#And You Will Know Them By The Trail of Dead

[draconic-desire]

To the Grave (400 subs!)

Yandere Aventurine x Reader

Yet another escape attempt thwarted. How will Aventurine react?

Warnings: Yandere behavior, implied kidnapping, forced imprisonment and affection

The room is cold, and not just because you’re half naked and shivering, clutching at your thin pajamas. No, it’s because the man across from you is radiating an aura more bone-chilling than Jarilo-VI.

Aventurine dismisses the IPC grunts who dragged you in with a wave of his hand. You get a sick sort of satisfaction that it took four of them, plus a senior staff member in a mech suit, to finally restrain you this time.

Your escape this round was spontaneous, but you couldn’t turn your nose at the opportunity when you noticed the guards had failed to lock your door that evening. You’d sprinted out wearing nothing but the ridiculous, skimpy nightwear that Aventurine liked to return to you wearing. You’d made it as far as the outskirts of the manor before you were grabbed and tackled by the pursuing goons.

Hence how you found yourself here, presented to the very man who held you captive against your will.

The room is dead silent. His back is to you, so you can’t gauge his expression, but you notice he’s playing with a single chip, tossing it back and forth between his hands—a tick that you’ve learned means he’s thinking, calculating.

“Did you really think your little stunt would work?” His voice is calm, barely over a whisper, but it still sends a shiver down your spine. Your nails dig into your palms ever so slightly harder, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

“The odds haven’t stopped me before,” you throw back, mocking his own betting lingo.

Aventurine lets out a dry, breathy laugh. “And that’s what makes a gambler. That desperate desire to cling to the hope that the next time will be the jackpot.”

“I’m willing to take those odds if it means a lifetime without you.”

He does not have one of his normal, clever comebacks for that, apparently. He merely flicks the chip one more time and snatches it midair in his left hand, which then moves to settle behind his back.

“Do you have any idea the lengths I go to in order to keep you safe?”

At first, you think you imagine it—the edge of hurt, the crack in his voice. But then you notice his posture, the hand held behind his back, the fist shaking ever so slightly. It’s the same as when he’s making a risky bet, when he’s scared of the next play.

Some of your bitterness morphs to confusion. “Aventurine—”

This time he turns, and his mesmerizing, beautiful, terrifying Avgin eyes meet your own. “You know what to call me.”

“Kakavasha,” you breathe out after a pause. At the sound of his true name, you see him release a breath, some of the ice melting around his eyes. “This isn’t safety, this is a prison. You can’t expect me to…”

Your voice trails off as he wraps his arms around you, one hand caressing your hair while the other attaches to your hip. He buries his nose into your neck, right at the base of your jaw, and you suck in a breath. You still feel the ghost of pain from each previous bite and bruise he’s left on your neck, the marks he uses to stake his claim on you.

He releases a choked laugh, making your knees weak with fear. You brace yourself for pain, for the sting of his fangs as he sinks his teeth into your flesh—

Except you realize he’s not laughing, he’s crying.

“I was so frightened, (Y/n). I thought—I thought you were gone—” Each attempt is cut off with another hitched breath, his grip on you like a vice. “You’re all I have left, the only thing that I can protect. I can’t lose you, too. I’ll give you anything. So please, just…stay.”

Your initial shock starts to bleed into uncertainty. Strings of doubt, of guilt, wrap around your heart. How can you pull away from him, knowing his past? How fate has stolen every loved one from him, leaving him a broken shell that he himself was forced to piece back together? Can you truly blame him for his possessiveness, his need to keep you?

Of course you can, logic tells you. But the lost man—no, the frightened Avgin boy, the last of his kind—who is clutching you with such unbridled affection and sadness doesn’t need your reasoning, he needs your understanding, your compassion.

You sigh, placing your hand on his head and running your fingers through his golden tresses, in the manner you know he loves so dearly from you. “I’m sorry. I—I’m not going anywhere.”

“No,” he agrees, his voice suddenly clear, “you aren’t.”

Something rattles and wraps around your neck with a click.

“Wha-what—!” You scratch at your nape, at the metal fixture that you don’t even need a mirror to identify. No. He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t, not after everything he himself has been through, he wouldn’t subject you to the same humiliation and torture—

Aventurine gives the chain attached to the shackle around your neck a light tug. When your eyes lock with his, you see they are void of tears, brimming only with smug victory. The basted fucking faked it.

How easily you had fallen for the mask of Kakavasha, only to be met by the reality of Aventurine, his heart as hard as stone.

You immediately thrash, baring your teeth at him. “Bastard! Liar! Heartless wretch!” You growl when you hear him laugh at that last one. “I will never stop fighting you, not until you are alone, dead, and buried as you deserve!”

“That may be so,” he drawls, “but your willing compliance certainly isn’t something I’m willing to bet on.” He pulls you close by your chain, licking your fallen tear of frustration. “So how about I bring you to the grave with me, hm?”

#yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere #yandere escape #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yanderecore #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere male #aventurine #aventurine x you #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr

[fieldofdaisiies]

Whispers of the Forgotten | pt. 7

pairing: azriel x reader | type: angst | words: 2k words | warnings: mentions of trauma | masterlist

Your neck is aching when you throw it back and release a loud groan. Your eyes are already burning from staring into books the whole day. Outside Velaris has already entered the night – many hours ago–, but you are still sitting here, your back sore from being bent over the books for hours. 

The orange candle on the table, the only light source in the living room of the house of wind at this point, has almost burnt down to nothing, but you need it just a few more minutes. 

You are so close, you know it. The solution is right there, you just need to grasp it.

Reaching forward, you place your hand on the onyx box, sharp nails piercing into it. With the index finger of your other hand you trail over some ancient spells written in lettering that is now longer used. The spells are most likely witches runes, you are not familiar with them, but with the help of Nesta and maybe also Amren, you will be able to open the box.

You can feel it. You can feel how the small casket reacts to your touch, to the idea of being opened. It is burning with emotion, so hot your palm heats. 

You are so close – so close to opening this damn box. And so close to freedom. You will be allowed to roam freely when this is over, no one will ever lock you away again. Once the box is open you will demand your amulet back. With it your powers will return and then you are gone. To the continent or wherever the wind takes you. 

Gone…involuntarily your thoughts wander to the shadowsinger. He is also gone. Has been gone for a few days now. Gone just like back then. When he left you behind, broken and bloody. He did not even check to see if you are alright. If your wounds are too deep. If you will survive. 

Rhysand’s words hollow in your mind, loud, strong, and you force your eyes closed, fighting against the tears. 

“My father…he threatened the other female in Azriel’s life. The only other female he would have given his life for. This was the only way to protect you both.”

All those years, you have wondered what Azriel’s reasons were. Why he betrayed you like this. Why he never came to see you. You don’t know if you will ever be able to forgive him, but what you know is that you want to give him another chance to talk. You want to hear it from him. Everything. Every little thing he has to say. You want him to talk about his mother, about how he locked you in the Prison, the moments after it, the moment when he found out what the Harp was capable of. He owes you all the explanations and you owe him your time to listen.

You shake your head, directing every thought that threatens to stray into Azriel’s direction at matter at hand again – Koschei’s onyx box. You need to open it and you are so close. You flip over to the next page, finding more cryptic lettering. Your eyes are closed when your fingers trail over the words, the runes, the pictures and you feel it. This is it. 

Jumping up, the chair scratches over the ground with a loud noise. You need to find Nesta, and you need to find her now. You really hope she is not currently otherwise occupied with a certain general of the Illyrian armies because you really need to talk to her.

Blowing out the candle, you turn swiftly and head for the corridor, running as fast as your feet can take you, your thin, silken gown swishing around your legs. You head up the stairs, towards Nesta and Cassian’s main bedroom, but stop dead in your tracks when your eyes land on him. When his moan of agony pierces through your mind. 

The door to his bathroom is open, his bloody chest exposed, large wings draped on the ground, his hands braced on the edges of the sink. 

You can’t tear your eyes away and fully on your own accord your feet start to walk, no longer moving you towards Nesta’s room, but to him. You can’t stop yourself, it is like something is pulling you to him. And you know what it is – the tug on your chest. Before his betrayal you had loved the idea of it. Then everything came crashing down, and you hated it. You have been clamping down on the feeling of it for centuries, pushing it away, but now seeing him bloody and wounded –seeing your mate bloody and wounded– fire ignites deep within your soul, the bond once more coming alive inside of you.

“Azriel.” Your voice trembles, heart squeezing at the gaping wounds marring his entire torso, dripping with blood and puss. It looks awful and painful. Your fingers curl towards your palms.

He whips his head into your direction, and with a crooked smile, he says, “It isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Bullshit,” you answer and step into the bathroom. “You look like you have been attacked by a beast, those wounds are deep. You need a healer to look over them.” When your eyes lifts, they clash with his. 

“Don’t act like you care,” he mumbles, holding your gaze.

“You have no right to snap at me, Azriel,” you answer in a stern voice, “not after everything that has happened between us, not after everything you did to me.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.” You close the door behind you and fully move into the room, reaching for the cloth on the sink that is no longer white, but has no a pinkish colour, stained from all the blood. You clasp it tightly in your hand, and without saying a word, attach the cloth to Azriel’s wounded skin. He sucks in a sharp intake of air, then holds his breath and lets you do your work. “I am ready to talk, Azriel.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers curl around the edge of the sink, scarred knuckles turning white. “I needed time, I needed time to adapt, to understand, to progress, but I am ready to talk now.” You tip your head back and meet his hazel eyes, a flicker of hope within them now that you revealed that you are ready to talk to him. 

“Rhysand told me about your mother.”

“His father threatened to execute her. I needed to protect her, but I need you to know that I didn’t choose her over you. I was…torn. I only had a few people in my life that I loved, and risking one’s life for that of another…I only tried to–”

“Keep us both safe. I know this now.” Your hand moves lower, brushing over a wound on his lower belly that disappears behind the pants of his Illyrian leathers. 

“I was trying to get you out. I was looking for ways once all threats were gone, but…only when we found the Harp I had a solution on how to do it. I knew how I was going to get you.”

You nod slowly, and put the cloth aside. “Let’s patch you up and then we talk properly, yes?”

It is a big step you are taking, but you know you have to do it. You finally have to talk to him. Your heart is racing both with panic about being so close to the person that has hurt you most in your life, but also with relief that you can finally be near him without feeling like the air to breathe has been stolen from you. He still unnerves you, but now that you have learned more about why he acted like this, talking to him seems easier. 

You have to talk to him. For yourself. You need to know everything. Find out what really were his reasons.

“In my room?” Azriel asks in a calm voice. 

You nod again and set out to do exactly what you said – patching him up. 

───── ⋆⋅ ☽☾ ⋅⋆ ─────

“He showed me what he would do to her. All the cruel things. And all the cruel things he would do to you. He invaded my mind and showed it to me.” 

You find yourself nodding again, tears lining your eyes. You sit next to him on the bed, Azriel’s head resting on the pillow, close to your hips, his chest now bandaged, his body covered by the thin bed sheet. “I had no choice.”

You want to tell him that everyone always has a choice, but in this case, this was truly the only way to do it. You have been listening to him for the past hour or even longer, soft moonlight filtering in through the curtain-framed windows. It is the only lightsource, but you don’t need more. You close your eyes, your soul for the first time calm and at ease in his presence. Azriel has been talking the whole time, a rarity you think, because centuries ago when you were together he was always rather calm. 

“Did it really hurt you to put me in the Prison?”

You feel the bed shift next to you, and a moment later his scarred digits brush your hand. “What a question…” You can hear how he draws in a deep inhale and his hand closes tightly around yours. “It tore me apart. It felt like someone ripped out my heart, and tore it into pieces. Like my soul lost its life, like it was diminished and I could never ever feel happiness again. All the years, the centuries that passed, where I couldn’t free you, destroyed more parts of my soul.”

You slide down on the pillow, not letting go of his hand, until you are on eye-level with him. His head is turned to you, and he is already looking at you when you open your lids. 

“I knew the first moment I could find a way to free you, to get you out, I would do it. You were bound to the Prison by the High Lord’s magic, you couldn’t get out alone, not even if I had tried to. It was only possible through the Harp – the Dead Trove’s magic is stronger than any High Lord’s.”

You deep your chin, nodding slowly, the back of your mouth aching. “I thought you hated me, you loathed and feared me just like everyone else. That our whole relationship was a false-pretence.”

His throat bobs. “I didn’t fake a single thing – every I love you, every kiss, every hug, whenever we made love, I meant it all. And I meant when I said that I would protect you…I never meant to hurt you. To destroy you.”

You shift closer on the bed. “Do you know why your soul hurt after you put me into the Prison?”

“Because I lost the love of my life.” He pushes up on his elbows, groaning due to the wounds on his chest that have not yet healed. He shifts onto his side, now looking directly at you, but you shake your head. 

“No, Azriel,” you say, “your soul hurt because we were mates and the bond broke the moment you closed the gates to my cell.”

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @azrielsmate2 @callmeblaire @lilah-asteria

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar x reader #acotar #azriel

[drjholtzmann]

this is dreamling more than dead boy detectives but it's been in my head since reading issue #25 after s1 of sandman. so, now feels like a good time to release it into the world. i just want them all to get in each others way

(season of mists spoilers)

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

It’s not often that Hob smokes. It’s an expensive habit, and secondhand smoke and all that. But it’s hardly going to kill him, so he’s usually got an ancient pack on hand somewhere. Handy, especially in situations like this. Not that there’s ever been a situation like this before but, well. You live long enough. 

He slips out into the beer garden of the pub, lighting up almost absent mindedly, the action still muscle memory. 

“What the fuck,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip, “what the fuck. Dream, if you have bloody anything to do with this, I swear to god, Morpheus. What the fucking fuck.” He closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the brickwork. Despite it all he huffs an exhausted laugh. Because sure. Of course. Yeah, why not. Of course this would happen. “Jesus Christ, Morpheus. Even if this isn’t you, bloody… fucking wish I could just ask.” It’s all said barely above a whisper. Just in case. Always just in case. He blindly ashes his cigarette and heaves out a heavy breath, “Lord above,” he scoffs, raising the cigarette to his lips again. 

“Hob?”

Hob startles, eyes snapping open, head knocking back sharply against the brick. “Fuck – ow – Dream?” He raises his free hand to rub the back of his head, wincing slightly. “That, uh… that worked better than expected.” 

“You were calling for me?”

“Yeah… sorta. I didn’t… think it worked like that. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You did not. I had thought briefly of you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Hob grins. “How come? You miss me already?”

Morpheus sends him a withering look. 

“I, um… dreamt of you. While ago. Was that – real?”

“It was.”

He nods, thumb nervously tapping the filter of his cigarette. “Uh huh. Figured. With the wine, and…” he trails off. The hollow feeling of that dream, or rather, of that waking coming back to him in full force. “You said some ominous shit. Then I said some ominous shit. Was that real, too?”

Morpheus nods solemnly. 

“Right. Don’t suppose you’ll explain that?” Morpheus remains silent. “Right. Course not. Things okay, though? Now? I mean,” he gestures to his friend, “you’re here. That must be good, yeah?”

“Yes. And no.”

“Great. Fab.”

“What I thought I was facing has… changed.”

“...’kay. Well, can I ask you a question?”

Morpheus pauses but, after a moment, nods.

“S’it got anything to do with the dead kids hanging out in my pub?”

“What?”

“Yeah, couple of boys who look like they should definitely be in school – about, oh, fifty years ago. At least.”

Morpheus’ eyes don’t actually widen in alarm, but there is something to that effect happening… not quite in his expression, but in his aura, perhaps. Hob gets the feeling that if he were a cat the fur along his spine would be standing on end. 

“So… it is related?” 

“Perhaps.”

“Definitely, then.” Hob takes a short puff of his cigarette. 

“Show me?” 

“Uh… I don’t know if they know that people can see them. I don’t know if people who aren’t me can see them, actually. So just, um…” the caution dies in his throat as he realises who it is he’s talking to. Morpheus will do what he will, Hob’s advice be damned. 

Dream draws close, peering in through the windowpane of the door back into the pub. “How do you know?”

“You get pretty good at feeling when things are off once you’ve been around the block six hundred years or so. Also, they walked in through the closed front door. As in, passed right through the solid wood and glass.”

“I see.”

“Why are they here?” 

“To sample your fine selection of craft beer, perhaps?”

“Oh, he’s joking,” Hob has joined his side in peering not-so-surreptitiously through the door. “‘Mortal plane’ here, not here-here.”

“Death must have been busy… It is not like her to leave a job unfinished without good reason.”

“Must’ve…? What the fuck could be so horrific that Death is being kept busy?”

Morpheus, beside him, is silent. Deadly still. And it tells Hob all he needs to know. 

“Dream,” he hisses, “what the fuck is this? What’s going on?”

There is a long pause. “I ought not to tell you.” Dream murmurs, still facing the glass panel of the door.

“And I ought not have two dead teenagers in my pub. All things relative.” 

“They are causing no harm.”

“I don’t doubt that. It’s you I’m worried about now.”

“Your concern is of no use. What I mean is that they are no poltergeists, not aggressive, there seems to be nothing demonic about them.”

“Which means… there are poltergeists and demons running about at the mo?”

“I told you, I ought not say. There are diplomatic proceedings to take place.”

“You get that that makes even less sense, yeah?”

Dream seems to, at last, with an almighty eye roll, give in. “Hell is closed,” he hisses, turning to face Hob directly. 

“Hell is closed.” Hob repeats back, dumbfounded. “And that means… The devils are all here?”

“Precisely.”

“But the boys… aren’t devils?”

“They are not.”

“Okay. That’s good news. And the devils?”

Dream shrugs, sharp and languid. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

“Great. Okay. Less good. Very much less good. So, uh. What… do I do? Am I supposed to exorcise them? Because, I have to be honest – would really rather not do that.” 

“You are under no obligations.”

“Oh.” 

“They could not be here without Death’s knowledge or her say-so. She will come for them in time.”

“Oh.” Inexplicably, Hob’s heart sinks a little.

“They are not alive, Hob.” Dream says, looking him in the eye. “They cannot live forever as the dead.” 

“Hm. Yeah. S’pose.” He looks through the windowpane at the two boys, chatting animatedly at a corner table out of the way. “They’re just kids, though. Barely got a normal life.”

“You cannot save them, Hob.”

“Why not?”

“You cannot. They may not be destined for Hell, but that doesn’t mean they can stay amongst the living.” 

“Says who?”

“The universe. Death, herself.”

Hob smirks, tilting his head down a fraction to look up at Dream from under a quirked brow. “You know what I think of Death.”

And Hob catches the tension at the corner of Dream’s mouth that he knows, whatever he might say to the contrary, is a suppressed smile. 

“C’mon, what if I just help ‘em live a little? While they’re here?”

“Hob.”

“What?! Can’t a guy be nice?”

“I have meetings to attend to.”

“That’s not a no.” 

“I think it a poor choice to flaunt immortality in front of two who have died so young. I would caution against it.”

“Okay. Fuck, fair point. But they don’t have to know about me. They wouldn’t somehow know, right?”

“I would caution against it, Hob Gadling.”

#sandman #dreamling #dead boy detectives #sandman fanfic #my fic #hob gadling #dream of the endless #charles and edwin get a cameo lets say #im so excited for the show yall have no idea

[clangenrising]

Month 14 - April Gathering

“I’m so excited!” Fogpaw squeaked, bouncing along beside Floodpaw and Slatepaw. 

“We know,” Floodpaw rolled his eyes with a groan, “You’ve said so like a million times.” Fogpaw frowned and suddenly didn’t feel like bouncing anymore. She hadn’t realized she was being annoying. 

“It’s alright,” Slatepaw said, “I’m excited too.” 

“It’s your first Gathering,” said Pantherhaze on Slatepaw’s other side. “It’s completely normal to be excited about it.” He glanced at Floodpaw who looked away. 

“Well, I am,” said Fogpaw. She looked up at the full moon and smiled. “Do you think StarClan will cover the moon?” 

“I hope not,” said Pantherhaze. “If they did it would mean they disapproved of the Gathering.”

“I just think it would be cool,” shrugged Fogpaw. She imagined a roll of thunder and a sudden stormy sky, a powerful sign of StarClan’s wrath. She hoped that, at least some day, she got to see it.

The RisingClan cats - her, Slatepaw, Floodpaw, Pantherhaze, Scorchplume, Goldenstar, Russetfrond, and Sagetooth - emerged from the trees into the clearing. Fogpaw made an awe-filled sound of wonder at the sight of the Cornerstones towering up ahead. A white she-cat and a ginger one were sitting on top, bathed in moonlight, their deputies conversing on the rubble beneath them. Goldenstar whispered something to Scorchplume and then went to join them. 

Floodpaw was moving to meet a group of cats who looked close to his age and Fogpaw decided to follow him. Slatepaw followed her, both of them trailing after Floodpaw like ducklets. 

“Have fun and be respectful!” Pantherhaze called after them.

“We will!” squeaked Slatepaw. 

“Hey!” A pale, spotted tabby looked up as Floodpaw approached. “Floodpaw, how’s it going?”

“Great,” purred Floodpaw, “We’ve got some big news tonight. I’m excited for you to hear it.” 

“Ooh, well now I’m invested,” he grinned. 

“You’ve got some kittens stuck to your fur,” said a white she-cat with a ginger striped tail. The ginger cat wearing moth wings next to her smiled in a way that struck Fogpaw as mysterious.

“Oh,” Floodpaw turned to look at them and grimaced a little. “Right, uh, this is Fogpaw and Slatepaw.”

“Hi!” Fogpaw grinned. Slatepaw pressed into her side nervously. 

Floodpaw continued, “Uh, guys, these are my friends.” The white cat huffed a mean laugh. “Boldmoth and Fishtrick are from EarthClan and Fernpaw is from SkyClan.” 

“It’s Fernspeckle now!” beamed the spotted tabby. 

“Aw, really?” frowned Floodpaw. “I mean, congrats, but I was sure I was gonna get my name before you!” 

“Having a leader as your mother has its perks,” Fernspeckle laughed. 

“An admission you graduated before you were ready,” Fishtrick hummed. 

“You’ll get your name soon,” Boldmoth said, looking at Floodpaw. 

“Thanks,” he blushed under her cool, golden gaze.  

“Your mom is the leader?” Fogpaw asked loudly. Floodpaw and his friends all winced. 

“Yeah,” said Fernspeckle, “Snowstar’s my mother.” 

“That’s so cool,” Fogpaw said seriously. “My mom’s dead.” Fernspeckle froze in surprise. Fishtrick raised a brow skeptically. Boldmoth frowned sympathetically.

“Hey, uh,” Floodpaw said quickly, “Look, there’s an apprentice your age, why don’t you guys go talk to him?” FallenClan had arrived and Fogpaw followed Floodpaw’s gaze to a pale ginger tom who looked just a little bit older than her and Slatepaw settling down beside a warrior with brown points. 

“Oh, okay,” she said, wilting a little. She couldn’t help but feel like Floodpaw didn’t want her around. Still, she was interested in making a new friend so she looked at Slatepaw and said, “Come on, let’s go say hi!” Slatepaw gave a worried noise through pursed lips and glanced over at Floodpaw’s friends before nodding. Fogpaw started to make her way through the crowd, Slatepaw pressed against her side.

Behind her, she heard Floodpaw say, “Yikes, sorry about that, guys.” She sighed a little. 

“Fogpaw, why did you say that?” Slatepaw asked quietly. 

“Huh?” she asked, looking over. “Say what?” 

“You know,” Slatepaw chewed her lip worriedly. “About mama.” 

“Oh,” Fogpaw shrugged. She had already forgotten about that. “Cause it’s true?” 

“Right,” Slatepaw said softly. Fogpaw frowned, confused. Shaking her head, she decided to ignore it and focus on meeting this new apprentice. 

As they drew close, she raised her tail and said, “Hi there! I’m Fogpaw and this is my sister Slatepaw! What’s your name?” The apprentice looked over at her apprehensively. 

Beside him, his mentor smiled and said, “I’m Duskstep and this is Lionpaw. We’re from FallenClan.” He nudged Lionpaw’s leg gently.

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Lionpaw, barely audible but in a listless way, not like Slatepaw’s nervous whispering. It was like he didn’t have the energy to speak any louder. Fogpaw immediately decided that he seemed extremely boring. She glanced back over to where Floodpaw was joking with his friends and wished she could just go back and hang out with them. 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” smiled Slatepaw as they sat down. “Do you know Poppybird?”

“Yes,” purred Duskstep, “she’s our Clan’s mediator.” 

“She was friends with our mama,” Slatepaw said. “She comes and visits us sometimes.” 

“That’s nice,” said Duskstep. 

“She mentioned you,” said Slatepaw, looking at Lionpaw. He sat up a little straighter and blinked at her. Fogpaw yawned. 

“She did?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Slatepaw said. “We asked her about the kits in FallenClan and she talked about you.” Fogpaw groaned and stood to go find someone else to sit with. She wasn’t going to stay here and listen to boring small talk all gathering. 

“W- Fogpaw, where are you going?” asked Slatepaw. 

“I dunno,” Fogpaw shrugged, “to find Scorchplume or something.” 

“Oh, okay…” Slatepaw frowned. Fogpaw wasn’t sure why she was upset but it annoyed her. Huffling she turned and stomped away. 

The meeting was packed. Fogpaw hadn’t seen this many cats since they had gathered in camp for the big battle. The noise of it made her hackles prickle unconsciously. She reared onto her hind legs to try and spot her mentor’s bright ginger pelt. It was difficult with the height of the other cats. She padded a bit to the side to try and find a better vantage point, then someone right next to her spoke, throwing her off guard.

“Oh! Look at that!” said a she-cat nearby. Fogpaw looked on instinct and realized the grey tabby was looking right at her. 

“Uh…” She glanced around to make sure there wasn’t something else the cat could be looking at. 

“I know that pelt,” continued the cat. “You look just like the old tom Snowstar was fighting in the snowstorm battle!”

“Really?” asked the brown tabby next to her. This one narrowed her eyes at Fogpaw, making her want to squirm. “One of the rogues?” 

“Yes, exactly,” said the first cat. “Hello there, kit, what’s your name?” Fogpaw swallowed. At least they were talking to her now instead of about her. 

“Fogpaw,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Greyvoice,” said the first cat with a smile, “and this is Perchingcall. Please, why don’t you come sit with us?” 

“Um, okay,” said Fogpaw. The idea that two grown ups wanted her to sit with them was exciting. Smiling, she settled down near them. 

Greyvoice scooted closer to her and said, “This is your first gathering, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” nodded Fogpaw. “I got apprenticed last week!”

“That’s so exciting,” purred Greyvoice, attentive and warm. Perchingcall smiled too but it didn’t feel right to Fogpaw. “You’re, um, Smokyrose’s kit, right?” 

“Yeah,” Fogpaw nodded again. 

“Such a shame about her, by the way,” Greyvoice frowned briefly. “I hope you’re doing alright.” 

“I’m fine,” said Fogpaw. Her tail tip twitched a bit - she hated when cats pitied her - but Greyvoice moved on quickly so she let it go.

“I’m so curious though,” said Greyvoice, “I mean, I’ve only heard rumors, so I have to ask: Is it true your father is the rogues’ deputy?” 

“Um,” Fogpaw screwed her mouth to the side as she thought. “I think so. His name’s Ghost. He’s the reason our mom is dead.” Or something like that. No one would tell her for certain what had happened. She had been forced to glean a few details from overheard conversations. 

Greyvoice and Perchingcall at least didn’t get those weird, surprised expressions on their faces like Floodpaw's friends had. Perchingcall frowned like she wanted to tear Ghost’s pelt and Greyvoice let out a soft little noise of sympathy.

“That’s terrible,” said Greyvoice. “What do you mean, he’s the reason why? I only heard that she had died, I didn’t hear what happened.” 

“And you won’t,” said Scorchplume, appearing suddenly behind Fogpaw. Her sharp blue eyes were narrowed at Greyvoice as she said, “Fogpaw get up. You’re going to come sit with me.” 

“But-” Fogpaw bristled in protest, “But I was just making friends!” 

“We don’t make friends with other Clans,” Scorchplume scowled, still not looking at her. “A warrior should know better.” Her words felt pointed at Greyvoice, just as sharp as her eyes. Fogpaw frowned and got to her feet. 

“Fine,” she grumbled. Maybe her spell had been wrong and Scorchplume wasn’t a good mentor. 

Greyvoice preened her chest a bit and said, “Well I’m fine considering us friends, Fogpaw. Maybe I’ll see you some other time.” 

Scorchplume growled a warning. “Stay away from my apprentice, Greyvoice.” The warrior in question huffed irritably but made no further comments. Scorchplume nudged Fogpaw towards the back of the crowd, saying, “That way.” 

“I’m going!” Fogpaw griped, stomping off. When they were nearing the back of the crowd, she added, “What was that for? I thought Russetfrond was the one who’s all ‘don’t talk to anybody ever!’” She bobbled her head and deepened her voice as she imitated him. 

Scorchplume flicked her tail and wrapped it around Fogpaw to urge her to sit. “Oh, I don’t care about talking to other Clans,” she said, and Fogpaw’s mouth fell open in confusion.

“Then, what-”

“Greyvoice was taking advantage of you,” said Scorchplume simply. “She doesn’t actually want to be your friend, she just wants to know the gossip about your father.” 

“Wait, really?” Fogpaw’s ears slid back against her head. She hadn’t been able to tell at all. Her stomach turned into a heavy, nauseous lump.

“Mhm,” said Scorchplume, glancing sideways at her. “I’m not going to let someone like that take advantage of my apprentice.” Her voice caught in her throat on the word, a growl that made Fogpaw feel like Scorchplume would fight a lion for her.

“But, then, why did you lie?” asked Fogpaw. 

Scorchplume glanced around as if making sure no one could hear before she said softly, “It’s better if I let her think I haven’t noticed what she actually wants. That way, she underestimates me. That way, I have the advantage next time we meet.” Fogpaw’s eyes were as wide and round as the moon. “So I got you out without tipping her off. I hope I wasn’t too harsh.”

“No, that’s amazing!” Fogpaw breathed. “It’s like magic! You have to teach me!” 

Scorchplume’s eyes flickered over her again, a tiny smile poking at the corners of her mouth. “It would be my pleasure,” she said. Fogpaw grinned, kneading the dirt with her paws. The spell had definitely worked. 

“Where do we start?” she asked. 

“Well-”

Snowstar’s voice boomed over the crowd. “Alright! I think it’s about time we got started!” The assembled cats hushed each other and fell quiet. 

“The first step,” Scorchplume spoke quickly and quietly, like she was giving Fogpaw an urgent secret, “is to figure out what cats want. Once you master that, you can start using it to your advantage.”

“Got it,” Fogpaw whispered back. 

“As a bit of good news to start off with,” Snowstar continued, “SkyClan welcomes a new warrior, the first of the kits to have survived Red Gut! Fernspeckle has shown himself to be a cat with a quick tongue and a quicker wit and we are beyond proud to have him among our ranks!” 

“She’s Fernspeckle’s mom,” Fogpaw whispered to Scorchplume.

Scorchplume raised a brow in interest. “Good to know.” 

When the crowd finished chanting Fernspeckle’s name, Snowstar said, “As well, Newleaf has been kind to us. Prey is flowing well and we are happy to continue sharing with our less fortunate neighbors if need be.” 

“What does Snowstar want?” Scorchplume whispered to Fogpaw. 

“Um… I don’t know.” Fogpaw shrugged. How was she supposed to be able to tell from that?

“She wants to be seen as strong and generous,” answered Scorchplume. “See the way she’s offering to help us like it makes her special? Sometimes what a cat wants is to look a certain way to other people. Remember that.” Fogpaw hummed as she nodded. This was harder than she had expected. 

“It’s most appreciated,” Orangestar said, voice wobbling tiredly. 

“Yes,” Goldenstar agreed, much firmer, “but RisingClan would like to be self-sufficient again as soon as possible. It is in that vein that I would like to propose another alliance, like the one we made for the battle of the snowstorm.” 

“Has there been another prophecy?” Snowstar asked. 

“No,” Goldenstar said, “but we have a plan.” She stood and raised her tail confidently and none of the other leaders tried to interrupt her so she continued. “It has recently come to my attention that Razor, the leader of the rogues, is interested in a one on one meeting with me. This meeting will almost certainly be a trap in which he intends to kill me, who he believes to be the Clans’ only leader. We will give him this meeting but we will spring a trap of our own instead!” 

RisingClan’s warriors and a few other Clan cats cheered in response. Scorchplume stayed silent so Fogpaw did the same. 

“And you need our help to do so,” said Flightstar as if he’d caught her trying to sneak it past him. 

“Yes,” said Goldenstar. “RisingClan alone won’t be able to stand against Razor but together we will most definitely be able to overpower him and put an end to this war.” 

“Then SkyClan will be there,” said Snowstar. “We would see this conflict put to rest for the good of every Clan.” 

“FallenClan as well,” said Flightstar with a twitch of his ear. “Where there’s a fight to be fought you will find the warriors of the deep woods.” A few FallenClan cats crowed proudly. 

“What does Flightstar want?” Scorchplume whispered again. 

“Um… is it to look a certain way?” asked Fogpaw.

“Mhm.” 

“Um… He wants to look brave?” 

“Good,” purred Scorchplume. “He wants to look brave and strong and to tell everyone that they couldn’t beat him if they tried.” 

“Huh,” Fogpaw squinted up at him. That made sense, she thought. 

“What about EarthClan?” Goldenstar asked, looking at Orangestar. “We were hoping to use the edge of your forest for the meeting spot, to help hide our warriors and provide a terrain advantage.” 

Orangestar shifted and nodded. “Yes. EarthClan will stand by you. StarClan willing, this is the final battle of this war.” 

“StarClan willing,” nodded Snowstar. 

“Excellent,” Goldenstar said. “I will reach out to you to pick the location of the ambush. After that, I’ll send for a meeting with the leaders and things will be put into motion.” She shifted her posture to something a little more open and said, “In other news, we have two new apprentices with us today, Fogpaw and Slatepaw.” 

Fogpaw jumped to her feet and stood up tall so everyone could see her. A few cats tossed glances her way. She noticed Greyvoice among them. Scorchplume’s tail swished over her back, urging her to sit, and she did. The meeting moved on. The other Clans had very little news to share and soon after, RisingClan was heading home. 

“Thanks for teaching me,” Fogpaw said as she padded with Scorchplume to join the others.

“It’s my job isn’t it?” asked her mentor.

“Yeah, but I don’t think this is part of normal warrior stuff. I knew you were special.” 

Scorchplume huffed a laugh. “Good,” she purred, “and don’t forget it.”

#clan gen #clangen #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats oc #warriors oc #clangen oc #clan gen oc #clangenrising #gathering #full moon gathering #Newleaf #Fogpaw #Slatepaw #Floodpaw #Pantherhaze #Scorchplume #Greyvoice #Perchingcall #Boldmoth #Fishtrick #Fernspeckle #Snowstar #Flightstar #Orangestar #SkyClan #FallenClan #EarthClan #Lionpaw #Duskstep

[kika-writes]

play with me boy - l.n - part3

Warnings: crime mentions, assassinations, arranged marriage, forced marriage, mentions of sex, sexual innuendos, sexual harassment, mentions of cheating, fat-shaming.

Pairing: mafia!Lando!Norris x fem!reader

Summary: Y/N is in an arranged marriage, but falls for someone else…

A/N - Ollie Norris is not a pervert or a bad person, I just used his name as I know he’s Lando’s brother. Also changing the old Big Fic to this x

Lando. You’d known him for, what, a day? And he was dead. All because he’d wanted to see you - it was technically your fault, wasn’t it? “Y/N, we must go see the family,” your dad said simply, leading out the door as your mother looked at you wistfully. You’d been so close to marriage - yet so far. You said nothing the entire drive there, the gates of the house opening as Adam Norris opened the door, letting you in. 

“Mr Y/L/N. Some little context for the situation. Our son was found in an alley, a block from your own property, covered in his own blood, cuts along his chest and stomach,”. Oh poor Lando. So close to your house, killed by the guards of your own house. You gulped, adjusting your white dress. “Because of this, we must pass on your daughter to our other son,” he concluded, making you look up. You were marrying Oliver regardless, no? “What?” you couldn’t help yourself.,

“Y/N, don’t be so rude, that’s-,” your father started as Adam led you down the hall. “I’m sure Y/N’s a little upset about Ollie’s death,” Adam said, opening the halls of the living room. “I thought Lando…” you trailed off, realising you’d been speaking aloud. “Lando? How’s you know his name, he was forbidden to speak to you,” Adam frowned, raising an eyebrow as you and your father sat. “Oliver must’ve told her. Onto the actual matter, surely you should bring Master Norris in..?” your father waved off the matter, thankfully for you. 

“That would be adequate,” Adam sighed, calling the housemaid to summon his youngest son. Again, Lando strolled into the room, wearing a same white shirt and black dress trousers as yesterday, a dogtag chain hanging on his chest, hair the same as you’d seen earlier. “Father?” he asked, eyes meeting his dad before yours. “Lando. Because of Oliver’s…death, you must now become the heir,” his father said simply as he sat down, with nothing short of messy elegance. 

He propped his feet onto the table, picking at the rings that adorned his long fingers. “Funny that. Melissa dead as well. Almost like we were made for each other,” Lando snorted, making eye contact as you flushed. Yes, you’d killed Melissa, well, ordered her to be, but who killed Ollie. “What if Y/N don’t wanna marry me? It’s up to her,” he added, winking subtly as you flushed. “I don’t mind,” you said, not meeting Lando’s eyes. 

“Would you kill to have this, Y/N?” he said, leaning forwards as you sat back. You didn’t answer, cheeks flushed even more red than they were before. “Then it’s settled. Lando Norris and Y/N Y/L/N will marry in one week,” you father clapped his hands. “I suppose we should allow them some time to get to know each other,” Lando’s mother walked in, nodding at your father once. She was a woman of remarkable character. 

“Nothing sexual,” your father frowned as you shrieked. “I don’t even know him,” you hissed, Lando standing up, somewhat oblivious to your words, as he strolled out the living room. You both walked silently out of the house, not a word exchanged as you reached the gates. After a minute or so, you arrived at a large meadow, the large trees towering over you as you walked between the hedge maze. 

“You killed Melissa, then?” Lando asked simply, hands behind his back as he walked down the path. “I…” you started, about to lie that you didn’t, but changed your mind, “it wasn’t me exactly, someone else did it. On my command,”. He acknowledged your reply with a simple hum, turning his head to glance at one of the rose bushes. And that’s when you saw it. 

A splatter of blood across his neck, not his own, definitely. Your eyes widened. Sure, you’d practically grown up in violence and murder, but to kill your own brother? For a girl you’d just met? Surely he couldn’t. “Everything alright, princess?” he turned to you, cocking his head slightly, a knowing smile on his face. You gulped, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. 

Suddenly, your back collided with a tree, Lando’s arms on either side of your face, his lips inches from yours. “So what if I killed him, Y/N?” he growled, voice an octave deeper. You whimpered, trying to move away. “Behave. You killed Melissa,” he stated, “why shouldn’t I kill Oliver? He’s a disgusting excuse for a human,”. He was right. “Besides. Who wouldn’t kill for a pretty little thing like you?” he smirked, his right hand jumping to your waist. 

Fucking hell, he was hot, and he definitely knew it. “Lando,” you whispered, his lips close to yours. 

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris x you #lando x reader #lando norris smut #f1

[thoughtless-muse]

a/n: the title (and some other parts of the story) are inspired by the song ‘bad blood’ by taylor swift and no, i am not ashamed of it lmao. this is my first time ever diving into this type of story, so I’m equal parts excited and terrified. if you have any critiques/tips, please let me know below! also, “scout’s honor” is by no means abandoned. I’m going to be writing/posting chapters of each story at their own pace :)

chapter summary: you had been alone for over a month now, combating against stumbling dead people who slobbered for your flesh. when a random stranger finds you in the aftermath of a blackout, the last thing you expected was for him to ask you to join his group. but he did, and in a desperate move to escape those four walls, you accepted – not knowing at all what was in store for you.

word count: 2.4k

c/w: canon-typical violence/gore, sassy!reader, fem!reader, language, past-established relationship, very subtle allusions to a troubled past

prologue

“hey, lady, are you, uh… are you okay?”

the words were garbled and a tad distorted, and for a moment, you thought you’d merely conjured the voice from the depths of your frayed conscious — but the boyish face that stared down at you when you fluttered your eyes open threw that theory straight out of the window.

for a moment, you simply stared in silence. you stared at the boy’s face, taking note of the pink flush of life to his flesh — not gray, not rotted, not bloody; pink. his face was clammy, sweaty, with the skin pulled in different directions to paint an expression of worry; an honest to god expression.

a person. this was a living, breathing, real person standing above you. at least, he seemed real enough, but —

“are you real?”

the question bubbled, croaky and hoarse, past your lips before you could reign it in. the boy scrunched his bushy brows together and his squinted eyes narrowed until they were near closed. a clear expression of confusion. huh, another expression.

“um, yeah, I am.” the boy responded, though, in his bewilderment, the statement sounded more like a question than a fact. a laugh wrenched itself from your chest.

“you don’t sound too confident about that, mystery man.”

“I-I’ve just never been asked that question before.” the boy sputtered, a tad defensively, lips pulling into a frown. expression after expression from this one, it seemed.

“I haven’t had to ask that question before,” you grumbled out. pain pinched your ribs when you propped yourself up on your elbows, no longer feeling the need to lay flat on the warm pavement. “don’t exactly see new faces in the city much, let alone breathing ones.”

“you mean you’ve been in the city this whole time?” the boy exclaimed quietly; his eyes were wide now, revealing orbs the shade of dark chocolate. they weren’t fogged over, dead, or unseeing, but glassy and expressive. human.

a ragged, raspy croak broke off your sentence before you could even start it. your muscles jolted in response, but before you could react, the boy let out a shocked yelp that was followed quickly by a wet squelch right next to you. you trailed your eyes down to find a small hand-ax splitting the rotted flesh of the groaner to your right. the one you swore you’d killed not long ago.

“huh. thought I got that one,” you noted mellowly, swinging your eyes back up to the boy to give him a small nod. “thanks.”

“yeah, uh, no problem.” the boy panted, returning your nod. his eyes darted from side to side before he thrust out a hand to you. all you could do was stare at it.

“it’s not safe out here in the open. we should really get inside a building or something,” the man suggested, words edged with subtle nervousness. you scanned your surroundings slowly; there was a cluster of groaners shuffling towards you, but they were at least twenty yards away — not much of a threat given the granny crawl they were traveling at.

mystery man, however, became more nervous at the sight of them.

“c’mon, I know a place that’s clear. it’s not far from here.” he urged, extended hand trembling faintly. you let out a huff and grasped it with your own. your ribs bloomed with pain once again when the man hauled you up, but you bit back the groan that it prompted; you’d had worse than this, and you’d long since learned to suck it up and just keep truckin’.

when you were stable on your feet the man released your hand and reached down to free the hand-ax from the fallen groaner’s head, his face scrunching in disgust at the wet sucking sound the action elicited. it actually amused you to an extent.

“okay, mystery man, lead the way to safety.” you stated flippantly, manipulating your arm in a ‘the stage is yours’ sort of gesture. the man gave you a bit of a stinky side-eye before jerking his head to the left.

“it’s just this way,” he whispered. he padded to the sidewalk quietly, head whipping in each direction, body tense as if he expected a groaner to simply jump out unannounced at any moment.

what a scaredy cat, you thought jocularly.

“also, my name is glenn, not ‘mystery man.’” he added in a mutter.

you merely hummed in acknowledgment, more so for the man than yourself; you knew that by sundown he’d be gone with the wind, you’d forget all about this glenn fellow, and his name would be lost to your memory forever. no point in trying to stick it there in the first place.

silently, glenn led you through skinny, trashed back alleys and skirted past dilapidated structures, until at last he reached a large brick building. the door, which looked to be some sort of emergency exit, was a cool, gray metal, the hinges lined with rust and the surface slightly bleached from the harsh rays of the sun.

“it’s in here,” glenn murmured, grasping the handle and yanking it open. the hinges gave a deep, audible screech as he did so. “we cleared this out a few days ago.”

“we?” you parroted, trepidation flaring in your gut. it was fine when it was just glenn, but the thought of a group of people, one composed of unknown numbers, set off all kinds of alarms in your head.

groaners you could handle any day of the week; they were predictable, simple — just ambling corpses with no real thought process. humans… humans were different. complex, unpredictable, dangerous.

glenn noticed immediately when you hadn’t followed him through the threshold of the door; he glanced back at you, brows scrunched once more in confusion — it only took him a few moments to register the look upon your face before his eyes were widening and he was sputtering, “o-oh, it’s fine, my group isn’t – uh, they’re not dangerous. they won’t hurt you. and in any case, they aren’t w-with me today – I always make runs alone.”

“I’m s’posed to take your word for it?” you shot back, eyes narrowed dangerously. glenn gulped audibly and flicked his eyes between you and the interior of the building, lips working without producing any sound. he looked so helpless, like a lost puppy, that you couldn’t stop yourself from deflating.

“I believe you,” you uttered. “at least, I will for now. I mean, you don’t look all that dangerous. I reckon I could knock you on your ass in two seconds flat.”

a threat wrapped up within a petulant jab; not exactly your proudest moment, but part of you felt cornered, and it seemed to get the job done. glenn’s eyes flashed with surprise, and maybe a bit of fear, and his voice was less than stable when he murmured, “there’s no one else in there, I swear.”

the tense set of his shoulders, his wide eyes, and the shakiness in his voice seemed so genuine, that you couldn’t help but bark out a laugh.

“are you actually scared of me, mystery man?” you jested, genuinely bemused by how sincerely glenn considered your concealed threat. was he actually taking you seriously? glenn’s throat flexed as he swallowed and nodded.

“well, I just watched you take down about a dozen geeks with just a pocket knife; so, yeah, kind of.”

you chuckled to yourself and gave glenn a once over. maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. he appeared genuine and harmless. kinda cute, too; in an innocent, boyish way, of course – boyish had never exactly been your style, but you could enjoy the aesthetic of it.

“well, glenn, why don’t you go ahead and show me around?” you purred, rolling his name across your tongue and not bothering to wait for a verbal confirmation. you pushed past glenn and into the dank, dusty building, eyes immediately sweeping across the bare shelves and stained walls. not a groaner, nor human, in sight.

glenn ambled further in and shut the door behind him with a soft whoosh and click. the room became near saturated in darkness, the only light being that of the sunlight filtering weakly through the gaps between the boards nailed to the windows. glenn wasn’t lying when he said it had been cleared out, but he didn’t mention anything about it being groaner-proof.

“is this, like, where your group stays or somethin’?” you inquired, your eyes narrowed and scrutinizing of every detail. there were no mats or makeshift beds that you could see, no visible provisions, and the space lacked the tell-tale signs of human inhabitance.

“oh, no, uh, this is just a rendezvous point – or, it will be. like I said before, I mostly do runs on my own.” glenn passed by you as he explained, coming to a kneel in the middle of the floor where the sunlight was most luminous. he slipped a large, beige bag from his shoulder and planted it on the ground, flipping the top and burying his hand inside.

“runs?” you wondered aloud, watching the man closely as he began to pull items from the bag one by one. medical gauzes, bottles of hydrogen peroxide, boxes of bandaids, a couple cans of vegetables occupied the space beside him bit by bit.

“yeah, runs. we made a camp a while back, at an old quarry just outside the city. food and water aren’t much of issue there, but other things” – glenn glanced up at you a bit sheepishly – “well, they run short sometimes.”

“so they send you out alone to get them?” you surmised, prompting an airy chuckle from the kneeling man.

“ah, no, I actually offered. I know the city like the back of my hand. getting in and out is no problem for me.”

you nodded your understanding, chewing the tender skin on the inside of your cheek – you were inclined to believe glenn, considering he had yet to prove himself untrustworthy, but there was something that was gnawing at you; something that you needed some clarification on.

“so, uh, if you came out here to get supplies, why’d’ya come over to me? and why did you bring me here?”

glenn paused his task for a brief moment before sighing softly. his lips thinned as he seemed to ponder how to answer.

“because I made a promise to myself. I told myself that if I ever ran across someone here in the city, I’d ask if they want to come back with me,” glenn answered quietly, though by the clench of his jaw, you could tell he wasn’t quite done with his explanation, so you bit back the other questions swirling on your tongue. “I guess I just hoped to myself that if the roles were ever reversed, someone would do the same for me.”

the residual tension that had been locking up your shoulders ever since entering the building drained away like a river to the ocean. you smiled softly and plopped down on the floor a few feet away from glenn. with a teasing warmth in your chest, you queried, “so you saw me and decided you wanted me to come home with you?”

glenn rolled his eyes, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed the effect your suggestive comment had on him.

“not like that, it’s just – it’s just that things aren’t as easy as they used to be. your best chance at survival is with a group.”

“I’ve done fine on my own,” you responded back flippantly, planting your palms behind you and leaning your weight back atop them. “I mean, I’ve been here since it started.”

glenn swiped his tongue over his bottom lip nervously, scanning through the contents on the floor before rapidly scooping them back into his bag.

“yeah, I, uh, I noticed that you’re capable. it’s just that – things won’t always be so easy, you know?”

irritation shot through your chest like a hot lance, your somewhat good mood ruined instantly.

“did I say it was easy?” you seethed, anger punctuating your every movement as you swung your hands back in front of you and leaned forward.

just as it had at the door, glenn’s mouth began to open and close rapidly as he tried desperately to recover. his wide eyes flicked down to your waistline, the area he knew held your pocket knife, and he scooted back a small bit while simultaneously dragging his bag in front of his body; an attempt to keep distance between the two of you.

“I-I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant that – that without a group, surviving will get harder and harder.”

you weren’t entirely sure if it was from lack of sleep, stress, or the cursed, buried memories that had been incessantly dragging themselves back up despite your multiple efforts to keep them down, but you had been highly irritable the last few days. every time you closed your eyes, you saw his face, you heard his voice, taunting you with the sweet nothings he whispered long ago. you still felt his phantom touches that had long since grown cold.

you just wanted it to stop.

you wanted to find the strength to throw that little box out of the fucking window, and to burn that one shirt he left, the only things left to remind you that he wasn’t just some conjured fever dream. that’s why you’d been out in the street in the first place, drawing as many groaners as you could to yourself just so you could picture his face as you plunged your knife through their soft, rotten skulls.

and maybe, just maybe, find the strength to drop the knife and let it end.

but you just couldn’t. you couldn’t throw the box out, you couldn’t burn the shirt, and you most definitely couldn’t let yourself die; it went against everything he taught you.

with a sigh, you opened your eyes, which you had never even remembered closing, and regarded glenn once more. his eyes were still wide, clouded with something that was a mixture of nervous and worried, his hand trembled atop his bag, and his bottom lip wavered.

“you said you promised yourself that you’d invite whoever you found in the city to your camp, yeah?” you quizzed, the question one that glenn had not expected you to ask, if the brief confusion on his face was any indicator. after a moment’s hesitance, glenn nodded.

“yeah��� our camp is pretty well established, and I know we’ve got room for others. does that, uh – does that mean you want to come back with me?”

you’d never second guessed your choices, nor the consequences of those choices, and you weren’t about to start now — so, with a cheeky smile and a wink, you purred,

“sure thing, glenn. I’ll come home with you.”

a/n: so I recently checked my analytics and uh… 114 followers?? what??? like I’m — I’m speechless y’all. thank you so so much I can’t even begin to express how much it means to me <3 I promise I’ll be doing my best to dutifully deliver content to y’all as fast as possible <33333

TAGLIST: @daryldixmedown @alanalanalanalanalanna @just-always-tired @chylerluvschim @girlydollydarling @marvelcasey05

#daryl x reader #twd daryl #twd x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl imagines #daryl x female reader #daryl x you #the walking dead daryl #twd

[astral-mariner]

An illustration for my Saiyans under Freeza story, Homeworld Lost. (Read here. Please heed content warnings.)

This scene as narrated by Raditz:

Another chirp from the scouter. Nappa had arrived at last, and his pod crashed into the earth not too far off. I didn’t want to leave Vegeta by himself, so I sank to the ground and waited, hugging my knees to my chest. Weary, slow steps from the other side of the fire. Heavy boots. Nappa found the prince curled in on himself, fast asleep. He crouched down, hesitating before he brushed Vegeta’s cheek with his knuckle. When the prince didn’t stir, he fit his large hands under him and lifted him in his arms. I thought to go to both of them, but as Nappa stood still and merely held the prince, cradling him with his head bowed, I knew I should stay where I was. “I swore to your mother…” he muttered. I wouldn’t have heard unless I were listening. I’d only seen the queen twice: that day in the royal city, and the day of the tournament. She died not long afterwards, and not in battle. There were rumors of illness or poison, but I didn’t care to listen to them at the time. Freeza took Vegeta to his planet just after I’d met him. He, Freeza, had been there at the tournament, watching. I didn’t know when the prince would come back and our partnership would actually begin. But when he returned a few seasons later, his mother was dead, and her battle partner, Nappa, had sworn to serve her son unto death. So here he was with us now. Apart from this, I knew very little of him. “The gods…” he trailed off. He clutched the prince to his chest. “The gods made you strong for a reason. They had to…”

#vegeta #nappa #dbz #dragon ball #dragon ball z #astral art #astral writing

[lunar-wandering]

i'm so obsessed with my "reaper that's scared of ghosts" oc that it's not even funny like it's starting to become an actual problem

“Hey, kid.”

The voice made Annette look up. Before her was a man, who was bending over slightly to be at her eye level.

“My name is Rocky.” He said, glancing off to the side as he did so, “And I'm going to be your reaper for the day.”

Now, Annette had already known she was dead. This did not come to a shock to her. She had been dead for about a week after all. That was totally enough time to become accustomed to her new state of being. Totally.

The reaper was a surprise though. After seven whole days of nothing she had begun to think that this was going to be how the rest of her 'life' was going to play out.A lifetime spent living alone, all by herself, with nobody able to see her, and no one to talk to.

“You're late.” She decided to say, as the reaper tilted the pole end of his scythe towards her, indicating for her to grab it, waiting until after she'd done so before turning around and starting to walk, with her trailing behind him.

“I know, I know.” Rocky said, looking forwards, “But there was a lot of evil spirits on the way between your location and the nearest entrance to the Otherworld, and I figured it'd be better to get rid of them first before leading you there. Easier to wait a little bit instead of having to fight while protecting someone, right?”

Annette supposed she could see the logic behind that.

“I still would've liked to have known that there was going to be a reaper though.” She said, “Couldn't you have come and talked to me first?”

Rocky didn't respond. Annette kept her eyes firmly on the reaper's back as they turned a corner.

“...And why are you having me hold the scythe anyways?” She asked, “Most of the times when people talk about a reaper leading someone to the afterlife, the reaper holds the person's hand.”

Still no answer. Hm. Maybe she only got to get one question answered after death, and she'd wasted it.

Well.

No.

Actually.

Her first statement hadn't been a question, had it? So that couldn't be it. Maybe this reaper in particular was just rude. That would be just her luck, getting stuck with a rude reaper.

Either way it was clear this guy wasn't going to answer any more of her questions, so she decided to shut up, focusing on the area around her as she walked. This was a path that she herself had taken many times on her way to school when she was alive- was there really a path to the afterlife this way?

Suddenly, Rocky stopped, Annette only having seconds to stop herself from running into him. And then, he turned, down a side street- one that Annette knew for a fact looped back around to the street they were already on. Still, she remained quiet. Maybe the entrance was somewhere down this way?

Except it wasn't. Except, a few minutes later, they were back on the same street they had started on, just a little bit further down.

Annette blinked for a moment, glancing behind her, and then glancing back at Rocky.

To hell with staying quiet.

“Why'd we do that?” She asked, “It would've been faster if we just stayed on this street.”

“...Evil spirit.” Rocky muttered. Ah, so he could answer her, he just was choosing not to.

“I don't see anything.” Annette glanced back at the street behind her again. “Also, didn't you say earlier that you'd already gotten rid of all the evil spirits? What, was there just something about that street in particular that you didn't like?”

From the way Rocky's back tensed, she must've been right on the money. Once again she looked back, trying to spot anything on that part of the street in particular that could make a reaper want to avoid it. As far as she could tell, it was just the same as the part she was currently on.

Or well, it was the same... if you ignored the Halloween shop that had opened up there a few days prior to her death. A little funny of her, she supposed, to die in October, but-

“Not a fan of Halloween?” Annette smirked a little as Rocky did a whole body twitch, like he had winced. “What, is it offensive to reapers or something?”

“No... m-most of the others actually like that sort of thing.” Oh, his voice had trembled for a moment there. He suddenly started to walk faster, and Annette had to swap to a light jog in order to keep up.

“So? Why don't you like it?” No response. Well, Annette wasn't one to let a mystery just go unsolved. She wracked her brain for a moment... “What, do you not like the horror movie type stuff? Are you scared of it?”

Rocky froze midstep, and this time Annette did run into him. Rocky awkwardly jerked when she did so, like his body had tried to jump away from her and he had done everything in his power to keep it from doing so.

And, thinking about it, now that she had brought it up…

“You're scared of me too, aren't you?” She asked, “I mean, you haven't looked at me once this whole time.”

“No I'm n-not.” Ah, his voice had trembled again.

“You so are.”

“Not.”

“Turn around and look at me then.” She let go of the scythe to put her hands on her hips, tapping her foot as she waited. Slowly, Rocky turned around, and after a few seconds of simply staring at some space above her head, looked down at her for the first time.

A cat chose that exact moment to walk straight through her. It was an odd sensation, to have things walk through you, but she was starting to grow used to it.

However, it seemed to have some kind of effect on Rocky, who suddenly listed a bit to the side, stumbled, and then crumbled to the ground.

“Ah.” Annette said, rather calmly, turning to the cat that was now sitting innocently beside her. “He died.”

He'd actually just passed out, but sudden death was much more dramatic.

Rocky shifted, before slowly starting to push himself off the pavement. Annette crouched down beside him as though she were watching a rather interesting ant.

“Hey, Mr. Reaper?” She said, “Y'know what? Being scared of ghosts cannot be all that good for your health. I think you need a paid vacation.”

“I w-wish.” Rocky muttered, “I don't even get paid.”

#My OC's #OC #writing #my writing #yes i did end up picking the name Rocky Road for him we're not gonna talk about it sdlkfjsldkfjsds

[0unluckystar0]

Embrace

Summary:

Aventurine jolted upwards, drenched in a cold sweat and breathing faster than ever. This has become a common occurrence, he decides to go to the one person he could trust, whether he liked it or not.

Pairing: Aventurine x Dr Ratio

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

wc: 836

Aventurine shot out of bed, his heart beating out of his chest and a sob climbing up his throat. It was always the same nightmare, except this one doesn’t fade like the rest. The thought was hard to deal with and left his chest feeling a strange sense of hollowness.

It was at this point that Aventurine knew he couldn’t do this anymore and got out of his bed. He had to do something about this ache.

If there was anyone that could help, it would be Dr Ratio. He was the only one who would have even a semblance of understanding for how he felt. Of course, he had many people he could turn to, but it wasn’t the same, It was just a bit different. He had always felt content whenever he was with the doctor.

Aventurine held his pillow closely to his chest and trotted over to the room the doctor was residing in. Opening the door, he could see that Ratio was snoring softly, his violet hair mussed and his mouth slightly open.

Dr Ratio had a pillow tucked in his arms and Aventurine wanted to be that pillow. He wanted to be in between Ratio’s arms and allow the doctor to hold him gently. It’s what he needed at the moment. But he couldn’t just wedge himself in, he would probably get smacked, so he went for the next best thing.

“Hey, Doctor?” He mumbled and poked Ratio’s cheek. Other than a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, nothing happened. Of course. Why would Ratio respond to something that meaningless? He’d have to be more harsh, even though he didn’t exactly have the energy for that kind of thing.

He tried one more time. “Ratio?”

Aventurine sighed, just then an idea sprung into his head as a mischievous smirk spread across his face, he raised his arm slowly and hit the doctor with his pillow. That wasn’t a bad way to wake him up, right? Whatever. He needed him to get up already.

Ratio shifted in his sleep, his face scrunching up, but ultimately was unphased. Aventurine tried again and this time, finally, the doctor’s eyes snapped open, his hands moving to rub them. Suddenly, he sprang upright like a corpse rising from the dead, his head whipping round to meet Aventurine’s gaze.

“Gambler, you utter fool! Has your brain ceased to function, why the aeons would you do that you buffoon?” Dr Ratio looked at him, drowsiness still etched into his features as he blinked wearily. Aventurine tightened his hold on his pillow.

“Doctor, can I…” He trailed off. “Can I sleep with you?” He knew there was a possibility that Ratio would say no, but he was too kind-hearted for that. Still, somewhere in his heart was a seed of anxiety, and it had been growing rather quickly ever since he woke up. What if he did say no? And he wouldn’t blame the doctor either.

Ratio’s expression softened as he scooted over and placed the pillow that was in his arms to the side. Aventurine climbed on top of the bed and laid down, Ratio throwing the blanket on top of the both of them.

The gambler had tossed his own pillow aside as well, knowing full well that it was nothing in comparison to Ratio. His chest was the best pillow. It was soft, warm, and so very gentle. The feeling of being near him was something an inanimate object could never beat.

Ratio wrapped his arm around Aventurine’s middle and tugged him closer. Aventurine wrapped his own arms around Ratio in turn and buried himself into the others chest. Ratio was warm. The doctor made that seed of anxiety in his heart dissipate. The kind of comfort only he could bring.

Ratio smiled as he cupped the gamblers face and leaned in to give him a kiss to the forehead, and gambler pulled back and opened his eyes to see the doctor staring at him, fondness swirling in the pools of amber that Aventurine found himself getting lost in.

Moments like these really made his heart melt, enough to melt it completely and leave nothing but a bunch of mush.

Ratio’s fondness was intoxicating. All of that love being directed his way made him indescribably happy. Maybe it was because he felt the exact same way that this love felt even better.

The blond haired man tucked his head underneath Ratio’s chin and rested against his chest.

Badump. Badump.

The sound of Dr Ratio’s heart was soothing. It had a gentleness that must’ve been special to Ratio. It was a wonderful sound to listen to.

The sound was soothing, so soothing in fact, that Aventurine felt himself grow more and more sleepy by the second. Wrapped in the warmth of his close friend, he fell asleep with a lighter heart.

#hsr aventurine #aventurine honkai star rail #dr ratio x aventurine #dr ratio #hsr #honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #0unluckystar0 #hurt/comfort #asks #hsr ratio #ratiorine

[dreadwulf]

@angelowl-fics I wasn't sure anyone wanted to see more of that one! But I do have more of it.

I'll give you the first chunk of the next chapter.

Years ago, when the New Times were just beginning, Jaime Lannister thought he knew what Hell was. Hell was a place, and he was living in it. A world actively falling apart around him, masses of people dying, the Old Times so clear and recent in his memory that if he closed his eyes he could still see it, could almost reach out and touch it just beyond his fingertips. When he opened his eyes, the Old Times would dissolve nauseatingly into the New Times, into broken plates and empty pipes and the stench of death all around him. Everything was ruined, and nothing mattered, and there was nothing left to lose. That was Hell, or so he thought. 

In a way, he had thrived in it, his own idea of Hell. He had been talented and reckless and better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, et cetera. It didn’t matter what he did, so he could do whatever he wanted. Be whoever he wanted. It was terrible and lonely and worst of all it was fun, and to avoid feeling bad about the fun of it he did it all more. 

That was a younger man. Impossibly younger. Older than the foolish boy he had been in the Old Times, but not by much. Nihilism is only fun for the young. After a while it’s exhausting to maintain. You can’t step in the same room twice without leaving some impression there, or carrying some part of it with you, and sooner or later you are out of new places anywhere within reach, and you wear yourself out trying not to accidentally mean something.

Anyway, he was wrong. Hell is when everything matters. Absolutely everything. Every action laden with meaning and portent. Every place infested with memory, with ghosts. Every thing reminding you of some other thing, pulling on some other nerve until one of them crackles with pain. All connected, in a terrible web of grief and loss. And superimposed over all of it is Her. The ghost of Her, burned onto the retina of his missing right eye like a still frame. 

Hell is a unit of time. This minute, and the minute after that, and the minute after that. A long and agonizing stretch of minutes and hours and days in a world without Her. It is a unit of time to the power of itself and it will never end. 

He carries his Hell into the Black Mountains over a road that is more of a memory of a road. There is asphalt trapped somewhere under layer upon layer of ice, but no longer visible to the eye. It is a smooth incline surrounded by craggy and jagged angles and it is not much easier than the bare snow to walk on but probably not going to lead him over a cliff, and that is good enough for this journey. For certain no vehicle has passed this way in a long time, maybe not since the Before time. 

It leads him between two mountains, one peaked and white with snow and one flat-topped, black as onyx. He struggles for purchase on the ice even with the boots Jon Snow had given him that were made for just this kind of journey. The metal cleats grip nicely through the snow and the grittier ice, but as he ascends the ice goes mirror smooth and it takes much longer to be sure of his steps. If he does not watch himself he will find himself sliding backwards, and then only the collapsible ice axe will stop him descending helplessly down the way he came.

It takes great mental and physical effort to ascend, and he is grateful all the way for the occupation of his attention. His skin slicks with sweat and his mind focuses so strongly on his shivering steps that hours slip past him without notice. Hours that he would have had to wade through like sticky mud otherwise, heavy with grief.

In the night the wind is strong enough to sail him down the mountain all on its own, and he has to wedge himself into a rock face and bunker down for the night. Those hours are more difficult, and much slower.

The nights are always the worst. Others don’t sleep. If anything, they prefer the nights for the cold and the darkness. It is suspected that they can see in the dark, though obviously there is no way to prove it. 

The worst thing, in the early days, was thinking about all the people you could remember from the old world, and imagining where they ended up. Alive? Dead? Or Other? Is your first grade teacher a frozen corpse right now, gnawing on someone’s arm? Is she trapped in a house or a car or a grocery store somewhere, surrounded by monsters? Did she escape somehow over the sea? Or is she in a landfill, burned to ashes with a thousand others? What about your first crush? Your grandmother? Your best friend? There was no way to check back then, the Lists were not yet circulated. The internet was patchy and then gone. There were newspapers of a sort, hand copied, printed and posted to telephone poles, but those too did not last.

When you looked at the Others in their endless wandering, or rushing straight at you, did you recognize any of those faces? Sometimes he thought so. Sometimes at night, he would think back over the frozen skin, the hair color, the clothes, and wonder if someone felt familiar, if they might have been a neighbor or a coworker once. 

That was the early days, when it was not yet clear that the Others were not a temporary disaster but a permanent condition. They slowly became a feature of the landscape, like weather - something you could forecast and sound the alarm for, like tornados or hurricanes. They would learn to predict them, avoid them, if not prevent them. After the first year, you didn’t look at their faces anymore. They were all the same face, anyway: blue, frozen. 

Many things had been tried -- trapping them, negotiating with them. For awhile they thought bunkering down would allow the things to simply decompose. Stay in your bunkers, the authorities said, don’t let them turn us and eventually they will be gone. But it was too slow. Maybe if they weren’t frozen, their dead limbs would have rotted right off and rendered them harmless -- but they are well-preserved in their cold. They could not heal from injury, and that alone would reduce their numbers slowly over time. But the living would run out of provisions faster than that.

Killing them was both simple and difficult. Anything less than destroying their brain or their spine will slow them down, maybe, but they don’t die. In a big crowd you can hack off their legs so they can’t chase you, but they’ll go on crawling after that, possibly forever. And eventually, after dragging themselves around for years and years, that same creature might come upon some poor soul sleeping or trapped somewhere and wrap his cold hands around their throat. Better to kill them if you can.

(But what does killing even mean, for dead things?)

He’s had a lot of time to think it over since those days. He must have struck down nearly a thousand of them, during his career on the Kingsroad. A thousand monsters who were once people. But he didn’t kill them. They were already dead. They were Death itself reaching out through dead hands to claim more lives. That was the only will at work, the only thing the Others hungered for. More death. More dead things.

The Stranger must have gotten tired of waiting for people to die the slow way. He was ending his career all at once, in a grand finale, clearing out all of the lives in Westeros for good so that he could hang up his hat and try some other line of work. 

It’s as plausible an explanation as he’s ever heard, for what has happened to the world.

#tumblr fic #dreadwulf fic #and you will know them by the trail of dead

[keeps-ache]

'aside from all these things, i'm going to need a new helmet'

[traditional sketch below]

#art #my art #artists on tumblr #digital art #traditional art #oc #pink space #☯w☯ #i just think he's neat #[points] it's the Hidden!! woooghgh :3 :DD #//anyway i used a very soft brush for probably the first time ever and uuuruggggeee #mm. not a 10 outta 10 experience i'll tell you hvbshf #i missed using the paint bucket like usual hbsh #also geez what a pain overall lol #//i don't now why the pic turned out so funkin orange but oh wells hfvsfh #also i don't know where half those graphite smudges came from. they were. not there before #//OH listen i've been reading about the chisholm trail (neat stuff (a lil boring but eh :>)) and i actually made my first au for this #project hbvfhs- and yea of course it was wild west why not loll #i've got a flighty unorganized outlaw and a disgraced crossdressing deputy and a dead doctor's misanthropic daughter and some guy??? yea :D #i love them so much hbfhs #but i prolly won't post about it a lot cuz. well i dunno hfsh #i just thought it was neato so :>> :DD #//anyway omw to post in other places hhhhfhvs #ciao ciao see you somewhere else from now !!

[sooouth]

god DAMN it.

just cried over satosugu for the first time.

#meow.// #satosugu #i literally haven't felt that much about them (still enough y'know) to cry but all of a sudden??? wtf??? #i just cried bc i related them to that one song (christmas kids by roar) and omfg. why does it hurt so much. i thought i could live in PEAC #like. i didn't have to suffer through the pain but nooooo NO ONE IS SPARED. #“you'll change your name or change you mind” #“and leave this fucked up place behind” #“But i'll know” #HISSINg. GROWLING. SOBS #geto literally changed his mind though (thanks kenjaku) #the animatic ideas are swirling in my brain like toilet when i flush the black and white beta fish #BECAUSE THEY'RE BBOTH FUCKING DEAD #jjk #banging my head on the wall please help me save me from this torture. I didn't know gays could hurt me so much. they're tearing me apart #like that one emo werewolf picture that's a meme. that's me but with satosugu atm guys. i'm so sorry for the tag rants. it's like a pigsty #if you follow me i need you to know that i'm not okay and you should stop that immediately because i'm swirling into the abyss #i'm like a melting ice cream from the ice cream truck that they hand you and it gets all over your hands and drips onto the ground #leaving a trail of ice cream drops behind you as you walk away; the music of the truck fading into the distance as your realise #this ice cream SUCKS. #i'm so sorry #south talks too much #irls if you see this i need you to slap me the next time you see me and i'm dead serious.

[darkwood-sleddog]

good lord a lady wants to run a 5K on our trails with dogs AND people (not canicross) and has zero dog sport experience. This should go well.

#dogblr #anyways if you wanna do an IFSS sanctioned canicross hit me up lmao #like i had to actually speak in a meeting like: #you do not know anything about the safety logistics for including dogs so let's not #considering this is a public hiking trail network #with constant off leash dogs #no considerations for what if dogs overheat #no considerations of if dogs may pull their handlers over and injure them on the declines of hilles #no considerations of what required safety equipment the dog should wear (no running on collars....) #like bruh. i get the sentiment #but you do not want dogs getting hurt in a race that's a memorial for your dead dog

[v-iv-rusty]

I have to stop getting attached to characters that only exist in one (1) item description

#misc.txt #(this post is about finlay) #not to be cringe but the trope of 'loyal soldier devoted to their leader until their dying breath' does things to me #like #regardless of what route she took or if maybe there were secret tunnels or whatever #caelid to the haligtree is a long long LONG way to carry an unconscious demigod #let alone one that just exploded with rot. and ik that the cleanrot knights are already rotting but #I feel like carrying malenia in that state for that long would probably be a bit like sitting directly on the chernobyl elephant's foot #I'd imagine she must have died shortly after making it there #the sheer exhaustion would have been enough #do you think she was even fully conscious by the time they arrived #do you think she was aware that she'd made it #do you think she died satisfied knowing that her duty was fulfilled #do you think she looked back at the trail of rot through the tree behind them #for angst reasons #I like to think she collapsed as soon as she made it to malenia's arena. a rotted shell locked in place on its knees still holding her #after just. marching mile after mile after mile #with everything else eventually rotting away except for one singular purpose that kept her going when she should have been long dead- #-until they made it somewhere safe and then she knew it was ok to go #I'm extrapolating a lot of headcanon from like 2 sentences but FUCK

[abyssruler]

roses are red, violets are blue, lynette is so done with the two of you

lyney x gn!reader

lynette thinks fontaine’s worst kept secret isn’t how neuvillette wears blue underwear or how the hydro archon loves a good drama, no, fontaine’s worst kept secret is lyney’s massive crush on you and how everyone and their grandmother know except you.

comedy, pining lyney, lynette being so done

Lyney’s frowning.

Most people would find it an odd expression on him, used to having him direct dazzling smiles and playful laughter their way. But Lynette isn’t just anyone, and the sight of Lyney frowning is hardly a rare phenomenon within the privacy of their household.

Freminet’s usually Lyney’s choice of victim for whatever nonsense he’s managed to build himself up in that head of his, but Freminet’s busy doing errands and Lynette is unfortunately the only person within vicinity that Lyney trusts with his secret—which isn’t even a secret by this point, people have been making bets on how long it would take you to realize that Lyney’s been pining over you since forever.

Case in point: Lyney frowning over two identical flowers. She doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that her brother is having a midlife crisis over which flower to give you.

Lynette thinks he should just man up and confess. Preferably within the next week or so, otherwise she’d lose her bet.

“Lynette, which one is more eye-catching, the crimson one,” he holds up the flower in his right hand, then he raises the other one, “or the maroon one?”

Lynette gives him the deadest stare she can muster. “They’re the same color.”

“Oh, sister, have you no taste?” Lyney tuts, pouting at her for a moment before returning to that constipated look as he squinted at the ‘crimson’ and ‘maroon’ flowers. Talk about being delusional.

“(Y/N)’s not gonna care whether the rose is crimson or maroon or red,” she tells him. You’d probably accept a dead flower if it came from Lyney, with that starry-eyed look you always got whenever he so much as glances your way. Lynette’s not one to judge other people’s taste too harshly, but she does wonder what you see in her overdramatic and annoying brother.

Ah, well. They do say love makes people blind. Hopefully not literally though, Lynette’s not looking forward to performing shows alone because Lyney got blinded by his love for you—though if you asked Lynette, she’d tell you it wasn’t love so much as obsession. Only someone insane would spend hours picking out flowers and calling them ‘maroon’ and ‘crimson’. It’s just red.

Lynette squints at him. “And since when were you interested in the meaning of flowers?”

“Well, I suppose you could say I like to dabble in other pursuits.” Lyney gives her a cheeky grin.

“Right…” He’s clearly losing his mind.

“Red roses symbolize true love, though rainbow roses in particular pertain to passion, and…” He trails off, eyes blinking in astonishment. She can practically see the lightbulb appearing on top of his head.

With a flick of his wrists, the ‘crimson’ and ‘maroon’ roses disappear. Lynette watches him warily, wondering what kind of outlandish idea has formed in that head of his.

But he doesn’t elaborate more, only shoots a wink at her and says, “I’ve got a great idea.”

✧

His great idea, as it turns out, is to corner you in an alleyway and make it rain rainbow roses around you as he asked you out on a date, all while Lynette is crouched on the roof, dumping sacks of rainbow roses and vindictively hoping one of them stabs Lyney in the eye. No such luck.

You, as the ever-crazy romantic that you are, are awestruck and amazed by what he’s done instead of weirded out like how a normal person would be. With an eager smile and a twinkle in your eye, you accept the rose in Lyney’s hand and say yes when he asks you to meet him for dinner tomorrow. Lynette wants to barf, but settles for dumping another sack of flowers on top of the two of you.

And if she uses a little bit of anemo to direct a few petals to Lyney’s face? Well, you removing a petal sticking to his cheek and having your fingers linger there for a few moments wasn’t part of the plan (the plan being: embarrass her brother by having him choke on a petal while he’s speaking), but she can’t entirely begrudge the result. Not when Lyney looks like he’s about to have a meltdown with just one touch from you. Good blackmail material right there.

Lynette’s happy that the two of you have finally gotten your heads off your asses and are actually going on a date. Though mostly she’s happy about the amount of mora heading her way soon.

She’ll have to thank Freminet for telling her about the bet about you and Lyney. Maybe she can start a new bet on when the two of you are getting married—probably soon, if the lovestruck look on Lyney’s face is anything to go by. She hopes he won’t be crazy enough to propose on the second date, because you’d certainly be crazy enough to accept if he did.

Oh, well. Lynette will put a bet on one month just in case.

#look i haven’t done the archon quest yet #so i don’t have a good feel yet of their characters #but i’m sticking with this characterization!! #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #lyney x reader #gn reader #lynette

[pucksandpower]

Theories of Relativity

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you don’t need TikTok theories to prove that your relationship is a dream come to life, but it doesn’t hurt when your boyfriend passes all of them with flying colors

The Olive Theory

When you love someone, you have to be willing to make sacrifices and compromises for them (even if those sacrifices are something small like pretending to hate olives just so you can give them to your olive-loving partner instead)

You sit across from Charles at the long dinner table, smiling as he animatedly recounts the race from last weekend. His hands wave through the air, punctuating his story as he describes the final lap battle with Max down to the last corner. You’re only half listening though, too distracted by how handsome he looks in his dinner jacket, his tanned skin glowing in the low light of the restaurant.

As Charles pauses to take a sip of wine, you lean in and whisper, “I wasn’t really watching the race, I only had eyes for you.”

Charles chuckles, his nose crinkling adorably. “Oh really? So you missed all the action then?"

You shrug, trailing a finger down his arm. “What can I say, I find you far more interesting than the other cars going around in circles.”

Charles opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a mechanic sitting a little way down from you. “Oi Charles, why do you keep picking all the olives out of your salad?"

You look down, noticing the small pile of olives Charles has stacked onto the edge of his plate.

Charles glances at you, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “Oh, um, I’m not a huge fan of olives.”

The mechanic frowns in confusion. “But I’ve seen you eat olives before. You always get them on your pizza.”

“I, uh ...” Charles stammers, clearly flustered.

Under the table, you squeeze his hand reassuringly. Charles looks at you and you give him a small nod.

“Well, the truth is,” Charles says, turning back to the mechanic. “I actually love olives. But Y/N loves them even more than I do. So I pick them out of my food to give to her.”

You smile softly at Charles, warmed by his thoughtfulness. The mechanic chuckles and shakes his head. “You two are so cute it’s almost gross.”

Charles just grins and pops an olive into your mouth. “Anything for mon amour.”

You crunch the olive happily, then lean in to give Charles a quick kiss on the lips. “People who say chivalry is dead have simply never met you.”

The conversation moves on, flowing from racing to travel and everything in between. Under the table, your fingers stay intertwined with Charles’ the whole time.

After dinner, you all head outside into the cool night air. Charles’ team members head off towards their own cars, calling out goodbyes.

You snuggle into Charles’ side as you walk towards where his Ferrari is parked. “Thank you for the olives,” you say. “But you really don’t have to deprive yourself on my account.”

Charles wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. “I want to though. I like making you happy.”

You stop next to the car, turning to face him. Running a hand down his chest you say, “You know what would really make me happy right now?"

“Hmm?" Charles murmurs, his eyes drifting down to your lips.

You grin mischievously. “A stop for gelato on the way home.”

Charles laughs and opens the car door for you. “Anything for you, mon cœur.”

The Bird Test

If you say something that could be deemed insignificant and your partner responds with genuine curiosity, that’s a really good sign that your relationship will last a long time

The Brazilian sun beats down as you wander hand-in-hand with Charles along the edges of the Interlagos circuit. It’s the day before qualifying, and Charles brought you out to the track in São Paulo to share the grid walk with you.

You stroll slowly, enjoying a rare private moment together during the hectic race weekend. Charles points out details along the track — the tricky off-camber Turn 3, the sharp left-right complex at Turns 5 and 6, the long full throttle blast down the back straight.

You love seeing him so in his element here, his passion for racing evident in his voice and gestures.

As you round Turn 12, heading down the home straight, a flash of bright blue in the trees catches your eye. Gasping in excitement, you grab Charles’ arm and point.

“Look, a hyacinth macaw!”

Charles follows your gaze to the large, vividly colored parrot perched in the branches. “Wow, that’s amazing! I’ve never seen one outside of a zoo.”

You bounce on your toes, thrilled at the sighting. “Aren’t they gorgeous? That bright blue is unreal. Macaws are pretty rare around here, I can’t believe we spotted one!”

Charles smiles at your obvious delight, then turns back to observe the macaw with curiosity. “What do they eat?" He asks. “Fruit, like other parrots?"

“Yes exactly!” You reply eagerly. “Mostly palm nuts and acai berries. And they need a huge range of territory, something like 80 square kilometers.”

As you chat more facts about the brilliant bird, Charles listens attentively, asking more questions and commenting on its beauty. His genuine interest and engagement makes your heart flutter happily.

Eventually the macaw takes flight, its bright wings flashing blue against the trees as it disappears into the forest.

“Incredible,” Charles murmurs, watching it go. “What an amazing thing to see.”

He turns back to you, eyes shining. “Thank you for pointing it out, I never would have spotted it myself. I love seeing you so excited teaching me about something you’re passionate about.”

You step closer, looping your arms around his neck. “And I love that you always listen and want to know more, even if it’s not about racing.”

Charles wraps his arms around your waist, smiling tenderly. “Of course, your passions are my passions now too. I want to know everything that sparks that beautiful light in your eyes.”

The Orange Peel Theory

A partner’s willingness to perform small acts of service is indicative of a healthy relationship

Early morning sun filters into the kitchen as you sip your coffee, still wearing the oversized Ferrari shirt you slept in. Charles stands at the counter across from you, freshly showered and humming to himself as he browses his phone.

Setting your mug down, you grab an orange from the fruit bowl and start to peel it. Or at least you try. The tough rind puts up a stubborn fight, your nails scraping uselessly against it.

“Ugh, I hate peeling oranges,” you grumble after a minute. “Whose idea was it to make the peel so impossible?"

Charles glances up with a sympathetic smile. “Here, let me.”

He takes the orange from your hands and deftly digs his thumb into the top, effortlessly tearing the peel away in one long curl.

You watch in admiration as he strips the rest of the orange until it’s completely naked and ready to eat.

“Voila,” Charles presents it with a flourish. “One perfectly peeled orange for mon ange.”

“My hero,” you grin. You go to take it from him but Charles playfully keeps it out of reach.

“Ah ah, allow me,” he says. Holding your gaze, he gently pulls apart one glistening segment and brings it to your lips.

Happiness bubbles up in you at this sweet, unexpected gesture. You let Charles pop the orange slice into your mouth, savoring the bright citrus burst.

“Delicious,” you murmur. Charles smiles and leans in to kiss you softly, his thumb brushing a drop of juice from your lower lip.

One by one he continues to peel the segments and feed them to you, interspersing each with tender kisses that taste of orange and love.

You close your eyes blissfully, letting the sensual ritual relax you. Charles takes his time, not rushing. He knows this is your favorite part of the morning, stealing these private moments together before the busy day sweeps you both up.

When the last segment is gone, Charles kisses you again, deeper this time. You loop your arms around his neck, melting against him.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” you whisper when you finally separate.

Charles nuzzles your nose with his. “You may have said it once or twice. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

You lean into him contentedly. As always, his thoughtfulness and care warms you from the inside out.

Peeling an orange is such a small act but the meaning behind it speaks volumes. Charles knows your quirks and preferences, and cherishes these little opportunities to make your day brighter.

The little things that mean everything.

You’re still musing dreamily about this when Charles tips your chin up. “Where’d you go just now?” He asks with a curious smile.

You shake your head, focusing back on him. “Just thinking about us. And how perfectly you peel my oranges.”

Charles laughs. “Well I’m glad to be of service. I know how you hate getting orange string stuck under your nails.”

He kisses your fingertips one by one. “Can’t have anything marring these beautiful hands.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “Oh yes, I need to keep my hands soft and dainty in case a prince comes along to propose.”

Charles squawks in protest and tackles you against the counter, fingers digging into your sides to tickle you mercilessly. You dissolve into helpless giggles, swatting him away.

“No no, stop! I take it back!” You gasp.

Charles relents, holding you close and nuzzling into your hair. “Too late, you’re stuck with me now,” he murmurs, kissing your temple.

You snuggle into him contentedly. No fantasy prince could ever compete with the reality of Charles.

The Invisible String Theory

An invisible string connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance (the string may stretch or tangle but it will never break)

The living room is filled with laughter and happy chatter as you and Charles sit surrounded by both your families. Your wedding is only two days away, and his mother suggested gathering everyone together one night for reminiscing and quality time.

Looking through old photo albums is proving to be hilarious and heartwarming. Baby pictures, school plays, family vacations — memories preserved to embroider the story of your lives before fate brought you together.

Charles smiles wistfully as Lorenzo shows an album from their childhood. “I wish my godfather and father could have met you,” he says softly. “They would have loved you so much.”

You take his hand, leaning your head on his shoulder. His lost loved ones are always close to his heart.

Your mother passes an album to you with a smile. “Oh this one is from our trip to France when you were five! So many cute little Y/N photos.”

You roll your eyes but obligingly open the album, Charles peering over your shoulder. You flip through pictures of your younger self building sandcastles on the beach, wearing a hilariously large sun hat, beaming gappily with missing front teeth.

Charles grins down at you. “Adorable. I can’t wait for our kids to-”

He stops abruptly, staring down at the page. You follow his gaze to a photo of your family in Nice, taken in front of the Le Negresco hotel. And there in the background, almost out of frame — four familiar figures walking down the promenade.

A young Charles holds the hand of a teenage boy you immediately recognize as Jules. On Charles’ other side, his father Hervé carries a toddler Arthur.

Your breath catches sharply. The families fall silent around you. Charles’ fingers tremble slightly as they trace over the image.

“Of course we went to Nice often,” he whispers. “I had no idea ...” His voice trails off, thick with emotion.

Arthur cranes his head to see. “Is that us? With Papa and Jules?" He looks between you and Charles with wide eyes.

“Almost twenty years ago,” Lorenzo marvels. “And your paths were already crossing.”

Pascale wipes at her eyes, grasping Charles’ other hand tightly. “It was meant to be. Some invisible string tying you together even then.”

Charles’ fingers tremble as they trace over the image. For one brief, impossible moment, it feels like you’re all together — you, Charles, Jules, Hervé. Preserved in time, intersecting at the crossroads of past and future.

Though you never met in life, somehow you were all bound in that instant, tied by invisible strings of destiny. Strings that would one day guide you and Charles to each other.

It’s only a photo, yet looking at it you feel Jules and Hervé’s presence like a bittersweet embrace. As if across the years, they’re saying we know you. We love you. We’re so happy for you both.

You stare down at it, this captured moment of impossible synchronicity. A glimpse of the thread that wove itself silently through your lives until the day it finally drew you together.

Charles meets your eyes, his own shimmering with tears. Without words, you know he feels it too. The impossible link stretching back through time. Proof you were always meant to find each other.

He pulls you close, kissing the top of your head. “I believe that with all my heart, we’ve always been connected somehow.”

“Soulmates,” you whisper.

You cling to him, overwhelmed with certainty. Through accidents of time and geography, missteps and milestones, your story was always guiding you here.

Meant for each other. Destined, even then.

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