to his magic, and this is on a world scale…Crowley’s cane being in the shape of a giant key is 👀👀👀👀
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It’s also interesting to note that the theme song of the game doesn’t have a full OP yet. A “full” performance on ABEMA TV was made, but an official release was never made, and it’s believed that it wasn’t the true full version due to potential spoilers to the late game of TWST. It’s just a possibility tho haha, we can’t say for sure.
Edit: I’d like to add that the ominous opening song when you physically open the game is literally called “Dire Crowley.” If “Piece is my World” is also Crowley’s song, his presence is lowkey everywhere in the background in the game??
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There were many, many topics from Ray and I’s discussion that I’d like to cover, but I’ll be separating them out for coherency haha. On a final note, I’d like to add that the countdown art was connected to tarot cards according to their number. I made a whole deep dive on Crowley’s card, but to sum it up, Crowley’s countdown number was “1,” and the last one in the countdown. In this case, Dire Crowley has the number of the Magician, who has the potential of infinite creation capabilities as long as he can imagine it. It’s interesting to note how the Magician serves as a connection between worlds as well 👀 I think this theory has potential for Crowley gaining a more centric role in TWST soon…Book 8 specifically. The Magician also has a strong connection to the number 8, because of its theme of “infinity.” Just something to think about…
Edit: Part 2 to this theory is out!! This time, going further into the idea of Crowley’s magic being on a world-scale level, and his motives for his magic 👀
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theinnerunderrain · 1 year
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The Soldier, the Poet and the King [Yan! Genshin]
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The Soldier is someone who will battle for his principles even if it means becoming coated in blood, sweat, and tears as long as he is victorious and able to obtain his treasured prize, that being you. Due to his ambition and perception that violence is in his horizon, he enters the violent world partly as a result of his own judgments. However, that voyage of violence seems to have been worthwhile when you are at the other end. As you extend your arms for his hug, you appear to be gleaming at him with a brilliant smile, but that appearance is merely a deception played on his mind, a greeting that only fools who are in love cannot see through.
After a long day on the battlefield, when he closes his eyes to drift off to sleep, you are the only image he can see as you are everything he has ever dreamed of. He was aware that it was immoral to want you, to lust after you like such a succubus, and to desire to knead every curve within your figure. He was aware that wanting to embrace you and tainting your innocence with his blood-stained fingers and the souls he took was wicked.
Nonetheless, he was driven by self-interest.
He wouldn't have survived this long if it weren't for you. In a quest to become a closer to you, he toiled so hard for you that he slaughtered and endured several scars from the Gods above. He partially gave up his pride, his family and childhood all just for you.
After all, he is a soldier. He must be brave, no matter what.
Will you not fulfil his one and only wish? To simply love you? Merely to be with you? In light of what he has accomplished, he is not really asking for much.
Don't be selfish now.
Consider those who had to die as a result of your actions. Think the women and children he had to massacre. All the homes he burned down, all the people he slaughtered.
Don't you think it would be a shame to have their sacrifice go to waste? Are they nothing but burnt corpses to you?
You don't want their lives to be wasted like that, do you?
Do you?
The Wanderer, Cyno, Childe, Capitano, Alhaitham, Traveler.
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The poet is a serene being who values beauty and lyricism, and in his eyes, you are perhaps the most beautiful person in the world. Curiously delicate and appearing to be reserved for you and you alone, his words would stream from his lips much like roses spewing from water, pure and innocent. The poet would captivate you with one of his many talents, whether it was alchemy or simply simple poetry. Despite the absurd number of warning signs that are flashing in your face, it wouldn't take you long to become infatuated with him since all you can hear are his alluring words and assurances of an eternal union. But keep in mind that not all of what he says is truthful, even a poet is capable of telling lies.
One might even contend that poets are the greatest liars since they are so clever and skilled with language that any falsehood would be easily revealed.
You are his dearest muse, but that does not mean you are exempted from his lies, lies that are meant to protect you from the dangerous world. The poet wants to be able to depict your beauty, whether it be through writing, sketching, or even more nefarious tactics that involves a more scientific means. Even if his experiments of curiosity are a little strange sometimes, don't worry too much.
You are guaranteed to be safe.
Despite being arrogant, he was aware of his capabilities. Even you, who he longed to believe was immortal, knew that people were frail and continually constrained by the bonds of existence.
That's why he is in such a frenzy to acquire as many recollections of you as he can through songs and poems, artwork and literature, as well as by collecting pieces for your hair and dead cells that you left behind within your blankets.
He desired to be continually captivated with you and to retain a fragment of you with him forever.
You are his finest creation, after all.
One that he wants to keep around forever and ever.
Kazuha, Albedo, Dottore, Tighnari, Kaeya.
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The King is an individual who feels the gravity of needing to oversee and undertake responsibilities for the entire world, so it is not strange that he feels a sense of obligation to you. He believes he must carry out his obligations and adhere to social demands because they are unavoidable.
Regardless of whether the king aspires to be a poet, he is always restrained by that notion of responsibility. In his heart, the monarch longs to be free to frolic and parade through the streets without the need for a care in the world. His people, his feeling of responsibility, though, bind him.
He felt some freedom and comfort in your presence, and that was enough liberation for him. You gave him the freedom to speak without worrying about being judged or making a mistake. Just by being there, he would lavish you with gold and diamonds, as well as opulent clothing and delectable cuisine.
So, he couldn't comprehend why you would be attempting to escape him.
He didn't understand.
He thought everything went well.
So why are you running?
You must take into consideration that this man was nevertheless a king, a monarch capable of starting war in another country with the snap of his finger, so perhaps it was a mistake for you to assume that he might appear to be a carefree poet in your presence. He was a man who was capable of coldness and savagery, and he could have your head in a matter of hours.
Thus, wouldn't you like to explore a little more with his game?
So do play around with his game a little further won't you? Apologize to him for running, and you will not bear any punishment.
Zhongli, Venti, Pantalone, Ayato, Diluc.
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mclennonlgbt · 3 days
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(JUST LIKE) STARTING OVER WAS DEFINITELY FOR PAUL – a compilation
A meaningful wordplay As you know, John attached great importance to the lyrics of his songs. He liked to smuggle in word games and hidden meanings. Let's look at a fragment of the lyrics of "(Just Like) Starting Over". It's time to spread our wings and fly Wings was Paul's band in the 1970s.
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Don't let another day go by
"Another Day" is a song by Paul and Linda that was released as the A-side of a non-album single in February 1971. It was Paul's debut single, following the Beatles break-up in 1970. (Sidenote: giving credits to both himself and Linda, Paul broke up the Lennon-McCartney partnership, angering Allen Klein).
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my love
"My Love" is a 1973 song by Wings. The single was viewed as Wings' first significant success.
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2. The demos
In the first demo, John uses the word "walrus":
Everyday we used to make it love so why can’t we be making love – it’s easy. The time has come, the walrus said, for you and me to stay in bed again, it’ll be just like starting over
The walrus is a famous motif from Beatles songs. In the song "I Am The Walrus" (1967) John declares that he is the titular walrus, a year later in "Glass Onion" he stated: „And here’s another clue to you all – the walrus was Paul”. In "God" (1970) John sings: "I was the walrus." In an interview from 1969 or 1970, George jokes: „And if you are listening, I am the walrus too”. Regardless of which Beatles was the walrus, John is for sure giving us an interesting clue here.
As for „in bed”:
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Here's another fascinating demo... This requires no comment. It's just that John suddenly referred to "Why Don't We Do it In the Road", a song by Paul from the Beatles era
3. John explaining who the song is for
„I’m not aiming, I am not aiming at 16 year olds. If they can dig it, please dig it. But when I was singing and writing this and working with her, I was visualizing all the people of my age group from the 60s. Being in their 30s and 40s now, just like me, and having wives and children and having gone through everything together, I am singing to them! I hope the young kids like it as well, but I’m really talking to the people that grew up with me and saying: „Here I am now, how are you? How’s your relationship going? Did you get through it all? Wasn’t the 70s a drag? You know, here we are, let’s try and make the 80s good, you know, because it’s still up to us to make what we can of it. It’s not out of our control”. I still believe in love, peace. I still believe in positive thinking when I can do it. I’m not always positive but when I am, I try and project it”.
Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqxPx2Tvf6A
Let’s point out that the song which convinced John to come out of retirement was „Coming up” by Paul. You want a love to last forever One that will never fade away I want to help you with your problem Stick around, I say
(…)
You want some peace and understanding So everybody can be free I know that we can get together We can make it, stick with me
BONUS (this is not evidence or premise, but maybe Paul understood that the song was addressed to him): Paul's reaction to the song after John's death.
„…Time passed. Paul locked the door of his home studio and played (Just Like) Starting Over, the first single from Double Fantasy. Top volume. For days”.
- Christopher Sandford, „McCartney”
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