#LIKE?? THE COIN TOSSING IN HIS IDLE

[ssslime]

nocte solitudo

his mind tends to wander at night.

➥ astarion x gn!tav, ranger!tav, some angst, a lil comfort, mentions of blood

It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested.

Meditation brought him some reprieve, at least, during nights where the camp’s quiet was only interrupted by the distant buzz of insects and the sound of the trees above them. Sometimes silence was too loud — too thick and heavy for him to relax.

Astarion shifted in his bedroll. His ruby gaze was caught upward, piercing into a little coin-sized hole in the cloth ceiling.

Tav would probably stitch that up quickly, if he asked. They’re good with crafty little things like that, all nimble fingers and a brow furrowed in concentration.

He rolled over.

A shard of light caught in Astarion’s eye for a second. The tiniest bit of moonlight bounced off of his daggers, tossed unceremoniously atop his travel bag in the corner of the tent. Smooth silver gave way to crusted, dark blood and grime near the sharpened tips. Astarion’s lips twitched downward.

He was hungry. He hadn’t fed in a while, and he’d need to hunt something down within the next few nights. Things had just felt hectic as of late — why exactly Tav insisted on helping every dripping wet, sniffling fellow they found on the side of the road, he’d never know. It grated his nerves sometimes, how it seemed they were unable to say no to any sad little sob story fed to them. He would know; it’s worked for him before.

But, Tav would probably help him hunt down some wild boar, or maybe even a bear to hold him off for a while, if he asked. They’re quite the hunter.

He sat up.

Outside, he could hear Scratch idling around. The dog’s eager nose gave him away; sniffing and snorting softly, Astarion knew the pup was poking around their trunk of food nearby. With a sigh, he stood to his feet and parted the curtain door. He wouldn’t be settled any time soon, anyways.

The night air felt cool on his skin as he stepped outside. All was calm, as expected. A crackling, dying fire laid in the center of camp, dimly lighting the area and casting weak shadows along the surrounding tree line. Astarion let his eyes wander over to the white dog some yards away.

Scratch lifted his head and peered right back. His tail swayed lightly back and forth and his ears perked up.

“Hungry, are you?” Astarion asked quietly, looking between the dog and the closed chest. Scratch simply tilted his head to the side, his big, pleading eyes working wonders on the supposed stone cold vampire.

Astarion sighed. “Fine, fine — but nobody hears about this, understood?”

He wasn’t sure why he was talking to a damned dog. He reminded himself of how strange and silly Tav looked whenever they would communicate with animals. It was nearly second nature to them, it seemed, and perhaps that’s what it was — a survival technique, like all their other skills, developed out of necessity. He could relate, and that thought alone made his stomach turn a little.

Thoughts like these came to Astarion at the worst times. Moments where he was free from distraction, with countless minutes under his belt to ruminate and dissect, even when all he wanted was to simply close his eyes and let time pass like sand between his fingers.

He tossed the dog a sausage link. He knew what it was like to have a feast right in front of you, and not be allowed to indulge.

In his mind’s eye, Astarion could picture slinking across the stagnant landscape of their sleepy little camp. Working with the shadows to blend seamlessly into Tav’s patchwork wonder of a tent. Watching their chest rise and fall with deep, steady breath — their lashes flickering just the slightest bit over their cheeks. Feeling their pulse thrum beneath his lips, their breath catching, their hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck.

Tav would probably let him feed, if he asked. They’d shared their blood before; succulent and sweet and mind-numbingly warm as it slipped down his parched throat. They’re such a delicious treat.

But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t ask such a selfish thing.

He sighed.

Change is difficult. Surely his life was leaps and bounds better than it was before; no longer did he have to prowl taverns and dark streets for vulnerable prey in the form of drunk and lonely hearts. But this… duality inside of him made him sick. He wished so desperately for things to be different.

He wished they could’ve been another name and face to discard the morning after.

“Astarion?”

He wished he didn’t see parts of himself in them.

“Is everything alright? It’s very late.”

He wished he could be selfish with them, because it’d be so painfully easy. But he couldn’t.

He glanced up, soaking in Tav’s tousled hair and squinted expression as it grew closer. They rubbed one eye with the back of their hand and furrowed their brow, watching him expectantly. Scratch, of course, trotted over happily upon seeing his favorite person, and leaned up against their legs. Tav dropped their hand to rub along the dog’s snout and cheek in a show of idle affection.

“I was just… thinking,” Astarion replied finally. “Feeling a bit restless, I suppose. And what of you, darling?”

Tav blinked their bleary eyes, watching him for a moment before opening their mouth again.

“Would you come lay with me?”

It wasn’t often Astarion felt rested. After 200 years, it was something he was used to. His nights were filled with crushing guilt or staggering loneliness, doomed to wallow in the dark and filth of his seemingly endless existence.

But, perhaps change is a good thing. Perhaps this is what it’s like to be born anew, to shed your old skin in favor of a life newer, better than before. It’s unsettling, it’s sensitive.

Astarion pondered this as he settled in behind Tav. The scent of lavender curled around him as soon as he laid down on their bedroll. He didn’t mind — it had quickly become a source of comfort, whether he’d admit it to himself or not.

“Thank you,” Tav whispered after a few moments of quiet, “it feels better with you here.”

Astarion slid his ruby gaze over to settle on the back of their head. He turned onto his side, weaving his arm under theirs to rest on their waist. Tav relaxed easily into his gentle hold, fitting their bodies together like they were shaped from the same clay.

“You don’t have to thank me, dove. I’m just a few tents away,” he leaned closer, ghosting his lips over their shoulder with a gentle kiss, full of all the warmth and affection he never knew he was capable of before, “all you have to do is ask.”

#navi;astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 #and i oop!!!! #i need him….. that’s all #queued

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Tipping Point - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco forces Vander's hand beyond all recourse.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"They're like a cult," Vander said, their last night together.

Silco didn't glance up. He'd been sitting at the Drop's table, hands laced under his chin, poring over a map. Black ink, red ink. Blue strings running in between, like the veins in a corpse. He'd been at it all evening, and his eyeballs vibrated. So did the rest of him.

Usually, he'd take the percolating mania and channel it into Sevika. She was a solid presence: always available, always hungry. By now, he'd all but moved into hers and Nandi's flat. There was gossip, as there was bound to be. Neither he nor Sevika gave a toss.

Nandi was gone, and he couldn't shake her loss.

But at least he could fuck his way out of the grief.

That's what he and Sevika did, most nights: fucked, then slept, then fucked again. Mornings, they'd wake with sour mouths, and sour moods. He'd brew her tea, and she'd suck his cock under the table. Afterward, they'd share a plateful of sump-vole fritters, and plot the day's course. Then she'd leave for her patrol, and he'd go to work at the Drop. Evenings, they'd rendezvous at Jericho's. A little more planning, a little more fucking. She'd rub his shoulders, or he'd knead her calf-muscles. She'd feed him bits of smoked sardines, and he'd eat her out until her toes curled. Then, after the drinks were drunk and the dishes were washed, they'd fall into bed again.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

It wasn't love—neither of them was ready for that. But it was easy. It was enough. A rhythm he could fall into; a routine she could count on. Sevika wasn't Nandi. Everything about her was a fraction heavier, harder, coarser. She wasn't soft; she wasn't sweet. But her body was a good one, and her mind a keen one. Her temper could flare; but her humor could cut.

And her laugh, though rare, chased all the shadows out of the gloom.

He could live with that. Hell, he could live for it. Even—love it? In time. When Zaun was theirs, and the dead laid to rest.

Not that night.

That night, the maps wouldn't stop jittering. His mind kept running in circles. Sevika wasn't due till late. There was only Vander.

Only Vander, and his looming shadow.

And Silco's own: darkening the map. 

"A cult, you say?" he said. A fortnight, he thought. The time's nearly up. "That's high praise."

"Is it?" Vander's chin jerked towards the flapping door, where a pair of scrappers had just slunk out. "That lot were practically beggin' for commands. Looked at you like you were a bloody god." He grimaced. "Makes my skin crawl."

"They're useful." Silco stirred the page with a fingertip. "Steady hands."

"An' sharp knives." Vander's brows bristled. "I ain't seen a lick of their faces, but I bet they're young. Too young for this kind of job."

"We were all too young."

"And look what happened." Vander crossed his arms over his chest, his face granite except for the vein throbbing in his temple. His jowls were furred with stubble; all attempts at grooming had ceased the past few weeks.  "The Lanes are crawlin' with their sort lately. They'd kill their own mothers for coin. An' you've got a talent for pickin' the worst."

"Perhaps," Silco rejoined, "I prefer company with an ounce of ambition."

"Ambition's the least of their bloody traits!"

"Vander, use your thick head. We're at war." Silco tapped the maps with an idleness that belied his irritation. "And war needs more than soldiers and stalwart hearts. It needs spies and saboteurs. People who'll do the dirty work without compromising the cause. I have my contacts, and they have theirs. If it weren't for them, we'd have no way to ship our goods."

"We wouldn't have a bunch of cutthroats loose in the Lanes, neither."

"We've always had cutthroats."

"Not this many!" Vander's fist slammed against the table, rattling the glassware. Once, Silco would've jerked. Now, his body-language betrayed nothing. Passions were a volatile commodity; a good leader could ill-afford to succumb to his own. He'd learnt the hard way and meant to profit from the lesson. "They're a fuckin' infestation! Eyes like dead things an' smiles like wolves. They've got no limits. All they want is blood."

"The world's made them that way."

"An' you're the one exploiting 'em."

"I'm offering them a choice."

"Are you?" Vander glowered, looming into his space.  "What are their options, huh? Down the gutter, or up the river? They're not loyal, Silco. They're fanatical. To you."   

"To us," Silco corrected.

"I didn't ask for a cult!"

"Then maybe you should!"

Their eyes locked from across a flashpoint of inches. In their debates, as a rule, Silco weighed Vander's words before his own. It was a practice borne of equity: no partnership comes without compromise. Lately, though, they never debated. He'd get an earful of strident moralism.

Tonight he'd had enough.

"Right now, our plans are only partially done,” he said. “But unless we get every cutthroat, snitch and sneak-thief on our side, they'll be undone. The Wardens will kill us all. You. Me. Sevika. Benzo. They'll raze the Lanes to the ground, and salt the ashes. And when the smoke clears, the soft ones—the ones like Nandi, like Lika and her girls, like your two boys—will be put to work. All our children will die before they've a chance to live. Is that what you want?"

"Don't make this somethin' it's not." Vander's jaw jutted. "You think I don't want Topside's boot off our necks? You think I wouldn't give anything to make sure our kids breathe easy? You think I don't think back on Bloody Sunday every single damn day? What was lost? What you—" Silco's head tilted, a basilisk lifting, and Vander backed off just enough to avoid his stare. "...what we could've done."

"Could've. Would've. Should've." Silco's eyes descended to subzero. "All excuses for a failure to act now. Or maybe the Hound's losing his teeth?"

Vander's nostrils flared. He unbent to his full height stepped around the counter, a slow, lumbering turn. His shadow engulfed Silco like a fist.

"If you had any idea," he said, a whiskey-waft of heat. "Any. How much I'd like to—"

"To what?" Silco challenged. "Discipline? Force me to obey? Do try. I could use a spot of fun." 

Vander seized a fistful of his shirtfront. The next moment, Silco found himself being dragged across the countertop. The whiskey glasses toppled to the floorboards. The ledgers and maps scattered. He was half-slung through the air, the room upside-down before the breath was knocked out of him.

His spine hit the wall, legs dangling. A fist pinned him in place.

Vander's features were contorted, a red-hot fury at once leashed and explosive. His fingers closed around Silco's throat. He didn't squeeze. Not yet. But the threat was there.

"D'you even listen to yourself?" he gritted. "D'you have a shred of decency left? Or did Nandi's death knock it all outta you? She'd be ashamed. To see you. To see what you're doin'!"

Silco let one corner of his mouth curl. "What am I doing?"

"You know damnwell what!"

The nights, he meant.

The plainclothesmen gutted in the shadows. Their bodies left in the open where everyone could see. The edge of Silco's knife never clean when he came home.

"It's not the way," Vander said, a hairline crack in his voice. "You know it isn't."

"You haven't stopped me."

"Stopped you?" Vander's knuckles flexed. "I've tried. Every day since you started. I thought...you'd get it out of your system. You'd snap out of it. But you haven't. You won't. You've gotten a taste for it."

"I have a taste for keeping us alive."

"You have a taste for murder!" Vander shook him. "An' I can't keep turnin' a blind eye. You're the best thing that's happened to the Lanes, Blut. If the Undercity had to choose, they'd have my back. But we'd all be six feet under without you! That's why you need to get your shit together. Because when this is over, I won't let you walk away."

"Threats, Vander?"

"This has gone far enough." Vander's pitch dropped. The Hound's warning rumble. "If you cross the line again, I won't hesitate."

"You won't have to."

"What?"

"The Sheriff has issued a search warrant. In a fortnight, the Enforcers will crack down." Silco's eyes went past Vander's shoulder, where the maps had fallen. "A citywide sweep. We'll lose the advantage. Our networks, our stockpiles. Everything. Unless—"

Vander's hold on his neck tightened. "Unless what?"

"We strike first."

"First." Vander's grip stayed immobile. But his stare was no longer a blister. It was a burn: eating Silco alive. "Fuck. This is what you've been planning."

"A smokescreen."

Silco's fingers folded around Vander's wrist. It didn't budge. Vander was strong; the strongest he'd ever known. Struggling was besides the point. Part of him was already prepared to go all the way. To let go and take Vander with him into the freefall of blackness.

"The Enforcers bodies will divert Topside's attention," Silco went on. "Their patrols will be spread thin. The bodies were all near the Canal Zone. They'll believe our operation was concentrated there. Meanwhile, the guardposts at Bridgeside will be understaffed. We'll deploy the squads to transport the ammo. If everything goes as planned, the Lanes will have the full arsenal by tomorrow night. Then, the real war will begin."

"Blut..."

"Think. You'll have everything. A force. Firepower. Enough to drive Topside out of our streets for good."

Vander's fist clenched and unclenched. His eyes roved the room, the empty stools, the felled glasses, the scattered plans. His shoulders caved inward.

It wasn't surrender. It was a man, bracing himself against a massing storm.

"How could you?" he rasped. "Silco, how could you?"

"There is no other way."

"Sevika... she knows about this?"

"We had a talk."

"A talk," Vander repeated flatly. "Of course. You're her damned messiah now. That girl was always prowlin' for someone to take her old man's place. Someone who'd give her orders. Who'd make her feel strong. I told you not to play games with her. To not lead her on. To not—do this!"

With renewed disgust, Vander shoved him away. Silco swayed but kept his balance. Vander's fingerprints burned around his throat.

"That's why you chose her, isn't it?” Vander went on. “Her gang's the most coordinated in the Lanes. The most ruthless. Our folks respect 'em, but they fear 'em, too. They're perfect for what you've got planned." When Silco stayed silent, he shook his head. "For Janna's sake, Blut. She's barely twenty-two. You were supposed to be her family. Her mentor. Not the person who puts the goddamn matches in her hand!"

Silco snapped. Low-blows made for the deepest cuts.

"You used me first, remember? When I was sixteen and you were twenty-one. You knew I'd do anything for you. You knew I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. You've always known, and still you've never had the guts to do what should be done. So I have. Because someone has to. Someone with a spine, and the balls to take what's theirs."

"Fuckin' hell." Vander's face had changed. The lines carved deep, shadows in the hollows of his cheekbones. He looked both worn to the bone, and blasted open. "All these years. All these years... an' you never let it go. Why couldn't you let it go? Why couldn't you forgive me?"

"Why couldn't you?!"

The air was charged with currents. Silco's body sang. Like a sea-change: skin sloughing off, and something raw and primal birthing itself. Something he'd known was always inside him, and was now in its last throes of transformation. He had no name for it but he knew its shape.

It was a part of him. A monster. Same as Vander's.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," Silco said softly. "Nor am I giving it. But I am asking you to do what's necessary. For us."

"Us," Vander repeated, the word scraped raw.

"Our city. Because Zaun will die if we don't do this, Vander. So will everyone we love." Silco took a step towards him. Vander shuddered. He felt the tremor. Felt the monster behind it. The two of them: feeding off each other. A decades-long twining of call-and-response. "We can't keep on like this. You. Me. Sevika. Benzo. Lika. We've been fighting our fates since we were children. Now it's time to take the fight to Topside."

"Blut..."

"We can win this. We have the weapons. We have the people. We have the resolve. We just need you." 

“Me?”

"You're the Hound of the Underground. Our champion. Because that's not me, Vander. It will never be me. No matter what those scrappers, or Sevika, or you, or anyone says. That's not who I am."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward (never forget)/xoxo #forward but never forget/xoxo #arcane vander #vander #arcane sevika #sevika #arcane zaun #zaun #vanco #vander x silco #snippet #sevilco #silco x sevika

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Urban legends Part 1: What lurks in the night

“What time is it?”

Zintal tore his gaze away from his drink and looked at his human friend. He had been convinced that Brooks had been in a coma until now after he had downed a pint of Teruziun Ale when they first arrived and he collapsed to the ground.   Some of the other patrons had laughed and propped him up in one of the waiting chairs while Zintal continued to enjoy the night.

Looking down at his watch, a strange human custom he had adopted since moving to the human world, he took note of the positioning of the hands.

“Half past midnight.” Zintal remarked as he took another sip of his drink. The bar was practically empty aside from them and the bartender who was wiping down several glasses and stacking them behind the counter.

“Oh shit.” Brooks murmured and tried to stand. He must have had some of the ale still in his system because he made it two steps before he fell to the ground.

“Someone’s in a hurry.” Zintal laughed as he finished his drink. He tossed a coin to the bar keep who caught it midair and then went to pick up his friend.

“We should have been gone an hour ago.” Brooks stammered as he tried to get back up but kept losing his balance. “We can’t be here after midnight.”

“You’re mommy say that?” Zintal chuckled as he helped Brooks up.

The first he knew something was wrong was how tightly his friend was grabbing his arm. Brooks was holding on to him like his life depended on it. It wasn’t just tightness either, but Zintal could feel their hands shaking as if he was afraid of something. A look in his friend’s eyes and Zintal saw that what his friend was saying was not the idle ramblings of a drunkard, but of a man who was genuinely afraid.

“Alright,” Zintal said in a calm voice as he took Brooks under one arm and together walked towards the door of the bar, “we’ll just call a transport vehicle and we will be home.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Brooks mumbled as they reached the door. “That’s not going to work.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone knows not to come here after midnight!” Brooks shouted back. “They know to stay the fuck away until the sun comes back up and it’s safe to come out!”

“Then why don’t we stay-“ Zintal began until he saw the bar keep placing a shotgun on the counter and shake his head slowly.

Zintal now felt a measure of fear himself. They were standing at the door to the pub yet his hands would not touch the handle leading outside.

“I need you to tell me why it is not safe outside.” Zintal spoke to Brooks. “What are you afraid of? Speak clearly to me.”

Some sense returned to Brooks as he wiped a hand across his face and slapped himself a few times. He pulled away from Zintal and regained his footing before answering his alien friend.

“There’s a story,” Brooks began, “about something that stalks these streets at night and takes people.”

“What?”

Zintal couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but Brooks kept talking.

“Nobody knows who it is or what it is, but what they do know is that about a month ago if you’re out after midnight it will get you.”

“Why in the thirteen hells then would you take us to a pub if you knew it was dangerous!?” Zintal demanded.

Brooks shrugged. “I thought we would have our drinks and been out of here before midnight; we were meant to be back home by now!”

Zintal shook his head in anger and pulled out his communicator. He scrolled through the services trying to find the summon ride application but no matter which application he tried all of them gave him the same error message.

No service…..

“I told you that wouldn’t work.” Brooks remarked but Zintal held up a hand to silence him. He needed to think, needed to use his enhanced mind to find a resolution to this problem, something that could get them home-

An idea popped into his head and he turned back to the bar keep.

“Where’s the nearest transit station?”

The bar keep pointed in direction and said “About six blocks down 3rd street and you can find one on Cheery Ave.”

Zintal turned back to Brooks with renewed hope. “We just got to make it there and we’re home free. Transit stations run all day and night, no exceptions.”

This news didn’t seem to cheer up Brooks as much as Zintal thought it would.

“We’ll never make it.” He replied; his breathing quickening as the last of the ale was burned from his system. Zintal grabbed him and imbued what strength he could to his friend. “We will make it if we stick together, alright?”

Brook slowed his breathing and looked at his friend; the clouds of fear diminishing from his eyes, but not fully leaving his sight.  “Alright, let’s do this.”

The pair steadied themselves and together pushed open the doors to the street outside. For Zintal it was like he had just entered an entirely different world than he remembered.

Where once the streets had been lively and full of crowds of people when they first entered the pub, now the streets were empty and a fog began rolling through the streets. He looked up and he could no longer see anything above the fourth story of the buildings around him. Looking down the street he saw that he could barely see to the end of the block as well.

“We’re fucked.” Brooks gasped as he saw the surroundings; his previous resolution having faded away into the depths of the surrounding fog. Zintal said nothing but instead grabbed hold of his friend and began making their way in the direction the bar keep had pointed.

The pair stuck close together as they made their way through the fog. Their footsteps run out against the cold concrete, echoing between the buildings as all other sounds seemed to have been silenced with the onset of night. A few of the street lights still functioned along the street, but with the fog’s thickness they gave a pale white glow that only illuminated a small area around their base.

As they passed by the stores and shops lining the road Zintal saw that nearly all of them were boarded up tight. Layers of metal grating, fencing, and chains sealed their occupants inside while trapping the pair of nervous friends out in the street. They’d made it a block away from the pub when a rather upsetting notion crossed Zintal’s mind.

“If I find out that this is one of your human pranks…” Zintal softly growled, but Brooks shook his head.

“I’d not joke about this mate.” Brooks replied quietly. “It’s bad luck to joke about death when you’re staring it right in the face.”

Zintal was about to chastise him for being overly superstitious when he heard something and froze. Brooks, who had been following behind him, bumped into his alien friend and nearly shouted from the startling when Zintal put his hand over his mouth. He put a finger over his mouth for silence and then another towards his ear to listen.

Brooks recognized the indication and likewise began listening as the fog swirled in closer around them.

The pair waited for what felt like an eternity until they heard the faintest of sounds coming from somewhere back the way they had just come. Brooks could feel his heart beating so fast it might pop out of his throat, while Zintal wiped a strand of purple sweat that rolled down his face as they waited in silence.

They didn’t need to wait long for just as when the pair thought they were going mad with fear and chalking it up to nerves they heard it again. Neither could make anything out from the fog but they knew the sound was closer than it had been before and was getting closer with each jut wrenching motion.

They heard the sounds of a soft pair of footsteps, and the screech of something being dragged across the ground.

#humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #humans are weird #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #stable diffusion #ai generated art

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.

- W.B. Yeats

This is the quote from W.B. Yeats as a painted sign on the wall as you enter the famous bookstore Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

Strangers always found a welcome at Shakespeare and Company, where they could browse untroubled for hours, especially if they were aspiring writers themselves; and a few – well, a very few – of them may indeed have turned out to be angels, or at least angelic.

The original Shakespeare and Company shop was started in 1921 in the Rue de l’Odéon by Sylvia Beach, the daughter of a US Presbyterian minister. The first writer to patronise the shop was Gertrude Stein, but she fell out with Beach when she took up with James Joyce, whom Stein hated.

Beach published Joyce’s Ulysses when no established publisher would touch it, performing the arduous labour of love of proofreading it. Ernest Hemingway discovered the shop soon after his arrival in Paris, and wrote about it lovingly decades later in A Moveable Feast. When the Germans occupied Paris, Beach refused to sell a signed copy of Finnegans Wake to an invading officer. He said he would return for it the next day. So she moved all the books out and closed the shop. It was “liberated” by Hemingway himself in 1944. However, Beach didn’t have the heart to start again.

In 1948, after a wandering youth and war service, George Whitman came to Paris on the GI Bill, and in 1951 opened an English-language bookshop which he called Le Mistral. A few years later, he moved to the Rue de la Bûcherie, but didn’t rename the shop until after Beach’s death in 1961. He had been too shy to ask her if he could use the name, although they were friends and she used to come to readings at Le Mistral.

Whitman ran his shop as a species of anarchic democracy, even though in some respects he was a benevolent dictator. Anyone who called himself a writer could find a bed there, if there was one free, and stay as long as he liked or until Whitman got tired of him. The only rule for residents was that they must read a book a day and serve in the shop for an hour. One poet, or self-styled poet, who broke the second rule and lay in bed all day reading detective novels was ejected; but his chief offence was his choice of literature rather than his idleness.

The bookshop has its regulars, residents in Paris, not all of them English-speakers by any means, who use it as a sort of club and drop in for conversation and coffee.

Stock control has always been on the casual side. It’s not unknown for someone to lift a book from the shelves, slip it into his pocket, read it and return to sell it for the secondhand shelves the following day.

Inevitably, Shakespeare and Company has long been on the tourist trail, recommended in all the guides. This is just as well, because without their custom it’s hard to see how the shop could have survived. Many are in search of a copy of A Moveable Feast. This is not always on offer because, for some reason which I can’t remember, Whitman took a scunner to Hemingway. The tourists also toss coins into the well in the shop, and it’s not unusual to see an indigent young person lying on the floor and fishing for euros.

On occasion I drop in because the lure of its history is too much even if there are other good independent book stores nearby. Visitors to Paris always want me to take them there and I oblige them even if I feel its lost some of its past glory. Still, I always buy a few books because it’s the best way to support independent book stores in this age of Amazon, as every independent book store needs all the help it can get.

#yeats #wb yeats #quote #shakespeare and co #shakespeare and company #paris #book store #books #reading #historic #literature #sylvia beach #george whitman

[tickle-bugs]

For the writing thingie, maybe ler!Robin lee!Steve? The phrase could be “Steve, don’t make me sit on you again…”

your honor, they are everything to me. hope u enjoy!! still trying to figure out robin tbh

Under Covers

Robin leans her bike against the garage, careful not to scrape. Steve’s home--his car sits idle in the driveway, waiting patiently to ferry them both to Family Video. They’re already late, technically, but they’re not late late yet. 

An argument could be made that she could simply bike to work, admonishing Steve from the high horse of punctuality, but that’s no fun.

She jiggles her key in the lock and throws the door open, dumping her bag by the door. It’s quiet and dark downstairs, the kitchen unused, neither of which are a good sign. Steve’s usually a morning person, but on the days where he isn’t, he has to be surgically removed from sleep. It’s a coin toss, really, if he’s late over his hair or late for oversleeping and his hair. 

She inhales as much as her lungs can manage, then: “Steeeeeeevvvvveeeeee!”

No response. She scowls. 

She helps herself to a glass of orange juice and promptly rinses the glass, never one to make extra work for Steve when possible. Bothering him, yes, but inconveniencing him? Not if she can help it.

She thumps up the stairs two at a time. Steve’s bedroom door is cracked open when she gets there, exposing the comically lumpy mass of blankets on his bed and the upsetting pile of laundry in not one, but two corners of the room. Robin has half a mind to do a running jump onto the bed, but he’s gotten way too good at convincing her to take pre-work naps. They need this job. Unfortunately. 

“Steve. Steven. Steeb.” Robin leans in the doorframe, biting her lip on an affectionate smile. Steve’s hair pokes out just at the top of the blanket pile. 

“Don’t make me sit on you,” She says a little louder, moving over to the left side of the bed. Steve wrinkles his nose and makes a grumbly noise. 

“Three, two--”

“Bobin?” He mumbles, squinting at her. 

She pounces. He screams, muffled by the blanket, but then he tumbles into wild giggles and flails for purchase. 

“Get up, get up, get up!” She squeezes at his sides through the blanket, feeling around blindly but knowing intimately where to strike. His arms fly free of the blanket and he starts grappling with her, trying to poke at her like the bastard he is, but she’s on a goddamn mission. Either they’re getting to work on time (unlikely) or he’s going to die (still on the table). 

“Get. up.” She starts tickling his ribs, sliding up under his arms every time he tries to swat at her. Steve honest-to-god snorts, which she didn’t know he could do. She catalogues it for later. 

“W-Why--Ah, Robin, nohoho!” Steve whines and covers his face. She starts poking at his stomach, speeding up whenever he tries to grab her. His laughter revs like an engine. He twists away suddenly, curling up on his side and as close to the edge of the bed as he can physically get. Robin chuckles at him and tazers his side. He makes no sense. Only Steve would forfeit all the empty space in his bed rather than use it to escape. 

“We’re late, dingus!” She reaches back and squeezes his thigh. He shrieks like his life depends on it, voice cracking around his laughter in that way she loves. 

“I’m up!” Steve wheezes, lunging forward to grab her wrists. She squeezes again and he crumples into the mattress, throwing his head back against the pillows. He tries to say her name, or possibly curse at her, but all that comes out is a jumble of syllables and frantic, nervous giggles. 

“No, if you were up, you’d be getting ready.”  She pauses, just to prove her point. Steve pushes his hair out of his face and fixes her with the bitchiest look he can manage. She grins. He scowls. 

“I’ll drag you out of bed if I have to.” She crosses her arms. When he wriggles down into the bed like an indignant little worm, he earns her wrath. It’s only natural. She’s given him an out and a half. Robin feels around under the blanket and grabs Steve’s ankle, skittering her nails over the curve of his heel and up. It’s a fast track to a black eye, but she’s gotten quicker lately. 

There’s a screechy peal of laughter, then a thump--a loud one, and not from Steve’s side. Robin peers over the right side of the bed, feeling for the nearest pillow to defend herself from whatever creatures might lurk in here. 

Instead, she finds Eddie Munson. His hair’s a mess, more so than usual, and his face is bright pink. He’s oddly jittery.

“What.” Robin and Eddie blink at each other. She looks down at her hand, clutched around what is decidedly not Steve’s foot, then back up at Eddie. He gives her a sheepish wave. 

“Oh my god.” She drops Eddie’s ankle. Eddie. Here. In Steve’s bed.

“Robin--” Steve holds his hands out soothingly. 

“Oh my god.” She drops her head in her hands.  

“Is that a good ‘oh my god’ or do I need to change my locks?” Eddie asks from somewhere beside her. He climbs back up onto the bed and drops beside her. The mattress dips to accept him. 

“Still deciding,” She groans. Steve rubs her back, murmuring something soft and sickeningly fond in Eddie’s direction. She’s happy for Steve--god, she’s over the fucking moon for him, really. She teases him because someone needs to, but her heart swells knowing there was a resolution to all the yearning passing between the two of them. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I should’ve been the first to know!” Robin smacks Steve’s bare chest. He catches her hand. 

“Well, you’re like the third to know.” Robin glares at him, but Steve throws his hands up in surrender. “Kidding! Third, because me and Eddie. Honestly, Rob, we were gonna tell you.”

“We’re, uhm, still figuring it out.” Eddie nudges her shoulder, but his shmoopy eyes are firmly on Steve. Gross. 

“Alright, well…I have questions. So many questions. But first--” She pokes his chest as aggressively as possible. Eddie copies her, hitting Steve’s stomach instead. 

“Up, yes, I knohow--” Steve’s voice breaks on a giggle. He crumples awkwardly into Robin, twisting away from Eddie. Robin’s tempted to help, but she leans away from Steve to give Eddie more access. Drama’s more fun, anyhow. Steve doesn’t laugh nearly enough. 

“No--” Steve points accusingly at Eddie. Eddie only grins wider in response. 

“You’ve given me a tremendous gift, Buckley!” Eddie cackles, wiggling his fingers into Steve’s sides. Steve yelps and bolts, managing to skid in the bathroom and slam the door before Eddie can vault over the bed. Robin and Eddie both chuckle. 

“Sorry if I helped make you late,” Eddie says, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. A devious little idea grows in the back of her head.

“Yeah, you did.” She lunges at him with an evil laugh. Eddie squeaks and tries to scramble away, but Robin’s on him already, heart growing three sizes at the now-pair of dinguses she’d never choose to live without. 

#my fics #bug’s greatest hits #stranger things #steeb and bobin <3 #ticklish!steve harrington #steve harrington #robin buckley #eddie munson #steddie #yes robin has a key to steve's house #also eddie was 100% helping robin tickle steve she just didn't know #god i missed these three so much. i miss writing them!!!!

[maddoc05]

Finnegrin doesn’t loom. He doesn’t need to. 

Instead, he nodded to Deadwood, and Callum watched as the thing around the creature’s knuckles crackle with lightning. Chained securely to the wall, and Callum already knows that he has no place to escape. His stomach clenched, his mind going curiously numb as it prepares him for the pain.

But at least it wasn’t Ez. It wasn’t Rayla. It wasn’t Soren. Villads. 

Callum could take it. He had to.

He looked away.

The feather-light touch of a glove tilted his head upwards. Callum hadn’t even registered the sound of footsteps on the wooden planks. The scent of salt and brine assaulted his senses. So close that it was inescapable. The coin flipped through the fingers of Finnegrin’s hand with ease, an almost idle motion, rocking back and forth like a boat sways on sea. 

“I am a reasonable elf, Callum.” Finnegrin said, a low whisper in Callum’s ear. “Just give me what I want, and you and your friends walk free. After all, one of your own has already done it. There is no need for pain. No need for you to hurt your friends.”

Callum jolted, as if struck. “If you even touch them-” His voice dropped to a snarl.

Finnegrin drew back. Amidst the hardness in his dark eyes, Callum saw the glitter of satisfaction. “I won’t even have to raise a finger.” He promised. He nodded to Deadwood, and before Callum could react, the creature took the first swing. 

The force slammed him against the wooden pillar. His head snapped back from the power of it, mouth open in a short, harsh cry as the air was readily driven from his lungs, as he felt something crack and break. He tasted copper. His head rang.

“What- ” He wheezed, choking-

“Sound carries well over water.” Finnegrin informed him, his voice almost kind. “Perhaps you would do well to remember that.” The implied threat hung in the air.

The next hit was worse. The lightning ripped through him this time, locking up all his muscles and he couldn’t scream not even if he wanted to with the way that the contact burned his cheeks. The tears that slipped from his eyes was hot, like the pain was hot, a sharp knife caressing through his insides as the creature trailed its charged knuckles across Callum’s face and down the side of his neck and-

It dug in between his shoulder blades, pinning him in place without any give, any place for his body to react. He tasted the ozone first, and then he tossed his head back with a guttural scream. 

His vision returned in splotches. His breath came in short, harsh pants, a fine tremor running like a crack over his entire body, and all he felt was the aftermath of the sparks that held his muscles taut and stretched, the second it failed him all at once and he sagged against the only thing holding him in place.

If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that he hears Rayla’s voice, calling his name.

He’s given a moment to breathe. Breathe. He just- had to- breathe. He sobbed the next breath as quietly as he could, shaking with the agony that lanced through him.  The logical part of him knew that Finnegrin was not going to kill him, not yet, there’s something from him that the Tidebound elf still wanted, but Callum tethers also on the edge, lost within the throes of the desperate struggle to survive.

The blood that trickled from where it split his lip landed on the creature’s arm, staining the wood dark.

It was clear where this was heading. 

(Callum, stubborn in his silence. Finnegrin, ruthless in his)

“Suit yourself.” Finnegrin sighed theatrically and the coin stilled in between in his third and fourth finger.

Callum flinched, long before the blows resumed raining down on him.

And all the while the captain watched, with nothing but the cold of the sea in his gaze. The cold of a watery grave. And if Callum was still conscious enough to hear it, the distant mourn of the ship’s crew as they sang well into the evening.

-

“Arghh!” Rayla yanked against the chains, the steel cold and biting, but that was nothing compared to the chill of the fear in her gut. It could almost be mistaken for the cold of the fog from the sea, but she knew better.

Finnegrin had taken Callum below deck, along with Zym and Bait and the rest of the wee Baitlings, and she had been helpless to do anything to stop it. She met Soren’s gaze grimly, and he returned in their silent conversation by scooting closer to Ezran. “Sea legs, huh?” He said loudly, “I get it now.”

“Aye.” Captain Villads said, uncharacteristically solemn. “It’d be that.” 

“Crab-solutely crazy, right?” Soren shook his head. 

Rayla let the forced chatter fade. She wondered, what did Finnegrin want?

Callum was- he was the most amazing person that Rayla had ever known. His display with stealing the wind from Finnegrin’s sails was certainly impressive, but now it also had attracted the attention of the wrong person. She thought of her first impression of the Tidebound elf - that shadowed figure, high above in the railings. She did not have to wonder what sort of acts he had done to maintain that sort of control. 

Rayla was afraid. Of course she was.

She gave the chains another vicious tug. It did nothing. She eyed the empty chains where Nyx had been, right before she’d been allowed to fly free. There would be no hope of rescue from that one, Rayla thought resentfully. Worst still, she didn’t even know what deal the Skywing elf had cut with Finnegrin in exchange for that freedom. 

Her arms ached. She knew that there would be bruises there - in the morning. If she even survived to see one.

“Rayla.” Ezran said softly. “Callum will be alright.”

But there was that same fear mirrored in his eyes.

She should have been comforting him, not the other way around. “I know, Ez.” She said, more confidently than she had any right to at that moment. “Callum, he’s- he’s strong.” Stronger than me. “He’ll be fine.” She hated that the words still felt like an untruth.

“If they wanted us dead, laddie,” Villads consoled, “We would have been all thrown overboard before you could say ‘argh ’.”

“Arghh.” Soren said. He waited a beat. Then smiled. “See, nothing?”

Rayla tried for a smile. 

But the moment of levity was short-lived. The distant murmur of voices, too low for her to ever make out, was interrupted by the start of a sharp, pained cry. It was a noise that cut right through her bones and stilled her heart in her chest. She immediately knew who it belonged to. 

Ezran’s face went white. 

Soren sucked in a breath. Rayla thought she heard him mutter under his breath, “Oh crab.”

She herself barely had time to react, before it was followed by what could only be described as a scream, Callum screaming, she had never heard him make that sort of sound before, she- she had to- Callum- what was Finnegrin doing to him -

Something inside her snapped. 

Almost before she registered the thought, her body was already moving. Rayla squared her shoulders and threw herself forward. The chains yanked her back just as viciously, metal grinding in the hot sea air. “CALLUM!” She raised her voice desperately, feet slamming against the part where her part of the chain connected to the deck.

Her eyes caught one of the nearby sailor’s. The man looked away just as quickly.

Something inside of her slipped even further.

Rayla aimed a particularly vicious kick, a low animal growl escaping her as she tried to set herself free. Her enemies were the chains that held her down, and there would be no mercy for that which stopped her from reaching Callum. She felt for weaknesses in the metal, the beginnings of a plan formulating in her mind, but for that she also knew she needed a little bit more time. 

The silence of the gaps in between hurt equally like knives in her chest, the terror that bubbled up turning her reckless, even as she tried and failed to desperately grasp onto any semblance of calm that she still could muster. Callum had to be alive, he couldn’t be dead, she would know .

The three things that would haunt Rayla’s nightmares long after was this - 

The glittering of salt waters and Ezran’s sniffled tears. The sound of creaking wood and the bite of metal holding her back. 

And when Finnegrin had ordered her mage brought out-

Callum, slumped motionless on the deck and on his knees, bloodied and bruised and as defeated as she had ever seen him. 

Her chains clicked. It dropped to the deck. 

Rayla lunged.

#the dragon prince #tdp #the dragon prince spoilers #s5 spoilers #fic #whump #hurt/no comfort #callum #rayla

[the-travelling-witch]

Now I need to know about this left hand hiding adventurin thing!!

this is a very abbreviated version bc i wanna get this out before going to sleep, but still minor spoilers for aventurine’s story in the 2.1 penacony story

basically, it’s revealed that, while gambling, aventurine holds his cards confidently with his right hand while his left one is clenched and shaking under the table where people can’t see (boiling down to the point that his showy facade is just that… sth that’s not real and that he’s actually terrified)

so after that has been revealed, we ofc reevaluated some of the things we know and saw of aventurine; like him only wearing rings on his “showy” right hand or his hand position in the light cone “final victor” and in his new trailer (notice how in both scenes it’s hidden behind his back?)

so i just couldn’t help but notice that in the idle where he tosses the coin around, he does that exact pose (i don’t have a reference atm); hiding his hand behind his back in a manner that looks very polite, gentlemanly and confident

it doesn’t have to mean anything since some things just become habit if you do them often enough and i don’t think he’s as scared of tossing a coin as he is in those life or death situations mentioned above, that piece of his story is just burnt into my brain and i watch his hands like a hawk

in the animated short he tosses a coin with his left, so it’s probably more habit than his hand actually shaking in his idle; but then again, thinking about the fact that he hides his hand (i.e. trembles in fear) so often that it has become an unconscious action… that would open a whole new world of angsty thoughts (let me swaddle you up and protect you ㅠㅠ)

now on the other hand (literally) in the art where he is just waking up and is relaxed he holds his phone with his left; again probably doesn’t mean anything, and i’m interpreting way too much into that one for sure, but i still think it’s a tiny piece of symbolism that he is actually at peace and with his guard down in that situation

#┊✩彡 divine correspondence ♡ #┊✩彡 unsigned letter ♡ #i hope this very sleepy summary helps #mom the weird person on the internet is spewing crazy theories and overinterpreting things again #send her to bed!! #jup and that’s where i’m going to now … zzz #good night!! #on an unrelated note #i just saw on twitter that someone got aventurine’s slave mark tattooed irl #just… don’t do that maybe? #like literally what went through that person’s head (not much probably) #(if it’s real… you never know) #(maybe it’s just rage bait) #┊holly plays honkai ✧.* #hsr aventurine

[wainwrightjakobshammerlock]

Strip the Data, Salt the Misinfo: A Borderlands Fanbase PSA/Rant

TL;DR: The current Borderlands wiki sucks huge balls for anything after and including BL3, but it also sucks for other reasons and the best way to fix it would be just to nuke it and move on to Miraheze.

I am a huge Borderlands fan. It's my special interest, in fact. Everyone knows that. I'm quite invested in the community, though not as much as I would like to be, despite my constant attempts to garner attention in various places that are not named Tumblr. In fact, I am invested enough to frequent various sites focusing on this video game series.

And there is a major problem with one of the biggest sites dedicated to it:

The Wiki.

At first, it seems like a good place to get information regarding the series, both its gameplay and story. But you would be solely wrong.

While it does provide accurate information on the gameplay, guns, loot and boss attacks of every looter shooter entry, it is massively lacking on the story front. Especially after and during BL3.

Let's look at some examples.

This is Krieg's quote page. Not only is every single one of his BL2 quotes displayed, it's also got the audio files for all of them!

But the BL3 ones? It only transcribes the base game ECHO logs he talks in. No audio, and none of his many, many PKatFF lines.

In one of his videos, the youtuber ItzTermx compares Krieg's quote page and Fl4k's quote page in an attempt to showcase the superiority of BL2's dialogue. But in reality, Fl4k has significantly more quotes than Krieg, they are simply unlisted on the wiki. Where are they then, you may ask?

Fucking TvTropes of all places, not the main wiki.

I used the quote pages as an example, but this isn't the only case where this disparity is true. Check the wiki for yourself, and you'll see that every single BL2 and TPS quest, main or side, has a detailed transcript. What do the BL3 quests get?

This. A plain objective list.

And this is not even touching upon the incredibly incomplete - hell, MISSING Crew Challenge pages, and of course... the critical lack of lore/character information.

I will use a youtuber as an example here yet again.

This is EruptionFang's video on Wainwright Jakobs. EruptionFang is widely the most popular Borderlands lore youtuber, if not the only one that actually has a somewhat large following.

In this video, he openly says we don't know how he met Hammerlock. This is a blatant lie! We do know! An idle line in DLC 2 reveals that they met on a hunting expedition!

Of course, getting through idle lines is a slog, since you're likely to get repeats, so there must be an easier way to access this information.

Does the wiki say anything about it? No. But you know what does?

THE LOCALIZATION FILE. WHICH I DATAMINED MYSELF, BECAUSE THE WIKI IS SO INCOMPLETE.

DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BULLSHIT THAT IS? PEOPLE USE THIS WIKI AS A RESOURCE, AND SAID RESOURCE IS VERY INADEQUATE.

You might ask: "why don't you contribute yourself, then?"

You see, the Borderlands Wiki is well, a Fandom Wiki. The site that's known for being infested with ads and autoplay videos, which are 99% of the time completely irrelevant to whatever you're viewing. There's a reason I use Breezewiki.

Fandom is awful to use, and especially difficult to browse through. It's an accessibility issue, something you definitely don't want in a place meant to provide information. I am not willing to contribute to such a place.

You might ask, then, is there an alternative?

This is Miraheze. It's ad free, community run, and non-profit. It uses the same software as Wikipedia, and provides a similar, accessible look. If this community managed to move there (and toss a coin or two to Miraheze, they're accepting donations!), we could foster a significantly more accessible environment.

I hope y'all enjoyed reading this edition of me malding over something seemingly innocuous. Before anyone asks, yes, I allow sharing of this post to other websites. The Borderlands community deserves to be aware of this.

#my post #borderlands #psa #anti fandom #long post #ask to tag

[the-lonelybarricade]

Elain Week - Day 1

Just a lil 600 word drabble I whipped up for @elainarcheronweek. I think I might use it to tell a (short and fragmented) overarching story of an AU that's been in my head for a while. Here's part 1 based on the prompt: Powers.

-

Elain swallowed down the cold night air. It was raw against her throat as her lungs struggled to take in more, to expel it faster while she pumped her arms in tandem with her legs. She wasn’t wearing the right shoes for racing down a cobblestone alleyway, and her ankles threatened to twist as she took a turn too sharply. She couldn’t afford to stumble now. She had to escape, had to—

“Callonetta?”

Elain whipped her head in the direction of the washroom door. A barmaid stood in the frame, one hand braced on the handle while the sound of music and idle chatter flooded behind her.

Water dripped from Elain’s face—an odd sight, she was certain. She released the pooled liquid still cupped in her hands, listening to the water splash against the porcelain. It was how she grounded herself back in the moment. The caress of air against her wet face, the cool porcelain against her fingers.  

Real. This was real. The alleyway, the chasing, the sore throat… she placed a wet hand against her neck, swallowing to ensure there was no pain. 

“Are you ready to sing?”

She glanced warily in the mirror, ensuring the eyes that stared back at her were brown and not the unfocused opalescence they had been only minutes prior.

“Of course,” she said, grabbing the lute she had laid across the counter.

The tavern was not particularly busy, but she spied enough of the more wealthy patrons that she was sure she’d earn enough tonight for a warm meal and a dry place to sleep. The conversation lulled as she made her way to the stage, earning her the attention of the patrons.

She sat back in her seat, pinned by their loose smiles as she casually tightened the strings, plucking each of them to ensure the sound was correct. When she was content with the tuning, and had taken enough time to let the errant patrons find their seats, she began playing the song that had come to her in sleep that morning.

The ballad was a continuation of one she had been singing a long time. The story of an exiled prince, traveling the world in search of the one thing that could reinstate his place by his father’s side: a way to win the decades-long war that had plagued their lands.

The Prince had just sailed across the sea. A three week journey across the most treacherous seas in this land. He endured sirens and famine and whirlpools to step foot on the docs of a small little port town. And it was here he would encounter the object of his desires.

Elain glanced up from her lute, pleased to see many wet eyes in the crowd. The liquor made them more likely to give her coin, but a tear almost always guaranteed it. She offered them pretty, polished smiles as they came up to toss her money into her hat.

She’d done well enough that she decided she’d earned a drink—it had been at least a couple weeks since she’d last had one. 

“Pretty song,” said a patron at the bar.

“Thank you,” Elain said, not looking as she slid a coin to the barkeep. 

“The lyrics are so…” The barkeep handed her a glass of amber liquid, and Elain pulled a long sip as she waited for the stranger to search for his word. “Personal,” he settled on. “Like I’ve lived it myself.”

At last she turned to him, poised smile already on her lips. It fell when she saw the scarlet hair. The long scar. The multicolored eyes.

He smirked. “I suppose I found the object of my desires.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice low. “Hello, seer.”

#Maybe if I get good feedback I'd flesh it out a lil and make it a proper multichap #Elain but what if she was a bard that turned her visions into ballads #think Priscilla/Essi from the witcher #I LOVE drabbles because I don't have to come up with titles (my mortal enemy of writing) #elucien #elucien fic #elainarcheronweek2022 #lucien x elain #elain x lucien #Elain Archeron #Lucien Vanserra

[lighthouseborn]

Common Misconceptions: A Post

Henry is an adrenaline junkie.

  Nah. He is a risk-taker, but not a risk-seeker. He will take risks to get to a desirable end result but he does not seek out ways to put himself at risk for the sake of the thrill. He does like adventure, but adventure doesn't have to mean life-at-risk. If anything that's an unfortunate side effect. Also worth noting that Henry (though often underestimated) is capable, experienced, and confident in his knowledge and abilities: there are things he does which other people consider dangerous that are, by virtue of his experience, not actually a significant risk to his person. Many of the places he occupies have some level of risk inherent to them that he is fully equipped to navigate. Henry's cautious is the common man's uninhibited, in these places. Because of his knowledge & experience, his scale is different. Sometimes he misjudges! but it's not his ambition to make things a close call. In fact, the really close ones shake him up in a bad way.

Henry is a Martyr/has a Savior Complex.

  False!! In his words: "he'll never stop" fighting for his loved ones. Sometimes this means taking hits, or putting himself between them and something dangerous, or stepping into a bad situation on their behalf, but it's never his intention to be cut down or any such thing. He, emphatically, wants to live, he just really doesn't want to do it alone, and can't stomach the idea of standing idle when people he loves face threat or insult. A way to shorthand remember this is something like "he is not him-last, he is his-people-first." Another important way to distinguish this from martyr-styled characters is he will not (typically) tell people to leave without him. He may encourage them to go first, but it is always with the intent to follow them out. "Go first" can be an inch in front of him, hands locked, just go first. Additionally, his family have just as much right to come back and fight for him — he won't decline help or a rescue, and he really doesn't want to be left behind. He wants everyone, himself included, to walk away.

Henry has a Hero Complex.

  Not even a little bit. He absolutely does not have to be the one to save the day. Anyone else is just as welcome to do what they see fit, in this regard. And they can make as much or as little fuss about it as they want. As long as he does what he can for the people he loves, it does not matter to him one bit where the 'credit' or the praise or whatever else goes. If they are well, he is well. Honestly, if his people aren't in danger, it's a coin toss whether or not he'll involve himself at all (barring verses where it's his literal job to get involved, obviously.) In every case, it has nothing to do with external perception or accolade or praise, it's entirely because he cannot self-reconcile inaction when it comes to defending his loved ones (/people he is responsible for.) He's not answering to a perception, he's answering to his own conscience. Not "I have to save everyone in the world" savior or "I have get all the glory" hero, but to and with himself "If I can do something to help, why wouldn't I?". There are answers to this question, sometimes. Mostly, if the response to "why wouldn't I?" is "because it will endanger/abandon someone I love", then he won't act. He might not be happy about it, or even be very miserable about it, but that's the main line.

Henry is a perfectionist. (thanks uquiz)

  Nope. Henry is an idealist, and to a lesser degree an optimist, or like... an optimism-leaning realist. He wants problems to be solvable, though he knows they aren't always so cut and dry, and he has an imagined version of the world that he believes is possible to achieve. He works very hard to get to that version! but it's not a fixed state and things don't have to fall into some strict order to achieve it. There is no perfect standard and no uniform measure, no exact thing-to-do, there is just Possibility, and the idea he can get to it. Things can be so good, if you work for it. If you let them. Nothing has to be perfect, but if something could be better, why not try?

#i was digging on my old blog for reasons (dwbi) and i found this and i went YEAH so i touched it up n now its here #good post past-me #there's a light that never goes out ( hc. ) #note: i can see! how people arrive at these though!! i think the first time i posted this a couple people got rubbed the wrong way #but like i fully get how people land on these it makes sense it's just that nudge of nuance that argues it #i think the martyr/savior complex one is the one i bump into the most but i simply do not think it's like that #no self-sabotage only uplift of others (because he's got the strength)

[galactia]

@touchofdawn​ | plotted starter

Discussing frivolities with hopelessly drunk potential informants was not Kaeya’s favorite way to spend an evening. So far he’d found out the man in question had three dogs, a cousin he treated like the dirt beneath his boots (something Kaeya meant to remedy, when all was said and done), and an axe to grind with nearly every organization of authority in Mond. Well, it was why he was a treasure hoarder, the Cavalry Captain supposed.

With his hair twisted back and dirt smudged over his skin, despite his disdain for present company, Kaeya wasn’t about to toss aside a week’s worth of work for a few annoyances. If this fellow didn’t know anything of import, he was certain several of his friends did, and they’d accepted him into this country tavern with little protest when the hoarder had introduced him (’Rodolf.’ The name was laughable, but it did the trick). 

Idle chit chat between several of his inebriated associates was vaguely interesting, but it wasn’t until he heard the name Ragnvindr tossed between them that Kaeya’s interest peaked.

There was a tendency among those who resorted to chronic and continual theft to blame all their problems on the rich, so it would not be the first time he’d heard a hoarder put down the family name. But this...

‘Yea. We’ll finally be rid of that rich bastard, if they makes good on their word.’ 

‘Their mora was good, wasn’t it?’ 

Their laughter twisted in his gut. ‘That rich bastard’ was Diluc Ragnvindr. 

They turned, lowering their voices and Kaeya made a show of stumbling as he stood, casting a few loose mora onto the table, “For your next, friend. I’m getting myself a refill.” 

He slumped against the bar, gesturing to a bottle of cheap wine. The voices were clearer here,

‘Nah, it’s not all that. No one will ever know! No chance of those incompetent knights catching wind.’ 

Joke was on them, it seemed. 

It was nearly 3 AM, when the hoarders began to disperse, mostly falling against each other’s shoulders as they made their way back to their beds.

Kaeya waited in the shadow beside the rather ramshackle building, coin flickering in the dull moonlight. 

His quarry trod past, alone, and he seized his opportunity.

Or, seized him, as it were.

The hoarder didn’t see him until he upon him, kicking out his knees and hauling him up spluttering like fish out of water.

“Hands off! I didn’t do nothing! I-” Air rushed out of the man’s lungs all at once as he collided with the tavern’s wall, “hey, hey!” Hands came up and Kaeya slapped them away,

“Tsk. Did you know assaulting the Cavalry Captain could land you in jail for a week?” Nothing had changed about his appearance, but Kaeya watched the horror dawn with a relish he imagined he’d someday be divinely punished for, “Ah. There we are. Now you know...”

A kind of low gasp met the press of Kaeya’s knife to the hoarder’s sternum, “Cat got your tongue? Well. You best see to that, because I want to know something, and patience is not a virtue the Anemo Archon has bestowed on him.”

“You-!” Was the protest, indignant, though fearful. Useless, really. 

“Quite. Now.” Kaeya leaned in, a dangerous ferocity in his smile, “What is this about Ragnvindr? You have murder on your heart, and that might prove fatal for more than you know if you don’t tell me everything.” 

In the end, the hoarder knew less than Kaeya might have liked. His involvement was next to... well, nothing, and his information was limited to a possible when. The threat, though, wasn’t idle chit-chat between alcohol loosened tongues. The threat wasn’t his or his associate’s, but an entity, or entities, beyond them both.

Kaeya reined in Ru at the boarder of the Ragnvindr lands, catching sight of the sun twinkling over the horizon. It was nigh on 5 AM - a trifle early to be rousing the Ragnvindr estate, but about the time when Adelinde would be rising to start seeing to household affairs. 

Ru’s hooves flew over the cobbled stone, clattering against the courtyard as the Captain coaxed him to a stop. “Quieti nunc, ama.” He whispered against the horse’s velvet nose as he dropped the reins. 

Here was hoping he would not be waking Diluc a more handful of minutes after he retired from some midnight ventures. It would be like poking a sleeping bear, but in this case, he felt the bear must be prodded.

He wouldn’t have Diluc walking into danger that he could help or prevent. He’d... they’d lost Crepus to the unknown. Kaeya wouldn’t lose Diluc too, especially not because he’d ignored his instincts or waited until something became more certain. 

The knocker at the door to the Winery wrapped loudly.

#touchofdawn #starter//touchofdawn #[ Kaeya said 'rest now love' to his horse. #Anyway!!! #here this is. It all came flying out at once! <3 #if you need anything changed hmu <3 #feel free to do what you need including assuming Kaeya came inside #etc! ]

[ruisangel]

obey me! brothers but if they were in genshin

a/n: got this wonderful idea while talking to my best friend,,,

LUCIFER is a cyro polearm. And his idle animations, his first is him pulling out a notebook, jotting down a few things. The second is him rubbing his back, looking back at his gloves. Just a soft, reminder to himself he isn’t considered an angel anymore. In most of his other voicelines, he makes appoint to you that he is only here to help, and nothing else. Until you get his last one, and it’s set in stone that he wants to try, even if he doesn’t completely do it well, to understand you better.

MAMMON wields a sword, and it just happens to be that the vision he holds is geo! His first idle is him tossing a coin, more or so the way you would if you admitted to trying juggling. And the second is him kicking his foot, and on the last kick, a rock, similar to a diamond; which he catches and shoves it into his pocket. His voicelines are mostly him insisting he only is doing this for his benefit, once you get his last few, he insists it’s not entirely because of his own gain, and that he enjoys helping you.

LEVI happens to be electro, a catalyst wielding one! In his first idle, he puts his headphones on, a few taps from his left foot. And in his second, he uses his vision to make a fish, very similar to Henry 2.0. Oh, and his voicelines. Introducing himself, he insists you know Henry 1.0 & Henry 2.0 before himself. Later, on his last voiceline, he makes it known he’s glad to have joined your team and reintroduces himself, saying his name first and mentioning you being his closest friend.

SATAN holds a polearm with a dendro vision! He has the ability to also be a healer, and this is shown in his first idle. His polearm is infused with dendro completely, and it forms into a heart. In his second, he’s reading. He mentions this same book in his voicelines, it means alot to him. And in his last one, he says one day, he hopes you two can read it to together.

ASMO wields anemo! He’s a catalyst, and absolutely loves it. In his voicelines, he mentions himself but also; that you two should hang out more. His last unlockable voiceline, he asks you for a time to hangout. And he list many things you two could do together. His idles consists of him using his weapon to put anemo into the shape of a heart, then followed by a arrow through it. It disappears, 5-ish seconds after he uses it. His second is pulling out a compact mirror out of his pocket, adding little blush and then immediately putting it away after.

BEEL holds onto a claymore, filled with dendro! He literally loves his vision so much! The fact he can heal but still be able to protect, he adores it so much. In his first idle, he pulls out a chocolate bar. He mentions this too, in his “Favorite Food” voiceline, that it helps him regain energy and asks if you’d like one. In his second idle, he mentions Belphie, “I wonder what he’s up to.. I haven’t seen him in a while.” He loves being on your team so much, and he hopes one day on this adventure you two both can find your sibling.

BELPHIE holds very tightly onto his pyro vision, keep his bow close at hand! He originally found the bow to be very inconvenient but grew into loving it, being able to aim and see his vision was always fun for him. In his first idle, he briefly, sleeps or, tries to. It doesn’t really work out in his favor, seeming as he wakes up not even 3 seconds later. He mention this in his “Hobbies” that he loves sleep, so the sooner he can rest, the better. In his second, he’s counting his fingers. Once he reaches 6, he stops and puts them back into his pocket. He refuses to go any higher, and always stops at 6. He explains why in his, “More About”, and explains how 6 reminds him of his twin brother, Beelzebub. Belphie can’t wait for the day they meet again, and if he gets to also help you in the process, so be it!

#obey me headcanons #obey me x reader #lucifer headcanons #lucifer x reader #mammon headcanons #mammon x reader #leviathan headcanons #leviathan x reader #satan headcanons #satan x reader #asmodeus headcanons #asmo x reader #beel headcanons #beel x reader #belphie headcanons #belphegor headcanons #belphegor x reader #belphie x reader

[elfyourmother]

from my current WT wip, the one Gisele, Thancred and Minfilia go on vacation after the Praetorium victory and the V becomes a triad.

—

Some few moments later, the tiny isle was within reach, and growing ever larger in view as they neared was their destination: a quaint little bungalow upon the far shore, with the signature walls of gleaming, bleached limestone common to the Riviera, and twas sat upon short stone pillars right over the water. It was tucked away within a truly picturesque lagoon, with a magnificent waterfall cresting down from the rocky cliff behind it, and beside the dwelling there lay a long, narrow stretch of beach, dotted with tall, curving palm trees swaying gently in the sea breeze. Gisele inhaled deeply of that salty air as she gazed upon it, slowly filling her chest with the scent of the sea, and exhaled with a contented sigh. Bearing witness to such tranquil, natural beauty alone was enough to ease the burdens of a troubled mind still reeling from the return of her lost memory.

“Forgive me, for mine eyes may well deceive at this distance, but—those people there on the sands, they…” Minfilia began, raising her hand to her suddenly widening lips. Gisele glanced over, her keen Elezen eyes searching until she saw the small handful of fellow excursionists frolicking in the shallows, stretched out upon towels beneath shaded umbrellas, walking along the shore. Like as not they were guests of the many small inns peppered among these small isles.

All were bare as their nameday.

Thancred chuckled softly at Gisele’s side, at the railing. “Well. That’s certainly one way to shed one’s cares.”

The sudden laughter which bellowed from their ferryman was akin to a clap of rolling thunder, and it startled Gisele nearly out of her own skin.

“Aye, that it is!” Gwynhywel cackled.

“I hadn’t realized the nameday sands extended this far, though.”

“Ye’ve not been to Costa fer a while then, Master Waters. Gegeruju’s quite fond of the coin they bring in.”

“No, I can’t say that I have. But had I known, I might well have made my triumphant return far sooner,” Thancred replied, lightly smirking. He exchanged a sly, meaningful glance with Gisele, then, and there was no obscuring the smolder in his hazel-eyed gaze. Her heart skipped a beat within her breast at it, and she blinked slowly at him in return, her delicate hand lifted to the ubiquitous pendant of amethyst about her neck, to wrap her rapidly heating fingers about it. But with a soft, wordless chuckle and idle toss of her silver curls, did she dismiss his flirtations; for Gisele was all too aware, then, of Minfilia’s eyes upon her.

#of course riol neglected to mention that when he suggested the place to a certain receptionist #when she booked it for them #oopsie #bisho liveblogs her creative process #six sentence sunday #wips

[programaticallydelicious]

A Princess, a Knight, and a Dragon Walk Into a Bar. She Orders a Drink.

“That’s an awful big coin you’re trying to use.” the man behind the counter said, his dark eyes glinting in the firelight as he held it up for a better look. He set it on the counter in front of him and then leaned toward the armored figure in front of him. “An awfully big coin, for a place this far out in the sticks”

“Indeed.” said the armored figure, their voice higher than expected given the bulk of their armor. “How far would that take me here?”

“Hrmm.” The innkeeper stood back up, tapping the counter slightly with one hand while the other rubbed the back of his neck. “Less the changing fee a merchant caravan would charge me, I’d say...” he paused for a moment, idle tapping and the popping of the hearth’s fire the only sounds in the room. “I’d say a good year or so of room and board. But-” he lifted his hand from the counter and brought it down with a slap. “I won’t be risking my business with something so suspicious. Crown inspectors are no joke and, well.” He bowed his head slightly before looking straight at the armored figure again, “harboring a criminal would get me a shared sentence, you see. So I gotta be sure.”

The armored figure was silent for long enough you could swear the tension between the two caused the air itself to dance. “Yes,” the figure finally began, “I can see that being a problem for you.” The figure reached up and grabbed their helmet, pulling it off and setting it down on the counter with a thunk.

With the helmet off, the armored figure was plainly a woman, albeit one of impressive stature. She reached up to the mat of scarlet hair that had just been freed from the helmet, and winced for a moment. “God, I’m so glad mother taught me something for this.” Her hand glowed for a moment as she pulled it across her hair, and the unruly bundle untangled into a long cascade of brilliant red. “Would take me a week otherwise. So,” she said, looking at the innkeeper with her unnervingly golden eyes. “I think there are only two people in the kingdom who look like this.”

“Am I safe to assume,” the innkeeper asked, eyes wide as he straightened his back and lowered his eyes to the floor, “that you are Her Royal Highness, Princess Anneliese?” His hands shook slightly as he held them to his sides.

“Oh, oh my yes.” She smiled, eyes glittering as she took in how nervous he was over his overly familiar address of a noble. No matter that he had no cause to know one way or the other. “Much as my mother would love to be mistaken for me, I am the princess.” She took a step to the side and then sank onto one of the stools lined up in front of the counter. “Don’t worry about the formalities. I’m sure they’ll be tiresome to maintain for a month or two while I’m here.”

“A month-” the man leaned against the wall behind him, one hand to his chest. “Your highness, what reason could you have of staying somewhere like, well, this-” he gestured to the room around them, “for a month?”

“Oh, plenty of reasons. You’ll probably be getting some sort of royal proclamation sometime this week.” She sighed, her own hand tapping out a staccato rhythm on the counter this time. “It’ll say something about me being missing, and the black knight preparing to rescue me from the dragon who stole me away.”

“I think,” the innkeeper took a moment to breathe, then sat down heavily on a stool he kept behind the counter. “I don’t think I’d like to see the black knight tearing the place to pieces trying to take you back to the castle.”

“Hah! Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know this, but…” she grabbed her helmet off the counter and held it up, before tossing it to her other hand and setting it back down. “I am also the black knight, and I have no intent of tearing some innocent man’s inn to pieces in order to rescue myself from a dragon. You aren’t a dragon, are you?”

“Ah, no.” The innkeeper blinked. “I don’t believe I am.”

“Well, there you have it! No reason to battle a dragon here.” She thought for a moment, then tapped the coin that was still sitting on the counter. “How about we start in on this with a bit of ale. Keep the extra as thanks for putting up with me, and maybe as the cost of a bit of silence, eh?”

“Yes. I think I could use some myself.” The innkeeper stood up and puttered about, grabbing a pair of tankards and filling them before setting them on the counter in front of the princess knight, and sitting back down himself. “That doesn’t explain the dragon though, or the fact that the king is sending you to save yourself.”

"Well, the king does know I am the black knight.” She winked at him. “No way a masked knight stays masked for nearly ten years without powerful backing.”

“That honestly just makes this more confusing.” The innkeeper said, picking up his own flagon and taking a deep drink.

“Oh, I can do you one better” she said as her golden eyes glinted in the firelight. “I’m also the dragon.” As if to emphasize this point, a rather clear abundance of pointed teeth caught the light as she smiled at the innkeeper, the pupils in her golden eyes stretching vertically for a moment before her face and teeth returned to normal.

“I...see.” The innkeeper looked at his suddenly empty tankard. “Does the king know-”

“Does my father know that his own daughter, borne by the mysterious foreign queen he famously rescued from a dragon as a runaway prince slash adventurer, is a dragon?”

“I-I didn’t mean to imply-”

She held up her hand to stop him, grinning widely all the while. “Yes, he knows. He’s never actually slain a dragon, you see. That said-” she grimaced, eyes looking somewhere far beyond this room, “you will not believe how many times I’ve heard ‘accidental’ mis-phrasing about him having ‘lain’ a dragon. It gets old.”

The innkeeper coughed, face turning read as he choked and sputtered and finally burst out into full-bellied laughter.

“And before you ask, the whole thing started because some new maid saw me all half-dragon in my own bedchamber, and kicked up a fuss about me being stolen away by a dragon before I could stop her.”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Oh, of course you weren’t going to pry. I suggest you never wager money on a card game, by the way.” The princess smiled at him again. “Anyway, yes, the king knows. And I tried to get him to stop it. But no, of course not. He hasn’t had this much fun since he abandoned his duties as a prince to go play adventurer.”

She sighed, before downing the rest of her drink. “So now I get to stay out of the way for a month or three while mother dearest arranges a mock battle with one of my aunts, and convinces one of my cousins to let me parade them through the city like the biggest prize at the fair.”

“And-” she slammed her gauntleted fist on the table, “If my father dares suggest I marry myself for battling myself to rescue myself from myself during the award ceremony at the end, I absolutely will tear off my helmet and transform right there in court. Give the nobles something they’ll never forget.”

#writing practice #fantasy

[legendaryandroid]

For Every Object, a Home

Aelfric|Aeber ver1|Bifelgan

Summary: Cyrus is invited to the exclusive Bifelgan’s Market and brings Therion and Tressa with him. [words: 3.6k]

A/N: Apparently I am continuing to use Cyrus as a vehicle to explore lore I make up about Octopath’s gods

Sunset was swiftly closing in on the outskirts of Victor’s Hollow, where four travelers had pitched camp. The inns in Victor’s Hollow were packed to the brim with people both participating and watching the tournament and the travelers had been lucky to to procure rooms for half their group through Cecily, who had been determined not to let her soon to be champion fighters sleep outside. That left the rest of them to fend for themselves among everyone else who had no choice but to camp outside the city’s limits.

The four that were left were currently sitting around a fire, there was H’aanit, who was polishing her bow while Linde playfully jumped at shadows beside her, Therion, who was idly tossing a dagger between his hands, Tressa, who was scribbling away in her journal, and Cyrus himself. 

As everyone idled away the time until they chose to retire, Cyrus pulled out an item he had been given that day while perusing the merchant stalls. It was the symbol of Bifelgan, with the appearance of a silver leaf, but twice the size, with one side silver and the other a metallic black. Cyrus turned the coin over in his hand, examining it and wondering how someone had created the darker side. It didn’t seem like a tarnish, nor did it scrape off like paint. Had someone managed to mold two different metals together?

While Cyrus was looking the coin over, he suddenly felt the presence of a person on each side of him.

“Holy shit Cyrus,” Therion breathed from where he was pressed up against his left side.

“How in the world did you get that?!” Tressa demanded in excitement, clinging to his right arm.

Cyrus blinked and glanced at his two companions, who were staring at the coin he held with the intensity of a wolf about to jump upon its prey. Vaguely confused, he explained, “A book merchant gave it to me after he failed to have the tome I was looking for. He explained that it was feasible I could find it at a market being held tomorrow and would need this to get in. What is the excitement about?”

“Because that’s an entrance token to Bifelgan’s Market!” Tressa squealed.

“Quiet!” Therion immediately hissed at her, “Do you want everyone to hear you? Who knows what kinda trouble will come looking for it.”

Tressa bit her lip guiltily as she glanced around but it seemed nobody but H’aanit had heard, so she looked up at Cyrus, her face shining brightly, “Only the best of the best of merchants picked by Bifelgan’s clerics are allowed to hawk their wares there.” Tressa was practically bouncing in her seat, shaking Cyrus’ arm with her excitement, “Oh Professor please, you have to take me with you so I can see their skill at work!”

“I do not see whyever not,” Cyrus said, “You can come with me if that’s what you would like.”

Therion, who had been staring at the coin like he was contemplating whether he could get away with stealing it directly from Cyrus’ hand, snapped his head towards Cyrus, “What? No way!” He tugged at Cyrus' cloak to catch his gaze and said, “Bifelgan’s Market is a thief’s paradise, there are merchants there who’ll buy anything you have, no questions asked. You should bring me instead of the brat.”

“Well that’s-”

Tressa snapped forward in front of Cyrus, interrupting him to glare at Therion, “I’m not a brat! And I have to find something to show off at Grandport! So I should be the one to go!”

“Oh please,” Therion retorted, rolling his eyes, “You’re so green you wouldn’t even know what to do with yourself if you went!”

“I am not!”

Cyrus felt entirely forgotten, not even getting a word in as he was tugged back and forth while Therion and Tressa argued. He vaguely wondered if this was what it was like to have children. If so, he now understood the exasperation he’d seen many a parent have.

The argument came to a sudden halt as both Therion and Tressa looked at him and commanded, “Well?”

Cyrus did his best to smile calmly, “Well…”

“Which one of us are you going to take with you?” Tressa demanded.

Which one indeed. They both had a reasonable interest in going, and Cyrus would hate to disappoint either of them. With a troubled look, Cyrus glanced towards H’aanit, who had been listening in even as she finished maintenance on her bow, now putting it away.

H’aanit caught his desperate gaze and raised her eyebrows, “Ifen they both wishest to go, then thou merely needeth to bring them both.”

Cyrus nodded firmly at H’aanit’s sage advice, “There you have it, the both of you can accompany me to the market tomorrow.”

“Ugghhh,” The both of them groaned simultaneously, Tressa with a pout and Therion an eyeroll.

“Do you really have to bring Therion along?” Tressa asked with puffed cheeks as she crossed her arms.

“Hey, I don’t want to go with a goody-two-shoes merchant like you either,” Therion shot back.

“Cyrus needeth not bring either of you,” H’aanit cut in, “If you wilt cause him nothing but trouble.”

That comment finally ended Therion and Tressa’s back and forth as they went quiet and sulked back to their original seats, returning to their previous activity. Cyrus could only sigh in relief as he gave H’aanit a grateful smile which she returned with an amused one of her own.

><><

During breakfast the next morning, Tressa and Therion had given him a more thorough rundown of what Bifelgan’s Market was; it was an event dedicated to one of Bifelgan’s central tenets, ‘For every object, a home.’ In essence, it was a market that allowed merchants that sold their goods legally and illegally to mix together without fear in hopes that whatever items usually only circulated in one kind of market would have the chance to reach another and find an appropriate buyer. The tokens were both a form of vetting merchants that followed Bifelgan’s Code and keeping window-shopping customers to a minimum.

After that rundown it had been time to catch up with Olberic, Cecily, and the rest of the party to figure out the day’s plans. It wasn’t until afternoon when Cyrus, Tressa, and Therion found themselves in front of a church dedicated to Bifelgan, a building that had been constructed with stone rather than the wattle and daub of its neighbors.

“I’m surprised there’s such dedication to Bifelgan in Victor’s Hollow that there is a market,” Cyrus said, “One would assume the Coastlands would have one instead, as that is where Bifelgan is most deeply worshipped.”

“There is one!” Tressa cheerfully replied, “It’s in Goldshore though. And there was a third one in the Highlands, but I hear the temple it was held in got destroyed decades ago and they never managed to fully rebuild it.”

“I see,” Cyrus said in understanding, then moved forward to open the large wooden door.

Inside the temple a cleric was waiting for them, wearing robes in mostly neutral tones but accented with the occasional bright red or yellow. “Welcome,” the cleric said warmly, they were tall and willow-y, with dark grey eyes, “Are you here for Bifelgan’s Market?”

“Indeed we are,” Cyrus responded.

“Then I will need your tokens.”

Cyrus nodded and pulled out the coin, which was taken by the cleric, who then eyed the other two, “Are these your guests?”

“That is a correct assumption. Will that be a problem?” Cyrus asked.

The cleric shook their head, mouth quirked upwards, “Not at all. But as the one who had the token, you will be responsible for any trouble they cause.”

Cyrus very carefully avoided glancing at Therion, while hoping Tressa’s excitement wouldn’t get too out of hand as he said, “Understood.” He then ruffled through his cloak and pulled out a book that he had carried with him throughout his journey and held it out to the cleric, “We also bring offerings to Bifelgan, that they may be found by the hands searching for them,” Cyrus quoted. 

In keeping with the idea of Bifelgan’s Market being about finding where an item belongs, it was traditional for customers to donate an item of their own that their clerics would then sell or give to someone who needed it more than they. Along with Cyrus’ own offering, Tressa offered a hat Cyrus had seen her wear several times before, and Therion one of his whittling projects. 

“I take these offerings gratefully in the name of Bifelgan,” the cleric intoned, taking the objects, “May they find themselves in worthy hands.” They then smiled brightly and gestured towards the hallway behind them, “Just go straight down that way and you’ll find the market, can’t miss it.”

After thanking the cleric, the three of them headed down the hallway, the sounds of people growing louder as they approached, until they found themselves in open air cloisters. Stalls made with sturdy wood and covered with colorful cloth to keep out the weather lined the square, manned by various merchants calling out their wares. Between the stalls were a surprising number of people milling about, filling the air with buzzing human activity.

“Do you see all of this?!” Tressa exclaimed and pointed excitedly at everything that caught her eye, “Those ceramics are so finely decorated, and those paintings over there have such a unique quality to them!”

“The jewelry here ain’t half bad either,” Therion stated calmly, though his eyes sparkled with interest, “I see plenty of precious gems, and ornate metal filigree indicating a master’s hand.”

Cyrus stayed near the entrance, letting Tressa and Therion walk on ahead with their heads tilted together conspiratorially, so he could better take in the surroundings and try to determine where he would find the book he wanted. When he had a plan of action, his two companions had already disappeared into the crowd, so Cyrus decided to make his own way into the throng. He followed the flow of people towards where he conjectured a book merchant would be, glancing over the other goods for sale as he did so and stopping to buy a sweet bun from a food stand run by one of the clerics. It seemed once one was inside, Bifelgan’s Market was like any other market day.

Eventually Cyrus encountered a merchant whose stall was stacked with various books and tomes, a shelf stuffed with scrolls behind her. Speaking with the woman, who’s slow way of talking and drooping eyes gave the impression she was moments from falling asleep, Cyrus found out that she did indeed have a copy of A Treastise on the Founding of the Kingdom of Wald which she ponderously slid towards him, asking, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Cyrus picked up the book and flipped through it, the book contained exactly what he hoped, though there were dark stains on some of the pages that he carefully chose not to think about. With a satisfied nod, Cyrus smiled at the merchant, “This is exactly what I desired, how much are you asking for it?”

There was a sluggish blink before the merchant said carefully, “Nine hundred leaves.”

As Cyrus reached for his coin pouch to pay, he heard Tressa call out, “Hold it!”

He looked up to see Tressa bustle over to him, gently plucking the book from his hand with a business-like, “Let me see that,” and began flipping through it. Once she was done she closed the book with a firm thump and said, “This book could hardly be considered in any kind of good condition, four hundred leaves.”

The merchant’s eyes flashed and she sat up a little straighter, her manner still had a sleepy quality to it, but now there was something sharp beneath it, “Aye, it may not be in the best condition, but it’s a first edition which is worth its salt.”

“Tressa, there is no need for this,” Cyrus said with some amusement, “I can pay for it.”

“We’re at Bifelgan’s Market,” Tressa hissed at him, “How can you not haggle?”

So Cyrus found himself politely pushed aside as Tressa and the merchant began debating the price back and forth. Cyrus simply took the time to admire the impressive amount of focus and determination that Tressa brought to bear when it came to negotiating. 

When the two of them settled on a price Tressa turned to him with a grin and a gesture of victory, “Alright, so it’s six hundred fifty leaves, not so bad if I do say so myself.”

“I thank you ever so much for the help Tressa,” Cyrus said, pulling out the coinage while Tressa beamed.

As Cyrus handed over the payment the merchant gave him a lazy grin, “If you plan on buying anything else here, I suggest bringing your friend along with you. She’ll save you a lot of coin.”

“I thank you for the advice,” Cyrus said with a polite bow. As much as he would like to perhaps buy more and see what other books were for sale, he had learned the hard way that he could only carry so much reading material before it became a detriment to his travels. And paying for postage to send books back to his home in Atlasdam had a way of proliferating in cost quite rapidly. So he would satisfy himself with this single book for now.

“Well, I am content with my purchase,” Cyrus said, turning to Tressa, “Have you seen everything you’ve wanted to see of the market? Or shall we be residing here a while longer?”

“Not yet!” Tressa squeaked, “I forgot something!” And before Cyrus could even question her on what she forgot, Tressa had taken off, rushing through the crowd and leaving Cyrus staring after her in disbelief.

With a shrug, Cyrus took his purchase and made his way through the market. He would leave Tressa to finish her business, and in the meantime there was no reason he couldn’t sightsee. As Cyrus meandered through the markert he heard a voice call out to him,

“You there! Scholar! Yes you!”

Cyrus glanced over to see a merchant with long curly hair flowing past his shoulders, on the table in front of him were a bunch of packets and several devices that he vaguely recognized, but couldn’t immediately recall their use.

Once the merchant had Cyrus’ attention, he smirked, “You seem like the type who’d like a mind boost once in a while eh? When deadlines for research are getting tight?”

“He’s not interested,” Therion stated flatly from behind Cyrus, making him jump. “We’ll be going now.”

As Therion subtly pushed Cyrus along, creating distance away from the merchant, Cyrus looked over at Therion curiously, “What would that happen to be about?”

“He was trying to sell you Shuteye, it’s a powder that’ll up your ability to think greatly for twenty-four hours, but the crash is so bad you’re basically incapacitated for at least two days.” Therion shook his head, “I don’t care what you do on your own time, but I’m not lugging your useless body around if you decide to take the drug while we’re travelling.”

Cyrus smiled, “I appreciate the consideration, thank you.”

Therion frowned at him, then sighed, “I still have a few more stops to make, you can come along, just don’t embarrass me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Cyrus didn’t have much interest in the rest of the market, but it was pleasurable enough looking at the goods for sale and of the craftsmanship on display. At some point he and Therion met up with Tressa again, and finding everyone had accomplished what they wanted, left the market area and headed down the hallway where they were stopped by the same cleric at the entrance.

“If you would pardon me for a moment,” the cleric said, and muttered a quick cantation and with a hand gesture a gentle breeze blew over the three of them, ruffling their hair and clothes.

Once the wind was gone, the cleric turned to Therion and addressed him sternly, “Sir. You either need to return the items you stole, or pay for them now. You will not be leaving this building otherwise.”

Therion quirked an eyebrow as a small annoyed frown crossed his face and immediately disappeared, “I’ll pay for them now,” he sighed.

As Therion pulled out his stolen items for the cleric to determine how much he had to pay, Tressa said in complete disbelief, “You actually stole from Bifelgan’s Market? Do you have no respect for Bifelgan?”

Therion shrugged, “Hey, from what I understand, Bifelgan has a soft spot for thieves.”

“Are you crazy!?” Tressa bristled, “Bifelgan is a merchant, there’s no way she would forgive thieves who take other people’s hard work without a fair trade! Haven’t you heard the tale of Bifelgan and the Stolen Opal??”

“As I recall Bifelgan has a problem with greedy merchants who don’t give out like they should,” Therion retorted, “And that’s where he has an allowance for thieves, just like in The Storm of Bifelgan,”

“You’re making things up! She would not be okay with thieves!”

“And I’m telling you, he is!”

Cyrus put a hand to his forehead. Normally he would try to tune out Therion and Tressa’s arguments as best he could, but his fascination for their differing perspectives on Bifelgan was keeping his attention, and the contradicting desires was making him develop a headache.

A chuckle from the cleric ended up cutting the argument off and drawing all three of their attention.

“Sorry, sorry,” The cleric waved apologetically, “It’s just that, you’re both right, in a sense.”

“How can this idiot be right!?” Tressa demanded with a pout.

Therion crossed his arms, saying nothing, but he was clearly thinking the same thing.

The cleric smiled cheerily, lifting up one hand, “The lady is right that Bifelgan disapproves of those who take without giving something in return, and she is not afraid to punish those who do not correct their ways.” The cleric lifted up their other hand, “But the gentleman is also correct that Bifelgan also disapproves of those who hoard things to the detriment of others. And it is with this belief he will turn a blind eye to noble thieves who redistribute wealth from the greedy to the poor.”

Bringing their hands together the cleric continued, “Both of these tie into what Bifelgan strives for, for everyone to be able to have what they need and then to trade equally with each other to receive the things that bring life joy and meaning. Bifelgan’s symbol as a coin is very apt,” The cleric moved their hands to reveal they were holding one of Bifelgan’s coins, showing them the silver side, “One aspect of Bifelgan focuses on giving to those in need,” they flipped to show the ebony side, “And the other on taking from the selfish.”

A flick sent the coin into the air, and was caught in the cleric’s hand, “But they’re both tied to one god.” The cleric grinned at Therion and Tressa, “It sounds to me like both of you have only heard one side of Bifelgan, may I suggest sharing those tales with each other to get the full story?”

Tressa and Therion shot each other a look, reluctance clear on both their faces.

“Please do share the tales you know,” Cyrus said eagerly, “It would infatuate me endlessly to hear the stories from both of you. I could even recount a couple of my own.”

“Ugh, fine,” Tressa said, dropping her pout, “If the Professor wants to hear them then I guess I don’t mind telling them.”

Therion shrugged, “If the brat’s going to do it, I guess I can do it as well.”

“Excellent!” Cyrus grinned, “Then let’s be on our way so we can go over these tales!”

Once Therion’s payment was settled, the three of them left the church with a cheerful wave from the cleric. Then at Cyrus’ insistence they made their way to a small tavern that was thankfully uncrowded so they could speak of Bifelgan without having to shout.

But as Cyrus took out his writing kit to take notes he couldn’t help but frown in disappointment at its contents. In his excitement he had forgotten that most of what it contained had been destroyed in an encounter with a ratkin just the other day. It left him with only a dried up inkwell he hadn’t had time to take care of and a rather limp quill.

“Here,” Therion said and placed a small wooden box stained a dashing shade of red with a decorative symbol burned onto its surface on the table and pushed it towards Cyrus, “This is for you.”

Cyrus took the box, but didn’t open it yet, frowning with confusion as he asked, “For me?”

“It’s from both of us,” Tressa said, “As thanks for taking us with you to the market!”

“Why thank you,” Cyrus smiled at them, “though there is no need for such gifts.”

Therion rolled his eyes, “Just open it.”

“Yeah! Open it!” Tressa said, bouncing in her seat.

Dutifully, Cyrus lifted the top of the box, and his whole expression lifted in delight as he stared at what was inside. It was a new writing kit, with a perfectly carved quill, writing knife, along with other tools of the trade, it even came with a pen.

“And here’s some extra ink, just in case you need it,” Tressa said, placing two inkwells on the table.

Cyrus knew he must look ridiculous as a wide grin split his face, but he didn’t care as he glanced up at his two friends, “Thank you, I will treasure this gift.”

The two of them returned Cyrus’ smile in their own way as they said in unison, “You’re welcome.”

Truly, Cyrus had been blessed by Bifelgan to receive such friends as Tressa and Therion.

#octopath traveler #i write sometimes #cyrus albright #therion #therion octopath #tressa colzione #bifelgan #bifelgan octopath #to be continued?????? #will i come up with more ideas for the gods? #i don't know #this idea surprised me by suddenly demanding i write it #i changed the title/tenet like 5 times and I'm still not happy with it #but i refuse to think about it anymore

[duskyskz]

Blueberry Claws - H.H.J

Warnings - Halloween Au, mentioned assault, choking, Hyunjin!Dom mild tones, slight violence

Word Count - 4.7K

A/N - ahaha this .. turned out way longer than I meant to ohno I'm sorry Hyunjin had my heart in a vice grip lately

Part of @nightshade-minho and @mini-meanhoe 's Halloween collab!

*********************************

Elbow deep in ruddy earth, you kneel among the undergrowth of your garden, plucking away stray roots and weeds. It’s not your favourite part of the day, but you pride yourself in the exquisite berries your growth produces, and adequate sunlight is a must in bringing the sweetest fruits. Autumnal chills creep down your spine, warning you of setting sun and cooler nights looming over the forest horizon. It is a quaint little house, settled carefully between the curve of the river and the forest border, a hat’s toss away from the village settlement, and you enjoy it that way - far away enough for privacy and undisturbed peace, yet not isolated enough to be unreachable and dreary. 

People weren't the only viable company, anyway. Your neighbors came in the form of passing badgers rummaging through your compost, squirrels and mice poking their noses through cracks in your windowsill while you bake, the sweet smell of sugar and jams luring in a furry audience you felt obliged to entertain, tossing crumbs and peels into the open yard. 

“Croak!” 

You raise your head away from the mud at the screech, glancing upward. 

“Hello.” You greet your most recent visitor. The magpie quickly climbed upon your friendlist, introducing itself with a persistent knock of its beak against your poor kitchen windowpane. It came back the next evening, and the one after that, never missing more than a day in it’s routine to rob you of your pie crusts. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Croak!” You suppose that’s a yes, considering the intensity with which the bird stares down at your precious blueberries. 

“Come on, then. Lunch wouldn’t hurt me, either.” 

***

“Can you believe that - that witch!” You stomp along the pavement to your front door, slamming it open. “The audacity to even imply my pies are anything but organic!”

Positively fuming, you don't entertain the absurdity of venting your frustrations to a corvid. At times, you think to yourself the little blackbird almost understands you - head tilting in accordance with your words, nodding when appropriate and watching your dutifully as if awaiting continuation. 

Then it’s attention switches from your wild gesticulations to the fresh batch of muffins cooling on your counter, and your suspicions of a higher intelligence disappears, leaving you to sweep cake crumbs off it’s feathers. No, plunging neck-deep into hot cake is not wise, you’d point out later. 

***

Maybe the loneliness does get to you after all. It’s a little embarrassing to admit how reliant you become on the magpie’s company. Its’ shrill croaks and glassy eyes became a comfort to you, a presence your day no longer felt complete without. Brushing your fingertips over the delicate feathers on its back, you rest your chin on your other palm. 

“It’s a dreary winter coming, birdie.” You muse, humming at the overcast sky. Masses of grey and washed out blues tumblr over the hills, warning you of approaching snows and rains. “I should fix the roof hatching tomorrow morning - be a shame to freeze my toes off before the solstice, wouldn’t it?” 

 The magpie doesn’t reply, and you don’t expect it to, but the slow blinks as you speak convince you your words don’t fall on deaf ears. 

“As long as I don’t have someone warming my bed, I better do all the warming myself.” Springin to your feet, you set to work on tidying the front yard. 

“Would you care to join me to fetch new hay for the roof tomorrow?” 

Your unconventional companion opens his beak, groaning. Then it snaps down into the ground, impaling one of your finest strawberries. 

Ah, well. 

You can only guess what a magpie must tend to in a day - you weren’t about to keep it from important bird tasks.

***

Your window panes quiver with the force of the hurricane, creaking sadly in their wooden frames. You have no idea what time it could possibly be, but judging by the time already passed since sundown, it’s way into the late night. Dismorphed figures haunt the outside, shadows passing over your bedroom like a predator, and you burrow deeper under your covers. Of course, approaching winter was harsh. In the hillside, mountain winds rolled down rocky foundations to crash into your humble home with rapid force. Turning onto your side, you press your head against the pillow to mute the whistle of the wind through your thin walls. You’d patched the roof last week - but you had yet to insulate the walls fresh, and chills made themselves known through cracks and gaps in last year’s worn overlay. 

With a soul-crushing snap, your window is thrown open as the lock gives way to hurricane, two fragile glass planes whipping open into the dead of night as you curse your luck and scramble out of bed to grasp the handles before they’re torn off entirely.

Yet something past the glass grabs your gaze before you can pull them shut, petrifying you in place. You don’t know if it’s the rain freezing your feet to the ground, or the unfiltered terror, but you can’t even scream as your eyes meet the vividly yellow ones across your garden.

Hunched above your blueberry bush, in a cloak of pitch black, stands a creature you’ve only seen in manic sketches in the village hall prior to tonight. Its’ spine seems bent, somehow, too long and too skewerd to fit precisely in its body, leaving two lumps protruding from its back. In a pale face, boxed in by wisps of black, you can only focus on two luminous eyes, zeroing in on your figure with far too much attention for your liking. 

In its knifed claws it grips a branch of your favourite plant, mangled and weeping blueberry juice onto the dirt. Maroon splatters blot the beast’s face, but you don’t gaze long enough to separate fruit from the blood of some poor soul. 

Maybe your blood will be next on its beak. 

Yanking the window shut, you tumble into your bed, curling as tight as you can into the duvet, shielding your head. Maybe it’ll go away if you don’t make noise, holding your hands to your ears. 

Maybe it’ll just go away.

***

It’s been three days since the storm, and coincidentally, three day since you’ve last seen your closest friend. Really, mayhaps this was a sign your friendship should extend elsewhere, and not the local corvid populace. Shovelling pastries into your hamper, you venture out into the open air for the first time since that night.

You’re still unable to clean the wreckage in your front yard. Somehow, the thought of laying your hands on the same branches that unknown horror touched fills you with dread, and you can’t bring yourself to rid the leftover mess. You had enough jams and preserves stockpiled to last you the whole winter if need be - if you weren’t financially obliged to sell most of them, anyway. 

Fitting yourself with a scarf to guard from temperamental weather, you wrap the wool tightly up to your nose as the first leaves fall from the oaks beside you. 

You love your town, you really do. 

The whimsy of nearby streams rolling over lustrous green fields is a wonder to wake up to every morning, and the walk into town is always a pleasant meander under centuries-old oaks and pine trees, spying on the conversations of woodpeckers and crows.

Yet, among all the commotion, you find yourself missing one particular croak. Never quite the same elegant cry as the other birds, but particular and endearing in its own right. 

And entirely missing from your life for half a week.

Passing the stone gates, you keep to the right of the road to make space for idle carts and horses wandering the streets. Carefully, you unload all your stock onto the market table - this stand has your name carved into the wooden leg, and you pride yourself on being a regular enough attendant to warrant a reserved place. 

The day flurries by you in a mess of clinking jam jars and passing coins. Afternoon had already set in a while ago, traversing into the evening by the time you begin wrapping up your last sale. Bidding goodbye to the market staff, you hoist your (significantly lighter) basket over your forearm, leaving the town square. It’s not dark yet, bare wisps of the night inking over your head as the sun lowers over the woods, letting you lose your train of thought in the scenery.

You feel the last pricks of stress leave you as your thoughts drift to the hallowing creature from nights ago. Perhaps your mind, in its hazy and exhausted stade, played up the vivid shadows and reflections in the moonlight? Yes, surely. There’s no way an animal this size and fright roamed your woods unacknowledged - The only terror you knew was the fabled warlock, but nobody has seen his face in decades. You weren’t even sure what he looked like. All tales of warlocks the library gave you marked them as haunted men, selling their soul for mastery of dark arts, giving up their limbs for a hint of inhuman power. Some had horns, you’d read. Some, a devilish tail winding between their legs, while some gave up their own eyes and replaced them with animal counterparts for better senses. 

It scared you more than you’d like to admit, the more you entertained the possibility of a being so twisted hiding in the depths of your woods - but was Hwang Hyunjin even real, or a figment of townsfolk imagination? 

Entangled in your own head, you fail to notice the arm lashing out to grab your elbow and yank you violently sideways, slamming your back into the brick wall between two buildings. 

“Ouch!” You rasp out, catching your breath, but your scream is broken by the hand quickly winding around your throat.

Great, after a shitty week you were going to get robbed, too! 

“Don't you try open your mouth again, you little bitch.” A coarse voice hissed against your cheek. You tried to reel away from the terrible stench of his breath, but with your back against the wallside, it was impossible to weasel out. “Made quite a pretty penny at the market today, didn’t ya?”

A large, cold hand snuck down your waist, over the ribbons tying your corset shut, and you were sure you’d retch when clammy fingers started tugging at the knot. 

“Where are you hiding it, then? Down your vest?” One sharp pull leaves your corset flying open, exposing your skin to freezing night air, shielded only by a thin undershirt. You try to shake your head, but the hold on your neck makes it impossible to even curse. “That’s a bit thin, isn’t it? Not much to hide under such flimsy fabric -”

“Shit!”

You heave in a breath as the tightness around your throat suddenly wanes, disappearing, and all weight lifts from you. Eyes watering from the lack of oxygen, you blink rapidly to clear your vision, stumbling back as you find focus. 

Shrill cries tear from your assailant, angry red oozing from the gash above his left eye, arms flailing maniacally to chase away the blur of feathers thrashing around his head. Slinking down to catch your breath, you pull your knees to your chest to steady your breathing, though the scene before you grows more gruesome every time you blink. 

You can’t tear your eyes away, even as the bird dives down again, embedding its razor claws in the man’s eye socket. The screams are terrifying, but you don’t have the thought to wonder how no one else came to check the commotion. 

Maybe nobody wanted to.

In muted horror, you watch as the man finally lands a hit, thrashing the tiny bird into the wall opposite with a numbing crack, spinning on his heel to face you once more, though his one eye struggles to find your face. He stumbles forward, lurching in your direction, drops of fresh blood flying at your feet.

“What are you, a witch? I should burn you alive -”

Smack!

You’re sure you’re hallucinating as he topples to the pavement, struck by a surprise force. Hunched over him, in a flurry of black feather, sits a mass you know  you’ve seen before. For a moment you think, another bird? A whole flock? But then the feathered cape shifts, raises, and you realise it’s one pair of  heavy-set wings protruding from a broad back, arms poised to strike over and over at a target long void of defense. You feel sick - everything that unravelled in the last few moments makes your stomach churn, and you vomit onto the floor between your feet. You can’t watch the blood any longer, listen to the crunching sound of tendons snapping and bone breaking, rolling over as you feel your legs give way to jelly.

***

You can feel yourself swaying, gently. You don’t feel the ground, but you know you’re moving, head balanced on something pillowy and warm, but still solid - what a weird combination. 

There’s something holding you up by your legs, and another clutching onto your back. You have half the mind to open your eyes when you’re coherent enough to, knowing you should be alarmed given the situation you just vaguely avoided. But this is nice. Your lift your eyelids barely enough to take in your position, head propped carefully on a shoulder. You can’t see much beyond the collarbone your nose is tucked into without outing yourself as awake, so you settle for breathing in deep, lulling your nerves with the scent of ash and fern. It's safe, comforting somehow, in a way you’ve never felt comforted in. Your forehead grazes his cheek, tips of his dark hair tickling your skin as you heave out a sigh and press your face deeper against the warmth. 

“I’m sorry I left you, Birdie.”

His voice is gentle, too. You let it ring in your head, soft whispers and words you can't quite decipher but appreciate nonetheless lulling you back into shallow sleep. You recognise your surroundings by the shift of light, stepping out from the tree canopy into wide hillside, catching last rays of sunlight. 

You think he’s going to wake you and ask for a key, but your front door grants him access with just a single flick of his wrist under your knee. You’ll have to ask him about that later.

Nudging his way inside, ducking to fit past the low doorframe, your saviour swiftly marches to your bedroom, confirming your suspicions. The layout of your house was entirely too familiar to him for it to be the first time he’s visited the premises. Or the second, if you count the night visit three days back. When he lowers you onto the mattress, it's with such care your heart skips in your chest, and you pray he doesn’t hear it stop entirely when you feel his fingertips brush over your shoulder to pull the blankets over you, strong arms straining under his shirt as he moves your head from his shoulder and you immediately miss the heat. There’s a cup of water by your bedside that wasn’t there before, and when satisfied with your placement, he steps away. Your eyes blink open fully when you feel his presence leave your side. 

“Are you leaving?” Your voice sounds small even to you. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d want me around.” He answers after a hesitant pause, kneeling by your bed. “You - You looked really scared that night. I never want you to be scared of me.” 

You sit up, reaching for the glass of water which he swiftly passes to you to soothe your throat and wash out remaining bile. Your skin still burns in the places that asshole touched you, and you hiss when your fingers rub the sore spots on your neck, before a larger hand wraps around your palm, bringing it down to glare at the bruise.

“I won’t apologize for what happened to him, though.” The venom in his voice makes you still. “That filth got what he deserved - I should have taken his other eye, too.” 

“...Is he dead?” You’re not sure you should ask.

“No. I left him breathing, but I can’t guarantee someone will find him in time.” 

“You left him blind, that’s enough Hyunjin.” His head snaps up at the name, as if he didn’t expect the confrontation. “You’re the magpie that’s been visiting my garden this summer, aren’t you? You’re the fabled terror in our woods.”

You say the last part with a smile, but the warlock  lowers his head still, glancing down at the blanket curving over your hips.

“....Yeah.” He mumbles, observing the many silver rings at his knuckles. “Is that too much for you?”

“What do you mean?” You scrunch your nose, confused, when he doesn’t elaborate. 

“At first I just came to visit because of the garden, but every time you saw me you’d talk to me like I was a person - Like I could understand. And I know you talk to the others too, like that ugly goose -” You want to scold him for calling Truffles ugly, but he carries on without pause. “But in my head it was just, nice. Even if I couldn’t reply, whenever you speak, there’s no darkness in me. Nothing but you.”

Hyunjin frowns, not wanting to meet your eyes yet. His hand grips the edge of your duvet, straining the fabric as his wings twitch.

“I was so fucking mad at myself when you saw me. You looked so small, so petrified - and of me. And as much as I wanted to take you into my arms and reassure you I couldn’t.” 

You can’t deny it, you were scared then. But knowing the man before you now, the events of today and the large part thunder and your own exhaustion played into your fear that night, you felt none of the apprehension now, resting your hand atop his shaking ones. 

“Maybe you wouldn’t want to see me again, if you’d guessed what I was after that. So I let you be, watching from a distance, because I couldn’t bring myself to let go completely. And today, fuck -” He runs a clawed hand through his locks, pushing hair out of his face to finally look at you, golden eyes rooting you to your spot. “I should have snapped both his legs for even thinking to touch you.”

“But maybe that’s my own vice.” You watch soft pink lips form words you’re not sure are real. They could have been your own imagination, for how quietly he speaks. “Maybe my love would be too much for you.” 

The silence that follows his confession is crushing to both of you, for entirely different reasons. 

You barely wrap your head around the idea of being loved by him before he pulls his hand away from yours, accepting rejection he knew was coming. It’s not until he stands that you breathe in, catching the edge of his jacket before he can leave you again.

“It’s not.” You state. “It’s not too much.”

You hope he doesn’t mistake the quiver in your voice for doubt, because you’ve never been so sure of something in your life. 

“Do you mean that?” The hopeful lilt to his voice sparks your heart alight, he’s at your side in seconds, long feathers sweeping the floor below his feet as he moves. “Are you sure you want me the same way I want you?”

“I do.”

You nod to reassure him, sliding further down the bed to make space for his larger frame. Hyunjin slinks in next to you, crawling over to hover above you, taking in the way you look finally beneath him. His feathers block out most light, sun long set. You can barely see, but before you can complain about missing his ethereal beauty, a candle flickers alight by your window, and another on your bedside table. Another, and yet one more afterward, until your bedroom filters in a warming glow from a dozen shy fires. 

Ah, warlock things. 

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin hesitates still, lips stopping millimeters away from yours as the last strings of hesitation cling to his thoughts until you urge him to move. “You can touch me.”

His lips are warmer than anything you’ve ever felt, moving over your mouth like fine malt wine. There’s a quiver in his hands when he brings a palm down to cradle your cheek, running his thumb over the smooth skin as his tongue runs over your teeth. 

You don’t notice your legs spreading open to allow him between your thighs until his knee bumps against your core, bundling your skirts in his fist to pull them down and off. 

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to have you under me like that, birdie.” Hyunjin whispers. “All for me, at my mercy - you look so good like that.”

The irony of him using your own nickname for him on you is lost in the moment you arch your back into his touch, pressing your still corseted chest against his palm. Every place he touches has you needing more of him, every part you can reach. 

“Undress me, please.” 

“Gladly.” Nimble fingers pluck the bow of your shirt open, lifting it over your head. In the cocoon of his wings and candle light, you feel a love you’ve never known before. Discarding his own shirt next, you hardly have a moment to take in the exquisite expanse of his chest before your field of vision is taken up with glimmering navy feathers, Hyunjin’s head dipping to swirl his tongue over your nipple. Your grip in his hair makes him keen against your chest, groaning over the sensitive flesh between his teeth.

“Are you - You’re a virgin?” The idea of him being the first to make you feel so open, the only person to see you react to such intimate touch gets him harder than Hyunjin thought possible. 

“Ah, yeah…” You nod. Were your reactions so telling? You suddenly felt even smaller, caged between his arms and the pillows, watching his tamarind eyes flicker.

“I’ll love you well, birdie. Don’t worry.” He blows cool air onto your damp bud and you feel like crying. One hand leaves the space by your head, pinching your other peak. At first gently, testing how far he could push your limits to get you melting at his touch, then harder when you moan at the slight burn. 

Your hips rise to rub against his thigh, unknowingly seeking out friction to aid the dampness gathering in your underwear. His hand meets you there, slipping a finger under the band of your panties to snap it against your skin for your impatience, and you still immediately, recognising his dominance even without prior warning. 

“Be good and wait. If I own you, I’m taking my time with you.” There’s a hard edge in his voice, something about the empty threat makes you want to push his buttons until he snaps. 

You don’t need to wait much longer.

Ridding you of the last scrap of clothing you had left, Hyunjin has you bare and displayed, every part on show and within his reach. Slower than you can take, he drags his thumb on the inside of your thigh, kissing and nibbling the delicate skin just inches away from your dripping cunt. When his thumb finally, finally rubs a circle against your clit you whine his name so loud he nearly bites down hard. Still, he holds his pace, pressing his thumb in patient patterns against your nub as his teeth mark up your thighs.

“Jinnie, go harder, please.”

You know you fucked up when he glances up at you, brows quirking in amusement. 

“I said I’ll take care of you, y/n. If you want to cum, lay there and take it.”

You’re thankful he has a shred of mercy for your sanity, because your pleas seem to have a marginal effect on his movement. 

You eat your words when Hyunjin forces two fingers inside your already wet slit, scissoring you open with harsh flicks of his wrist. His lips remain stuck to your clit, and the sudden assault on your senses has tears rushing down your cheeks.

“W-Wait! Hyun, wait, I don’t want to cum yet!” You don’t really believe he’ll listen.

“Don’t you? But I thought you wanted me to hurry, birdie?” The mockery in his voice makes you clench, and you’d flush if you weren’t so close to orgasm. “For someone not ruined before, you beg for a dick so well.”

“No...Not yet, I wanna cum on you, please.” 

Hyunjin can resist many things - spells, curses. Killing a man on multiple occasions. 

Your whimpering voice as you beg for him to take your virginity in your own bed, wrapped around his fingers and blushing from his tongue is not one of those things. 

“Fuck, okay.”

Pulling his fingers out, your lips part at the emptiness, but your nerves prickle with knowledge of what awaits you next. Hyunjin is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, sweat dampening his forehead and eyes peering right into your heart whenever your gazes meet. You’re hypnotised by the way muscles in his back tense when he kneels between your thighs, urging you to open up for his fit. You only catch the briefest sight of his length, but it’s enough to make you gasp in anticipation at the size and thickness of his base. 

“You’re sure you want me?” Your legs wrap around his waist as he asks, not yet penetrating you, only resting his length on your slick core. 

“I want you more than anything I’ve ever dreamed of, Hyunjin.” You channel all your love and trust into your words, daring yourself to press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. 

Feeling the stretch of him is euphoric, inch by inch, more than any discomfort could hope to reach. Your focus on the flex of his forearm propping him up beside your head, the tantalizing way his mouth curls in a moan of your name when he bottoms out, placing his seal on you completely. 

“Tell me when I can move, alright?” 

“N-Now, you can move. Please move.” You’re gonna go insane if he doesn’t ravage you right now, digging your nails into his bicep. Hyunjin starts off slowly, gentle languid strokes brushing over your walls. With every move, he feels you relax, the tension in your legs loosening into desperate longing as you pull him deeper into you, trapping him against your body.

You open your eyes only to grab his hand, wrapping it around your throat. His hips stutter, before he grips you fully, squeezing the sides of your neck until your moans turn to broken cries of his name.

“You’re such a cute little whore, love. What a dirty pussy you’ve been holding out on me.”

The smirk he looks down on you with is downright filthy, degrading every shred of dignity you had left, but you don’t take in anything but him, his hips slamming you into the mattress and the hot breath against your ear. “Are you gonna cum from that? My good girl, just like that...Let go and cum under me.”

He pulls his hand away from your neck, allowing you to heave in a breath and scream his name. Hyunjin holds you down by your wrists above your head, thrusting relentlessly as you cum around him, shaking and sobbing from the overstimulation at your centre. He allows himself to release then, as your whimpers quieten and he rides out your highs with you, filling you to the brim. 

You stay entwined for a moment as you catch your shaky breath, coming out of the headspace Hyunjin fucked you into. When he pulls out, you fight the urge to clamp your legs shut as he holds your thighs apart, admiring the way his cum spills out of your rawed hole. 

“Let me clean you first, birdie.” 

You nearly drift off in the blissed-out feeling that envelops you as he wipes your legs clean with a warm, damp cloth, stroking over tingling bruises with adoration. 

When he’s finally satisfied with your state, Jinnie allows you to tug him back into bed with you, arms immediately coiling around your middle to press you into his chest, nose nuzzling against the crown of your head to breathe in your scent. 

“I meant every word I said.” He mentions, speaking against your forehead. His lips tickle you with every word and you’re so tempted to kiss him again just because you can. “ I really do love you.”

“I know, Jinnie. I love you too.”

****

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